Schrödinger's Dog

Schrödinger's Dog by Martin Dumont, translation by John Cullen, ©2020, Other Press

Loss is a difficult topic for people to read about. Grief is messy and hard, and full of emotions that many don't know how to deal with. When you mix loss of spouse with critical illness of a child, the result might seem more than anyone can bear, but Martin Dumont handles it honestly in his debut novel Schrödinger's Dog.

Yanis is a single parent. His wife died in a car accident almost twenty years ago, after a serious illness. He was left with a young boy—Pierre—whom he devoted his life to. But now there is something wrong with Pierre and Yanis doesn't know how to fix it. He can avoid the issue, like he did with his wife when she was ill, but putting Pierre inside a box doesn't stop the cancer that ravages his body. Time is racing and bringing up a grief that Yanis didn't even know he had. But the box is open and can no longer be closed.

Does something exist if we don't look at it? That is a theory of quantum mechanics that Physicist Erwin Schrödinger proposed in 1935; that if you put a cat in a box with a potential poison, until you observe it, the cat simultaneously may be alive or dead. It is more complicated than that, but also simpler. It boils down to observation. Is something real if it is not directly observed? That is the story that Dumont plays with in his poignant novel.

A theory exists that Yanis' wife committed suicide. He never fully contemplates it, thus gives no life to the supposition. As Pierre's health declines, he refuses to see the signs. But can he create an alternate world for his son regardless of the reality that comes with his illness? This is something many people who have faced serious illness wish for, but the box is sadly fallible. Looking in the box or not does not change the outcome. But the story itself is yours to write.

Dumont does a lovely job of exploring loss, grief, and the emotional challenges that come with it in Schrödinger's Dog. For a slim novel, it packs a punch worth reading. 

Boekenweek Part 2: You Have Me to Love

You Have Me to Love by Jaap Robben, Translated by David Doherty, © 2014, World Editions

Grief is a familiar topic for me. So when I read the description of 'You Have Me to Love' by Jaap Robben, the theme spoke to me.

"On a remote island somewhere in the North Atlantic, a nine-year-old boy looks on helplessly as his father is swept out to sea. Consumed by guilt and paralyzed by his mother's frantic grief, Mikael cannot bring himself to tell the truth about what happened. As the pair struggle to restore the fragile balance of their isolated lives, the young widow starts to demand the impossible of her only son."

A woman distraught over the loss of her husband is relatable. Hearing the story from her son's perspective is intriguing. Delving into her complicated and prolonged grief is disturbing, but worth exploring with the help of Robben's powerful prose. How does anyone handle someone stuck in their bereavement, especially when you have your own loss to process and understand? That is Mikael's challenge, and he is only 9 years old when his father drowns. Plus, he lives on an isolated island with no other support at his disposal to help either himself or his grieving mother. It sounds like a recipe for disaster.

While the subject matter is challenging, Robben tackles the novel with an unexpected beauty. Guilt is a familiar emotion in grief and Mikael struggles with it, especially as he is the only witness to his father's death. As the years pass, he tries to embrace love and acceptance once more, only to be confronted by his mother's inability to process her own grief. Add to that the spectre of loneliness—another component of bereavement—and compound it with their remote island home. How is one to find hope? Readers can only pray that Mikael can find the strength and maturity to combat his mother's impossible demands. To say anything more, would spoil the plot for readers eager to dive into Robben's highly-acclaimed novel.

The book is currently being adapted into an English-language film.

Boekenweek

Jaap Robben

'You Have Me to Love' is the second novel I had the pleasure of reading for Boekenweek. What a week to celebrate; a festival of literature for 10 days! I choose to read Thirty Days and You Have Me to Love to explore both a Belgian (Verbeke) and Dutch (Robben) author—Belgium and the Netherlands being the two main host countries of Boekenweek.

While Verbeke's novel was excellent, Robben's perfectly touched on this year's theme—The Mother The Woman. The blurred lines between those roles are a stark part of Robben's engaging narrative. As a woman, where do the lines start and end in motherhood? You might want to check out more books from this year's Boekenweek theme to help figure that out.

World Editions also provides more information about Boekenweek and the many tours, readings, and festivals going on in North America from March 23-31, 2019. They are proud supporters of high-quality English literature on a world scale, with an affinity for their European and, more specifically, their Dutch roots. Care to read more of their books? World Editions can help.

The Pink Steering Wheel Chronicles

The Pink Steering Wheel Chronicles by Laura Fahrenthold, ©2018, Hatherleigh Press

Earlier this summer I received a request to review a memoir by debut author Laura Fahrenthold. The premise of the story rang close to my heart—grief. A young mother loses her husband and goes on a journey to rediscover life and begin to forge a path to her new normal. I have walked in those same shoes, so it should be no surprise that I said yes for this review.

Instead of writing a review though—I feared I would take over with tales from my own grief journey—I asked if Laura would answer a few questions for me. In addition to learning more about the book, I thought my readers could discover more about the process behind Laura's journey. And I happily have a little more to share about Laura's journey with you! I hope you enjoy a few more insights from Laura's journey in life.

If you haven't had a chance to read The Pink Steering Wheel Chronicles, I highly recommend it!

 A Closer Look at The Pink Steering Wheel Chronicles...

Grief is a much longer journey than many people realize. When did you decide it was time and you were ready to write your chronicles highlighting your grief journey? How long did it take to write the book?

Actually, life is a much longer journey than most people realize! There are so many stages to it. That’s really what the book is about—it’s a book about going through the stages of life and how I coped with a huge tragedy by driving 31,000 miles across Canada and the U.S. searching for answers to life’s biggest questions. Sometimes, I got answers in the arms of Costco and Walmart shoppers; other times I found my own truths when staring into the sky. And I definitely learned so much from being with my daughters. It’s crazy how everything can change in a matter of six devastating minutes.

While that sounds so deep, and perhaps dark and depressing, the book is anything but that, as suggested by the title itself: The Pink Steering Wheel Chronicles! It’s truly an often hilarious look at my efforts to gain emotional and physical strength through the open road in a beat-up old RV we named HaRVey with my two eyeball rolling teenagers and a stray dog, driving through our grief while gaining new experiences to work into our backbones.

So really, I didn’t decide to write this book. It decided to write me.

What do you mean the book decided to write you?

I never set out to write The Pink Steering Wheel Chronicles. That isn’t what our ashes-sprinkling RV trips were about. They were about spending time with my daughters, having amazing experiences that would hopefully replace our sadness. We needed to climb mountains like Les Palissades de Charlevoix (which helped me overcome a fear of heights…well, sort of), ride the tidal waves in the Bay of Fundy and go mud sliding down the banks of the Shubenacadie River. We also ended up invited to a wedding in Cape Breton where we got to milk goats on their farm! We were always up to something during those 31,000 miles of adventures.

Friends kept saying I should share my story, that I should write a book, given that I am a journalist. And I thought, you know what? They are right! My story is so relatable on so many levels that it could really help motivate people to get out there and live before they die, too.

I started and stopped several times, but then when I found my husband’s journals, I knew I had to do this. Those journals were the puzzle pieces which put the whole thing into perspective. It was astounding, really.

It took about three years from start to finish while working my full-time job as an editor at Woman’s World Magazine. This meant I spent every second of my off-hours, including nights, weekends and holidays, writing, rewriting, examining every single word, rewriting more, editing more, putting it down, picking it up, crying, writing, doubting, declaring it done and then picking it back up again before finally pitching agents, and finding the best publisher— Hatherleigh Press, distributed by Penguin Random House. And now here we are with a book that was published this summer.

It takes immense strength to rebuild a life after the loss of a spouse. I know firsthand the process is not always pretty but is amazing in how transformative it can be. What are you most proud of accomplishing? What are some of your continuing struggles?

I’m most proud of accomplishing what I set out to do—which is rebuild our lives in the most wonderful way that I could, to give my daughters crazy, fun, positive experiences to draw upon so that their father’s death did not become bigger than our lives. None of us had the tools to deal with what we saw and experienced that night, but now we do. You can drop us in the middle of nowhere with a dollar in our pockets and we will find our way out. Mission accomplished. We are three strong, smart independent women who can now change RV tires, rock climb mountains, swim across rivers, ward off alligators—you name it! And find our ways back home.

I continuously struggle with having to do it all myself (I call myself Mr. Laura). I especially hate taking the garbage out; that’s when I miss my husband the most, on Monday mornings! But seriously, we all have struggles. My struggle is that I continuously struggle with my struggling to stop struggling.

Do you have any words of advice on how best to support someone going through their own grieving process?

Grief comes in all forms. Loss of a job. Unrequited love. Broken promises. Health issues. Divorce. Death. Disappointments. We all go through something at some point. My best advice is not to expect too much of a person in grief. Don’t take their responses or lack of responses personally. They need time. And when you are with them, just listen. Just be there for them.

You never know what a road trip might bring. Adventure, misadventure, laughter, tears, epiphanies, arguments, and hopefully a little growth along the way. Do you have any other road trips planned for you and the girls?

My daughters used to say they’d rather die than go on another RV trip! But then my older begged me to take “HaRVey the RV” on another trip with her and her best friend this past summer. And she drove most of the way! I joked that there’s a new sheriff in town!

HaRVey is and will remain a big part of our lives. It’s like having a giant dog in the driveway that always want to run free and play. Sometimes I like to go sleep out there. It’s fun and feels like a mini-vacation. I know the girls can’t wait for more trips. We’ve talked about Vancouver next! But no more sprinkling Mark. He’s RIPing at his boyhood home in Kansas in a giant field of bright yellow sunflowers.

***

Thank you so much to Laura Fahrenthold and Hatherleigh Press for sharing this poignant story and the strength it takes to grab life when you think it has escaped you. As Laura reminded me, Everybody needs love. The journey of finding it is within all our grasps, even if that means finding it within ourselves. 

My Journey

I began blogging in 2009. I have written the story of how I came to blogging before, but am still grateful to Gord for pointing the way to what has become a lifestyle and career for me. It has been a journey which has taken many twists and turns, but the words have led me through. 

Those words have shown up in many places. This blog was my first, but certainly not the only place where I've written. Few know of the small blog I started to work out a little more of my grief journey. It was short-lived and didn't have many entries, but some of them were rather insightful. 

For whatever reason today, I found myself perusing that old blog. I suppose I can guess what drew me there. It's April; the month in which I was married, bought the house I live in now, and on April 1st, 2007 Brad was hospitalized with what looked like a stroke, but which ended up being a bleed in his brain. The cause; his cancer had spread and was now inoperable and fatal. 

April was an awful month for years. In 2008 I found myself retreating back into a worse state, not realizing it was a grief wave set in motion due to anniversary stress. By 2009, I knew to expect the awful choking memories and residual grief surges which flared during this difficult time period. In the years that followed, the waves were less difficult to maneuver, but still there none the less.

Today, I still feel the effects from a time period that smashed the world as I knew it. April 1st was the anniversary of the beginning of the end of my life with Brad. He will be gone nine years this summer. It is hard to believe sometimes, but I cannot imagine my life any other way now. Much has come and gone since then, but it's still hard not to feel his presence in April. And I guess that's alright.

So today I thought I would share an old post from a time long ago. I feel it held hope, which makes me glad for that woman who was days away from the 4th anniversary of impending loss. And those words offered pretty sage advice, if I do say so myself.

~~~

MY JOURNEY

March 25th, 2011;

Listen

When those that walk the earth take flight

we cry and tear our hair so tight,

but listen quiet and you'll hear

their footsteps follow always near.

When we have known someone, they leave an imprint on our soul. That cannot be erased. A loved one's voice will always be there to comfort and guide the way, if you but just listen...

Rant

Rant.

Go...

My neighbour died last week. Another neighbour came over to break the news to me. She knew that I would want to hear, as I had always had a soft spot for him. It had been quick. He had gone to hospital Wednesday in distress and died before the day was out. The only thing left to do was schedule the funeral. 

Larry was a sweet old man. He was 90, still lived in his own home, drove his own car, and took care of himself. Another neighbour cut his grass and took care of his pool. Many neighbours brought him over meals, pies, and treats of one sort or another. We always gave him some of whatever we baked. He loved his sweets and appreciated everything that people did for him. From what I could tell everyone liked him. I was sad to hear of his passing.

Today was the funeral. As Larry had been kind to me in days when my grief was most poignant, I felt I needed to go and pay my respects. I had never noticed his family visit much, but the gesture of saying goodbye is an important one to me, so I wanted to go. A visitation was held, followed immediately by the funeral. He was to be interned afterwards. I knew that the internment would be out of the question, as I had to pick the girls up from school, but I planned to attend the other events. 

I drove to the church and said my hellos to the granddaughter that greeted me at the door. Larry was laid out in the next room with a few pictures nestled into the coffin with him. Death is never pretty, as the lifeblood that makes one real flesh and blood leaves the deceased withered and waxy. But I left a tear in his presence nonetheless. I took a seat in a pew off to one side and waited for the funeral to begin. A woman noticed me wipe my eyes though and approached to say hello. She was Larry's niece and looked like she needed a friend to talk to. We shared stories and I was convinced to sit in her aisle with her. Once the pianist played a few songs, the doors of the chapel were closed and the service began.

That is when I should have left.

I have been to many funerals. As much as they are sad affairs, they are held so that people can pay their respects to the deceased. They are an opportunity to start the closure of loss. This funeral was far from respectful though. And it certainly did nothing to honour the memory of the neighbour that I saw as a kindly elderly gentleman who was social, active and friendly with all he met. 

The preacher took to the pulpit and began by reading a letter from the daughter-in-law, who was seated in the front pew. It was awful. Not only did it highlight the ugliness of Larry's final hours, but it cast Larry in a light I never would have imagined. We were told of his mother's young death, then the destitution that followed. His father put him in an orphanage, only to bring him home to a house of alcoholism and poverty. So the story went, it made Larry bitter. And it went on to say that he remained that way for the rest of his life. 

As my fingers dug holes into my palms, I listened to Larry disparaged due to his lack of faith. His son and wife supposedly prayed for him to take Jesus into his heart, to no avail. It was his downfall and left him desperate to fill that whole with material possessions. 

Now it wasn't a secret that Larry had a problem. He was a hoarder. Two years ago he had damage in his home because of flooding. Due to the sheer mountain of stuff in his home the cleanup took the better part of six months. He spent that time living in his trailer out of town. I never heard tell that his son ever offered to put him up during that time. Oh, but they prayed that he would release the devil in his soul! 

Last I heard, hoarding was a mental illness though. Not a reason to castigate someone. Especially not at their funeral. 

There was no mention of what Larry did for a living. No recount of how many years he was married to his wife. Nothing said about his love of dancing. I wanted to pipe up that he was blessed with another romance late in life that was sadly cut short by his fiance's death on the day Larry asked her to marry him. And gee, he was 90 years old, living on his own, still able to walk and drive (not well, but its hard to let go of that independence) and visit with his neighbours when the mood struck him. 

No, we were told that despite Larry having made his family's life miserable for so many years by refusing to take up their faith, they finally won. As Larry lay dying, wracked by painful seizures that apparently terrified him, he finally saw the light. After yet another seizure, he "saw the light" that was Jesus. And then his fear left him. And he died. 

The cynic in me thinks that the tidy summation of Larry's awful existence was probably not exactly accurate. I offer no disrespect to those who have experienced this first-hand, but after listening to all the awful things said, I couldn't stomach the moral of the story - that we all must accept Jesus into our heart or be left to live eternity in hell. No heaven for any disbelievers or sinners. What about Jews, Muslims, Hindus, and others? No Jesus - no heaven.
.
I wanted to leave. It galled me to sit and listen to them bash this dear man that had helped rake my lawn at the age of 83 years old because he saw me crying in fresh grief with rake in hand over a leaf pile. Local bank tellers had spoken of him in glowing terms for goodness sake. And all they could see was a bitter old man that I am sure they are glad to be rid of.

Well, I made it through the service, despite my seething brain. And tonight I toasted Larry with fellow neighbours that had attended the funeral and were equally shocked by the things said and manner that Larry's death had been handled. We all deserve better than that. As my neighbour said, "they could have just stated facts if they didn't have anything nice to say." But I guess their god lets them feel justified in their ugly actions. I for one want nothing to do with their religion, if it is that judgemental and cold.

... end rant

To See Further

as the wind blows
as my story goes
people come
and others flow

through my pictures
in my dreams
just fleeting memories
so it seems

one yesterday
and another now
my losses strained
against furrowed brow

they keep adding up
to make me fall
they keep challenging life
leaving behind a dark pall

standing there
you were so strong
you'd gone before me
knew the sad song

grief enough 
to fill my head
you brushed me off
and smiled instead

with old gnarled hand
you reached to me
took up my burden
laid it aside gently

not near so bad
as it did feel
this too shall pass
with more feelings real

for many years 
you strode the path
looked death in the eye
feared not its wrath

but today you lost
your life so sweet
no goodbyes said
from across the street

how do we know 
when our time has come
can you make peace
before the reaper's last drum

Dear Larry is gone
but not forgot
his gift to me
to see further than one aught

Sing in the Morning, Cry at Night

Sing in the Morning, Cry at Night, by Barbara J. Taylor, © 2014, Akashic Books

This debut novel from Barbara J Taylor opens in grief. Young Daisy's life has been extinguished too soon in a freak sparkler accident in her backyard. Her sister Violet is witness to the accident and many whisper that perhaps the incident was in fact her fault. Their mother Grace is thrown into heavy mourning and their father Owen quickly finds solace at the bottom of a bottle. It looks to be a sad tale that just might not find its way back out.

The story may have a sad premise, but Taylor convinces the reader to join her in the tale, as we watch bewildered Violet try to find a space in her new world. Her mother is lost in grief and her father abandons the family to move into a gin mill in town, where the firewater that numbs his reality is readily available. It seems no one cares about poor Violet, until "stinky" Stanley befriends her. The two form a quick friendship fuelled by both of their outcast statuses; Stanley's mother is dead and his father another disgruntled miner working long hours. Where no one else seems to care about them, the children find hope and life in each other.

The world of the anthracite coal mines is harsh and filled with constant threat of tragedy in this turn-of-the century novel. As each bell rings out an accident, both fear and hope are flamed. Will a new tragedy bring Violet's torn family back together once more? The mine that employs the bulk of the men in town, also takes as many away. It is a reality that touches everyone in town, where Violet's father Owen works, and eventually Stanley finds himself as well. The only thing that brings comfort is the heavy presence of the church, even with its share of meddling church ladies and their caustic tongues. In Grace's case though, it would seem that grief is even more powerful than God's good graces. Owen prayers died on his tongue with his daughter too.

So what will it take to reunite a family torn apart by grief? You will soon find out in this quick read.

Thanks to Akashic Books for sending me an Advance Reading Copy to review!

Five

"Embrace the past with Remembrance and the Future with Longing" Khalil Gibran

RIP my dear

8.29.2007

Seems like only yesterday...

Always in my heart

even as the days

spin ever forward

~

A Heart With Strangers

The email said to arrive at 6:45pm. This was so that we could be assigned seats and told when we would read. As unlikely as it sounds, I arrive a few minutes early (I am always at least 5 minutes late - ALWAYS). But today I am right on time, unsure of what will happen next.

So I park my car and strut a block over in a pair of black heels, unsteady on my feet used to flats or being naked. Makeup graces my face. I realized at the last minute that I would be on a stage, or in front of a podium, or at least somewhere where people would be looking at me.

I wonder when the nerves will kick in, but smile as confidently as I can manage, when I finally figure out where I am going.

Across? Left, no right. Made it!

"Do you need a ticket?"

No, I shall be reading a poem tonight.

"Very good. Go right in!"

Smiles.

Now what? Another friendly face looks my way and I announce my presence again. Nerves jingle a little bit, just to remind me that I will be a part of the event this evening. My role as passive audience will be interrupted by the promised two minutes of fame.

The people don't notice that my heart rate has changed. Everyone who works there is trying to look busy, but the poets who have already arrived sit nervous and alone on a bench. I catch a fleeting smile, but feel alone in this endeavour tonight.

Time to look at the artwork. This is an art gallery after all and colour is splashed across canvases here, there and everywhere.

Mr Pink. Mr Green. Mr Yellow. Mr Red.

Interesting...


My watch tells me that I have been here for 20 minutes. I cling to the Perrier I was offered, but it ain't no wine and cheese affair. More people arrive and I move to another section of the gallery.

Eventually, I find out that I will be reading seventh in the order. Good. That gives me time to see how other people will be handling their readings.

I breathe, smile and perch on the edge of a sofa in anticipation.
...
....
.....

We begin. The organizer is running late; on her way from North Bay. Apologies are offered, but we begin without her. I am okay, as there will be people ahead of me. I will be ok.

Before I get to me, I need to tell you the theme of the evening. Perhaps then it will help you to understand more of where my nerves staunched from. You might understand better than the strangers that surrounded me, although they have walked in similar shoes as well. You see, we were all paying tribute to "Shining Stars". Not the Hollywood kind. Our stars were the people in our lives that we had lost and wanted to honour in some form.  I suspect you know where I went with this theme.

Brad, of course.

The women before me gave long speeches about in-laws, sisters and even lost unknown soldiers from days gone by. They prefaced their poems with pages of warmth and glowing terms.

I had a single piece of 100% recycled Canadian Cascades multi-use paper. It was folded in the middle and slightly crumpled from being in my purse. My story was in my head. If I began it, I would not be able to read  the poem that followed. So I simply announced that I was honouring my husband. He had died almost five years previous from malignant melanoma. And I had a poem to share.

It began,

baubles gifted 

far and few... 

but I cannot share the whole thing. It will be published in a collection with the other poems from the evening. I can tell you that I wavered. My voice caught on the words, but I breathed and continued to the end.

And then it was over.

But it was not. Other people spoke of their losses. No other voices quivered or quaked. I did not notice downcast eyes, but I could feel the hurt that had been there in their grief. We had all lost. I might have been the youngest face, therefore touching to this small audience, but they knew.

Afterwards, gentle voices sought me out to honour my words. They heard my pain. They asked questions, kind in their interest. They shared their own stories. We all knew the emotions well. Despite not being able to conceal that well of grief, even with time and my best efforts, I still managed to be there and add my voice. I probably could not have picked a harder topic to speak on, but I shared my heart with these strangers.

And they felt it.

missing

I rolled over and my arm fell on the cold spot in the bed.

How long would it be before that wasn't a shock to the system anymore? No one else warmed the sheets. No one else would be making the coffee. No lover stood in the shower, or had walked out the front door on their way to work for the day. No one else filled the gas tank or my many waking hours. I was alone.

After so many weeks, how was it that fresh tears could still form under swollen lids? Was I doomed to this nightmare forever more? Would I ever wake up from this sick and twisted turn of my life? The answer of course was no.

Life no longer held another to be responsible to or to care about my fate. I could bypass the potatoes when buying groceries and never step into a hardware store ever again. But I was drawn to them none the less. The ten pound bags of yukon gold made my cry. I wandered the aisles of big box stores, feeling lost, but somehow drawn to the next lane to see if there was some other item that I really did need. When I did find something to purchase, I stared at my choices for what seemed an eternity, not wanting to fail and never confident enough about my own decisions. I needed to prove myself, but felt like I always set myself up to fail. The wrong size, shape or consistency doomed me every time. I returned the next week to try again though. And again.

This missing appendage was bigger than the spot on the bed and it amazed me how it grew with time. I now questioned food choices, TV shows, wall colours and more. I couldn't decide on a new bath tub, as what would happen if I picked wrong? How could I live with myself if I chose one roofer over another and the sky fell in?

Somehow the challenges kept coming though. Somehow I managed to choose. And one day I recognized that you weren't really missing anymore. You had been there all along, catching every tear that I shed. You applauded my choices and did your best to offer advice in the only way you could, through memories and slight of hand persuasions that I picked up on, but never quite realized. You sent me praise through a friend's touch or faith from your daughter's eyes. And occasionally, I found a piece of you that you left in my path  and I knew that you would be with me til the end.

That spot in the bed is no longer cold and I feel your smile on my shoulders strong. It is amazing that I was lost for so long, but slowly I awake and find I am missing no more.

♥♥♥

Again, not quite fiction, but drawn from a prompt at Mostly Fiction Mondays brought to us from Stranger and Me

Spring is On The Rise

The smell of flowers fills the air 
A heady scent which none can compare. 
In colours red, yellow and pink,
a rainbow that I deign to drink.


Soft and bright upon my eyes
touching soul, I do surmise 
Smoothing ruffles left from dull
winter doldrums swept clean and full. 


Ah, sweet Spring is on the rise 
along with life's new enterprises
I dream a dream of new love found 
and awaken feeling its embrace profound. 


Smiles and sunshine fill me up 
enough to sate an old wound's crux 
And grief is left in winter's wake 
to remind us of the season's slake.


I shall not dwell in that cold house 
feeding a sorrow I do espouse 
For I now stand upon my feet 
facing a life that I do entreat 


with the smell of fresh flowers
in an air that empowers 
a new colourful life begins 
and is surrounded by nature's grins.


Now I hold pure blessings to Spring 
in all of its worth and all that it brings 
Naked I come and offer my soul 
and prostrate give thanks for a long journey's toll

~Peace~

Meagan

throat aches
as tears roll down
to touch old wounds
and scars that forever remain

four years ago
erased all new moments from
the time that should have been
your life

but a soul
is not erased
by circumstances
beyond my control

alive
you live on in
tears, hugs and souls
that carry your name forever

and you remain
in hearts and lives
that refuse to let you walk alone
through a valley not dark in death

Blessings to you
smiling through 15 year-old eyes
and hands that whisper gentle
along our souls forever still

peace to you Meagan
on the anniversary of your death
and a day we celebrate
your life all over again

Saturday's Email of the Week: Beautiful People

Saturday's Email of the Week

Someone sent me this clip, asking if I felt it was true. For those of you unfamiliar with Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, she is considered the expert on grief studies and set the standard on the five stages of grief (in case you are curious, they are denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. You don't necessarily go through all of them, but you might get hit with waves from any of them at any stage of your grief). I have read a lot of grief books and have come across her and her theories more than once. She has merit in her thoughts, but her rigid stages have been debated.

While I had not read this quote before, I thought I would share it with you today. What do you think? Do you have to suffer, struggle or battle strife to transform your soul into a beautiful thing? I can recognize some of these traits in myself, but was it due to my struggles or was it in me before? Can't anyone have a compassionate soul? I like to think I was compassionate before my grief journey, but was it ingrained in my soul early due to the loss of my father at an early age? I know that I get swarmed by children on the playground, as soon as I am spied. Is that because these young humans see my gentle soul and can't help but respond to it?

Well, I just might ponder this a little more on my road trip this afternoon, but I am curious what you think. Would you care to weigh in?

Thoughts?

Talking to the Wind

Dear Grandpa;

You lead a full and satisfying life. To you, three daughters were born, and have since gone on to do you proud. They presented you with grandchildren, whom you spoiled and cherished, every chance you got. You even got to see a great-grandchild before leaving this living world. Indebted, we are all a legacy to you.

You saw so much in your lifetime. The television came into existence, along with VCRs, fax machines and now the internet. You fought in World War II and served for many years afterwards in the Air Force. You sweated in steel mills, but I remember you sweating in the garden most. That lovely garden you built on Pender Island, along with a beautiful house to go with it. My memories of that house and garden will warm me for a long time to come.

I clasp my hand around a stone you polished and set. I do not know if it was specifically for me, but I cherish it none the less, for your effort into it. You were always working with your hands, creating something whether it was a green house, the ‘discomboobulator’, a ‘gotcha stick’, or your famous peanut butter sandwiches. You were always doing something. Even in your later years you were President of your local Legion, played bridge once a week with your lady friends on Pender, and you still had time to help advise your children and grandchildren on major life decisions. I recall my Mom, your eldest, asking for advice on job offers. Your youngest also consulted you for advice on important decisions. You had a good head on your shoulders and everyone knew it. Even in your last six months, you were looking into a job for me, despite major operations, recoveries and meeting the newest of your seven grandchildren.

Grandpa, you were the father that I never had. You taught Kerry and I (your favourites, you always said) how to spit, to collect wood and stones (still do that, especially this trip), to gather eggs when you had chickens, to fish, to play crib (and count via muggins), to blow my nose (which I should do now- sniff, sniff) and many of the manners that I rely on today. I have iconized (I know you would tell me to look that word up!) you in speeches (remember my grade 5 speech on your inventions!), in my memories of the summers Kerry and I spent with you and Grandma, (integral to my growing up and formation of personal beliefs and traits), as a teacher (I too have asked your opinion, mine on writing). It seems you had a hand in everything. While expert may be a bit of a strong word, your general knowledge was broad and indepth.

I love you for your hat and suspenders. I picture me snapping them and …Aggh”! Despite your military breeding, that I did not necessarily always agree with (“Front and Centre!”), it taught me respect for my elders and authorities, at least to a certain degree. We finally got you to start using a “please” now and then though, with much effort from our army of kids.

Now I recall helping you on with your socks and can see in my mind’s eye your varicose veins; snakes or worms you called them. I picture you in your rubber boots, with a chain saw in hand, sticking out your dentures at the kids (“arrh!”) and Grandma complaining “Geordie!”

Oh you could make us laugh! I recall more images of you slapping the blunt edge of a knife into elbows, with the words “elbows off the table” or “are you tired?” Your famous pout-catchers almost always got us laughing again, despite stubborn tears. The dreaded whisker rub made us shriek every time too. I could go on and on.

Grandpa, I love you dearly and always will. I carry you with me wherever I go. You are a part of me, as you are a part of everyone you touched. I cannot even begin to paint a complete picture of you, as the colours I have available are insufficient and drab, as compared to the rainbows you left on people. The respect you earned from the world, I flaunt as a memory to you. Many will pause, as your spirit touches the wind.

To SGT George McLeod: husband, father, grandfather, great-grandfather; The 23 years I have known you are not enough, but as the hurting flesh is laid to rest, your essence carries me on. May your heart be felt forever in those that pump your blood. Go well, strong warrior. Stay well.

Love ∞

And with that, a scotch was raised to my lips in memory of a great man. My eyes stung, as the ice clinked against my teeth, but I valiantly swallowed my sorrows along with the libation. My Grandfather had died the month before on my birthday. Teardrops littered my journal, as I paid homage to him. The hugs I needed and craved for release were over 6000 kilometres away, but there was nothing that could be done about that now.  I was alone with a grief that needed to be heard by someone, but all I could do was talk to the wind. So I did. 

Saturday's Email of the Week: Scars

Saturday's Email of the Week

Saturday has arrived again. I have to say that I am glad to see the week go. There wasn't anything extraordinary about this past week. The week before was rough though and I was riding out the after-effects from it all this week. Do you ever have those moments? Pushing yourself to survive in the middle of a crisis, only to be limp and stumble once you can breathe again? Well, that's me. I can handle crisis. I can be strong and stand up to do what I feel I have to do. Sometimes I might want to hide under a rock or run in the other direction, but I know when I have to face something.

Last week I did.

I put my cat down, then went to a family member's funeral with the girls a few days later. I didn't have to go to the funeral. It was my husband's grandmother, whom I haven't had much of a relationship with since Brad died, but I felt that I should for the kid's sake. Not that they knew her either. And not that they truly cared that she died. I don't say that to be callous, but they are 5 & 6 and not emotionally invested in a relationship that didn't have any flesh and bones to it.  Sad, but true and there is nothing that I can do about that now. What I could do though was take them to the funeral to meet some of their other relatives that are still around. Again, they weren't invested in the experience, but I suspect that some day they will be grateful that I made the effort. Perhaps they will be able to gain a new relationship with some of those family members down the road, that would not have occurred without my intervention. Or not, but I felt like it was my last opportunity to reach out and make that effort, so I grasped a hold of it.

This week, I have suffered for it all. I miss my cat. I dragged up old broken relationships with other members of the kids family, that would seem to be beyond repair forever now. I flogged myself for not being able to fix it all and make it better. But I have to move beyond that. I accept that time has moved on, because I have to, but still feel broken by those failed relationships. It is out of my hands though, so I must let it go. This week I had to process that though and try to shake myself away from feeling bad at kin lost. I have to accept my failings and those of others, and say "it is alright". I have to say and pinch myself until I believe it that "I am alright". Because I am. I cannot bring back a lost kitty, lost grandparents or great-grandparents. But I can accept them, grieve the losses, and be strong enough to let my children see that grief and the resilience that comes with moving on. I have to, because I love them more than anything and they deserve to have a parent that is as stable and imperfect as I can be.

So I guess this week was about healing. It can be an ugly process and I often disparage myself as I move through it. In healing though, once the scar has served its purpose, it falls off to show the fresh new skin underneath. It might be thinner, but it will thicken in time and those scars will be almost invisible to the naked eye. I guess that is what I am gunning for. I have an ugly coat around me, but it will fall off to reveal a beautiful new me underneath. That is the hope anyway.

Peace

Here is my handshake for you.

familiar foe

Anger

bubbles through my soul.

caustic curses

that have torn strips off

Me

and loved ones

(my babies small)

Aghast again

venom pours through cursed lips

making me hate

~self~

that

much

m o r e

I know the cause

I know it is bigger,

deeper and more profound

than just a broken nail

blistered thumb

or spilt milk

no...

there is grief there

(familiar foe!)

always ready to push

scrape away esteem

like blowing dust

off my oft-forgotten

soul

somehow easier 

to point fingers

backwards,

elsewhere...

blame time and me

as I sit sadly 

alone

because when it comes down to it

am I not at fault?

is it not I 

with power to hold tongue

to beseech higher powers

to give strength

understanding and love

nay

I crawl back into self

back unto my bed of nails

that I push into hands

eye and mouth

anything 

to stop 

stop

.

(perhaps words and fog 

will make 

these grumps

disappear) 

Calico Catnap

calico catnaps
now rest comfortably
on Canaan's shore

Goodbye sweet friend

your gentle ways will be missed

the story has a hole  

Chicken à la Lino Without You

The last bite of chicken lies
wet on the floor,
growing colder as
we throw barbed taunts,
defiant challenges
with our eyes.

Seconds tick by...
I bubble,
broiling up
like the
congealed mass
on yesterday's linoleum.

Fire burns bright
in indignation
"How could you do that?"
Dead poultry don't tell no tales.
Neither does your daughter.
And flung chicken makes me miss you even more.

There is a new poetry hangout in town by the name of d'Verse ~Poet's Pub. Tonight they are hosting Meeting  the Bar: Critique and Craft with a big theme, namely big topics, ie. death, life, grief, suffering, etc., but the suggestion is to come at it from a less than blatantly direct angle. The thrust of the night is to offer honest, helpful and informative critiques of other poets work. I read a few pieces and am going to explore a few more before hitting the hay, but thought I would add a poem of my own.

You tell me the theme. If you can't get it, that lets me know that more work is needed. I welcome your two cents worth. Thanks for visiting!

A Goodbye

heart

filled  up

with a thousand 

sparks  of  disbelief

over  the  loss  of  you...

Alone 

to  face

tomorrow

no direction 

to claim as safe

when I crumple

to the floor

in grief

with

out

u

~

A funeral for a friend of the family has me preoccupied and sad, as the world spins on tonight. Another spark is pinched out just when it is needed most. Strength to you Pat.


Blessings George. May your journey to the beyond be well...

Email of the Week: Too funny not to share

WRONG E-MAIL ADDRESS

This one is priceless...A lesson to be learned from typing the wrong email address!!!!

A Minneapolis couple decided to go to Florida to thaw out during a particularly icy winter. They planned to stay at the same hotel where they spent their honeymoon.

Because of hectic schedules, it was difficult to coordinate their travel schedules. So, the husband left Minnesota and flew to Florida on Thursday, with his wife flying down the following day.

The husband checked into the hotel. There was a computer in his room, so he decided to send an email to his wife. However, he accidentally left out one letter in her email address, and without realizing his error, sent the email.

Meanwhile, somewhere in Houston , a widow had just returned home from her husband's funeral. He was a minister who was called home to glory following a heart attack.

The widow decided to check her email expecting messages from relatives and friends. After reading the first message, she screamed and fainted.

The widow's son rushed into the room, found his mother on the floor, and saw the computer screen which read:

To: My Loving Wife

Subject: I've Arrived

Date: October 16, 2009

I know you're surprised to hear from me. They have computers here now and you are allowed to send emails to your loved ones. I've just arrived and have been checked in.

I've seen that everything has been prepared for your arrival tomorrow. Looking forward to seeing you then!!!! Hope your journey is as uneventful as mine was.

P. S. Sure is really hot down here!