Being

End-of-the-school-year (G is gone camping for 3 days with her class, little graduation ceremonies, school concerts, outings).        Soccer season starts (P is playing competitive soccer this summer, which means 2 games per week  one hour after I get off work, which means rushing to pick him up at school, then trying to find time to get something nutritious in his body, then get him to his game on time…..plus practices and tournaments…..need to find alternative to McD’s….find time this weekend to come up with fast easy things to eat that can be prepared at home & taken along).       Mr. C has a new job (have to brush up my massage skills to counter those 10-hour days on his feet….and need to make those minutes left over at the end of the day count.   It’s nice to take care of those you love).     New digs await us in a few weeks (we haven’t started packing yet…..but we are SO ready for our new place with THREE bedrooms!  No more mouldy apartment……).    Meeting my new sisters-in-law (SIX of them!) and their families next week at a family wedding for which I don’t have a dress yet…….I tried one on yesterday, a nice cream silky number with a beautiful purple flower print & a sash, except I looked like a big grape   (no pressure, I still have 7 shopping days left……minus 3 soccer nights and one child’s friend’s birthday party evening, so 3.5 days left, really….ok, there’s a little bit of pressure there); need to find something that makes me look like I am, a happy woman, wife and mother, not something that makes me look like I’m rushing from one thing to the next, trying to keep up with this culture that imposes too much on everybody, and certainly something that doesn’t make me look like a giant fruit, no matter how tasty. 

So I’m taking this little moment with you, to breathe and thank God for all my blessings.  I don’t usually like to ask Him for favours, but if I can be given what I need, to be the mother, the wife, the woman that I have to be, that’s all I can ask for.  And I’m willing to put all my energy into being that being.   In spite of my human frailties.   Maybe because I’m such a human.

Blessings to you as you go on living your day and being your own being for those you love. 

Love,

Chantal xoxoxoxo

If The Shoe Fits

I’m sitting at the car dealership, signing my name on endless papers, turning in my trusty little Hyundai Accent for a new lease on a shiny pearl-black Elantra.  Four doors!  Air-conditioning!  Good on gas, especially now that gas price fluctuations look like temperature readings of a feverish child (100.5, 101.6, 100.6).

So I’m sitting there with Tom the head sales guy, before heading off to work, making this very grown-up lease purchase, nodding and uh-huhing like a pro as if I understand all the car-sales lingo that Tom is throwing out as he explains the various warranties and terms that I’m signing.  Plus I’m feeling very grown-up and summery in my new thrift-store stylish summer skirt, the bargain that I couldn’t wait to wear but had to because the weather hasn’t been that warm yet to go bare-legged.   But today, rain or shine, I’m signing a new lease for a new car and I’m wearing my new-to-me skirt with bare legs and last year’s summer mules!  So I’m feeling good, it’s a good day, I can feel good things happening!

I thank Tom, and he stands up to come around his desk to show me out, and as I rise from my chair, I really have no idea how I managed this but I did.   My feet get caught somehow and I stumble as I get up and nearly crash into Tom’s office door.  Which was embarrassing enough.  But this is me, and embarrassing enough is usually never embarrassingly enough.

My slip-on cute little mule shoe manages to come off of my left foot in my attempt to regain my balance, and lies there, on the floor, face down heel up.  Tom, who is shorter than me, stands there after making a little “whoa” sound when I lost my balance, and we both look down at my bare foot and my upturned shoe.  

Like my older sister taught me, when in a dilemna, think  “What would Jackie O do?” .   If this happened to Jackie O, Tom the head sales guy would have shown his chivalrous side and  bent down himself to turn over her shoe and hold it there while she slipped her dainty foot back in.   But this is 2009, and I’m not Jackie O.    I look at the dirty underside of my shoe.  I inwardly curse its dirtiness and its bad timing at exposing itself this way.   I can’t even nudge it with my toe to flip it on its right side again and slip my foot back in like it was nothing….noooooo, I have to bend down and turn my shoe over with my hand and straighten back up and then put my stupid shoe back on.   All of this with Tom the head sales guy looking on.   That whole process made it impossible for me to brush it off and act like this happens to me all the time.   There was nothing to say.  It was more of  a Bridget Jones moment than a Jackie O moment. 

You can dress me up in the cutest thrift-store skirts,  but you can’t take me out.  

Love,

Chantal Jones

She Thanked Her Sorrow

 The title of this post is from a poem by Terri St.Cloud called Driving Home.  It’s part of a collection of her poems in a book called “Over Tea“.   I received this jewel in the mail the other day, a thoughtful gift from my dear friend, Sorrow,  who by the grace of friendship must have sensed that  I needed a picker-upper. 

So I have this wondrous book that I keep very close at hand, like my own private cheering section, with its poetry of comfort and reassurance.    I’m not sure if Terri’s full intent was to put into words what so many of us are lacking in courage to say to ourselves, let alone to others, but she does so with great sensitivity.  Even her name,  Terri St.Cloud,  evokes a soft blue, fluffy bathrobe that envelops you in assurance and caring.

Some poems are a dozen lines or more, some are just one powerful sentence, but each is set on its own page, a small island of solace in an expanse of creamy hushed paper.    I’m refraining from the urge of getting my kids’ colouring pencils out and drawing in the emotions I feel in the space around those poems.   I don’t know how long I’ll be able to hold out!    I’ve read it cover to cover, and now I return to it often, reading at random Terri’s thoughts on friendship and on discovering the beauty of the other.  

You know, beauty is often something we overlook, especially in this world where our focus is pulled in so many different (and un-beautiful) directions.  We think we know what makes up a beautiful person, a beautiful character, a beautiful mind.   But letting the media, or anyone else for that matter, dictate to you what is and is not beautiful, is a path of soul destruction.   Be careful, though, it’s not by closing up or censoring that beauty emerges.   Opening my mind has been a way for me to see that in fact, it’s the “not beautiful” that truly is.   If you see the beauty in others but not in yourself, does that count?  Does seeing the beauty in others make you beautiful?   If who or what you see makes you feel beautiful just by being in its presence or just by looking at it, isn’t that true beauty?  Isn’t being moved by someone’s spirit or the light in their eyes, or soaking up the four thousand shades of green that you see at this time of the year, isn’t that the kind of beauty that transforms a person?   Doesn’t  beauty, and recognition of it,  sometimes come from pain and sorrow?   Terri’s poetry is about discovering that beauty in yourself and in others. 

http://www.robinlassiterart.blogspot.com/

I thank my Sorrow, tuck it away, and continue my drive Home.

Love,

Chantal  xoxoxoxo

A Little Rx

It’s OK!  Don’t panic!  You’re in the right place!  It’s still me, at Ain’t Life Strange…..I just mixed up the colours a little.

Being as I spend alot of time staring at a computer screen at work, I fiddled with the colours on my monitor a long time ago to come up with a combination that was soothing to my eyes.  Most of my co-workers  have the black background  with coloured writing, either red or blue or even hot pink!  I always found those combinations to be too bright, so I found that a medium grey background with white and black writing worked the best for me.  Because we sometimes move around alot, I got wise and wrote down the colour combinations so that I don’t have to waste time fiddling with the colours on my computer every time I move (if only I could remember where I put that paper…..) 

The most frequent comment I get when people see my screen is :  “How can you see that?  Don’t your eyes hurt?”  I’ve come up with “It works for me!   Now whaddaya want?”.  Ok, maybe I don’t really say whaddaya want…….  But I really like my choice of colours on my computer, especially that they don’t make my eyes tired.

So today, I’m reading this snippet in Zoomer magazine:

CONVENTIONAL, SQUINT-INDUCING LOOSE-LEAF PAPER HAS MET ITS MATCH.

Whitelines, the brainchild of Swedish designer Olof Hansson, is a carbon-neutral collection of writing paper and note pads that puts white lines against a grey background, erasing the perceptional stress that can occur on eyes when dark lines appear on a gleaming white background.  Hansson’s eco-minded masterwork translates into low CO2 emissions and line-free photocopies, making whatever you write and draw easier on the eyes — and the environnment.               Jessica Green  -  Zoomer magazine, June 2009

AHA!  White lines against a grey background…..just like my easy-on-the-eyes computer screen!  I was gratified to read that a very cool and hip designer, from Sweden no less, put this great idea to good use.  Now when people go ugh at my screen, I can tell them, Hey, Olof thinks this idea is so cool, he applied it to writing paper and now markets his Whitelines with great success.  So if it’s good enough for Mr. Hansson, innovator and designer, it’s good enough for me. 

So I got to thinking about you, faithful blog reader.  How are your eyes?  When you read my blog, were your eyes getting tired from reading the black writing on the harsh white background?  Did you have to squint after a while just to get through my latest post?  I’m assuming that if your eyes did get tired, it wasn’t  because of my writing.   (It’s not, is it?) 

I’ve had the same blog theme since I started writing here two years ago, now.   I’ve checked out other themes, but I always came back to the same one, white background, pink outlines, with the pen at the top.  Simple, clean, leaving more room to focus on the writing.  But after reading about Whitelines today, I thought maybe Ain’t Life Strange could stand a little change, and maybe I could ease the strain on your eyes while I was at it.  So I found this new theme that has a similar layout to my old theme, because I like change, but not too much.   The colours are a little bold, red and black and grey are all power colours, which don’t really describe me…..I would’ve liked the red header to be a soft pink or a nice light olive green, or maybe a peaceful blue like the domes of Santorini, Greece.   But the white writing on the grey background should mean less eye strain. 

I’m going to keep this theme for a little while, see how it goes.    I like it more than I dislike it, but I’m also wanting to know what you think.   Don’t be shy.  Don’t hold back.   If you hate it, you hate it.  You can tell me.  I can take it.  No, really, I can take it.   I know I’m sensitive and you know I’m sensitive, and being sensitive means that I can take anything you can dish out.  After I’ve cried.

I’m KIDDING!!!!!!

Life is good. 

Love,

Chantal xoxoxox

No I’m Not, I Just Look It

How is it that despite our enlightenment, modern women can still be slayed by one insensitive, ill-thought comment? 

I was at my children’s school the other evening, for the annual Family Fair event.   Games, penny sales, cake raffles, lots of children running around, teachers, parents, grandparents and friends connecting and reconnecting.    A dear friend and I sat and talked for an hour, having a wonderful time catching up and giving each other moral support in our quest to be mothers in the modern world.  Our sons are best friends, and the unique bond she and I share is deep and meaningful.  She is a woman I think of when I look for inspiration and determination.   I treasure the conversation we had, she’s a very special woman, and we parted with the promise of going out for a girls-only coffee date.  

Sitting at one of the long tables in the gymnasium, watching the hustle and bustle going on around me, I concentrated on being quiet inside and reflected on the good things that have happened lately, in spite of  the adjustments that continue to need attention as my husband and I forge our couple-ness and try to blend into a family without making too much of a mess.   With echoes of my sweetheart’s tender words from our afternoon lingering in my heart, the evening wore on, and the time came for me to search out my kids and head home.    Mrs. Dana, a teacher who had taught my daughter in kindergarten, was clearing off the tables.  She & I have known each other for as long as my children have attended school, and although we don’t socialize, we’ve developed a friendship and have been each other’s champion in the face of our triumphs and struggles through the years.    We made small talk as she threw plates and pop cans into a garbage bag; I rose to leave, gathering up the kids’ backpacks & lunch boxes.  Mrs. Dana frowned and looked at me with a mild look of alarm.

“Are you pregnant?” she said, her nose wrinkling up as she said the word “pregnant”.   

I’m not very swift at coming up with witty replies when things like this happen to me, and I’m too self-conscious to be able to think of something equally stinging to retort with.  All I managed was a very fast, barely noticeable headshake and a quiet “No” with a smile, hoping no one else overheard her asking me such an embarrassing question.  I walked away and kept on walking as I heard her stammer a feeble “Sorry, but your coat…the way your coat….”  Too late, I thought to myself, the damage is done.  Not only have I been feeling  like a blimp lately, but now it’s been publicly pointed out.   Her comment was like a hammer to my heart.

No, I am not pregnant.   But the fact that my body looks like I’m pregnant does not make me feel very good.  Not because I WANT to be pregnant, oh no, my childbearing years are over.  It doesn’t make me feel very good to know I look pregnant when I’m not because that means I MUST REALLY LOOK FAT!  I held my tears until I got home (the kids’ excitement at having had so much fun at the fair was a welcome distraction).   Finally at home, in my kitchen, I  began to frantically make banana bread.  I needed to do something quick before my self-esteem ran out of me into a puddle on the floor.  And the bananas were there, ripening before my eyes.   So I’m standing at the kitchen counter, measuring flour and stuff  when my husband comes to hug me, asking me how the Family Fair went.  “Fine”, I said, “until someone asked if I was pregnant.” 

There, in the safety of his strong arms, my face smushed into his chest,  I sobbed quietly.  And with each sob, he stroked my head and held me close, each of his consoling “Hush, now” speaking to my heart, telling me that no matter what anyone says, I’m his beautiful girl and that’s all that matters.  And he’s part right.  What matters is what he feels for me, but also what matters is what I feel for myself. 

Eleanor Roosevelt said:  “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.”   Add fat to that inferiority complex.   Even though I wish I was a Beatrix Potter, or a Marie Curie, or a Sacajawea, I am a modern woman living in modern times where women struggle with their weight and appearance from the time they’re 10 when they notice that their thighs jiggle (why doesn’t anybody tell us that thighs are SUPPOSED to jiggle?).   I was a typical, shy, awkward young girl dealing with a secret she eventually told.  I grew into a shy, awkward young woman with no fashion sense to go along with that low self-esteem who did her best at building a life like she thought she should.    Three years after having my children, I topped the scales at my heaviest post-baby weight, and had lived for years in a survival mode of not feeling too dang much emotionally. 

Many moons ago, an unkind observation was made on my appearance by someone very close to my heart.  I had not realized how sensitive I can be to others’ unintentional comments until now, as I write and reflect on this whole thing.  And I’m amazed at how I let myself be affected.  Eleanor is right, I need to stop giving consent to others making me feel bad.   In any case, with this remark all those years ago, a realization came to me that I had to take better care of myself, if only for my children’s sake.   Deep down, I wanted to be loved for me, no matter what my body looked like, but somehow there are crossed wires inside that (still) fool me into thinking I am nothing  if I am not thin. 

And so I began to lose weight, losing a significant amount over a period of 7 or 8 months, transforming myself into someone I had a hard time getting used to when I looked in the mirror.  Who is that girl?   Sometimes I would smile when I asked that question, sometimes I’d frown in bewilderment.  I went from years of not feeling, to a period of time when I had to acknowledge alot of issues and serious matters in my life.    In those seven or eight months, I was losing more than weight:  my father passed away, I was going through a separation, then my mother passed away.   The day after my mother died, I began a sporadic cycle of bingeing and purging that lasted about four years.   Weight loss, weight gain…..it has nothing to do with eating or excercise.  It’s all about your psyche. 

The woman I was when I was at a normal, healthy weight was actually hurting more inside, probably because she was dealing with all those repressed emotions in her life but felt them to be too much and tried to swing the pendulum a little with bingeing and purging as a way to bring comfort and relief.   At least that’s what I tell myself.   

But a funny thing happened on my way to Skinnyville:  I became visible to others, whereas before I went about my business, relatively unnoticed.  Now, people where I worked knew my name and sought me out.  I didn’t know most of these people, but suddenly, they knew me.   Men I could understand, but women who wouldn’t have given me the time of day before were now seeking to get to know me.  People were nicer.  All because I was thinner.   I became That Woman Who Lost All That Weight. 

Last summer, I got tired of the near-obsession I had maintained in order to keep my weight down.  And I found myself going off the rails a little.  The pounds started piling on.  At least I wasn’t bingeing and purging anymore, right?    But I could feel myself expanding.  By the fall, I couldn’t fit into any of my jeans.  By winter, I was down to three skirts &  a few sweaters for work, and two pairs of yoga pants to wear on my down time.   I had made an attempt before Easter to curb the appetite enthusiasm a little, because at the rate I was going,  I couldn’t zip up my winter jacket, and could barely button my long winter coat.    I’m dreading spring and don’t dare think of summer.  I go to work now, humiliated at being the fat girl again, at having everyone be a witness to yet another of my failures.   I avoid looking in the mirror when I dress, I wince if I happen to catch my reflection; I can’t cross my legs like I did; I feel body parts jiggle when I walk where they had not jiggled for a while.      

I see people look at me differently now, I see their eyes asking:  “How can you let yourself go like that?”.  I hear their voices boldly asking  ”Are you pregnant?” .   I know how pathetic and insecure it is, after 42 years of being here, to be placing so much of my personal worth on how big or small my body is.   I also know how this latest weight gain is a symptom of things I can’ t deal with.  High sensitivity to other people and what they feel and think of me affects me more than the average bear.  Couple that with a lifetime of feeling unworthy and inferior and you get the idea.  Not that I want to feel superior to anyone, I just want to feel good about me in my body no matter what size I am.  And to find my purpose in life, and to know that my passions and my drive to achieve something, to create something, is not dependent on my body size.    

It’s not a good feeling to be ashamed of how you look, and it’s even worse to admit that how you look even matters.  I think of myself as an intellectual person, and I’m smart enough to know that your body size means dick all.  In each person I meet, I try to see beyond size, bad breath, differing opinions, or whatever else is different from me in that person.  So why can’t I see that other people are probably giving me the benefit of the doubt as well? 

Because I can’t cut myself any slack.  It’s much easier to see the beauty in others than it is to see it in yourself. 

Later that night, after the Great Banana Bread Bakeoff, I lay in bed with Mr. C.   He reminded me that he fell in love with my mind way before he actually met me in person.  And hadn’t I done the same?   I don’t know how he does it, but he manages to become a mirror, reflecting back what’s essential for me to see in myself.   Going from years of not feeling to feeling too much, maybe this is a time where I will find balance and wisdom. 

Maybe this is the time of my life.     

Love, 

Chantal xoxoxo

Billy Bob: Take Off, Eh?

Note to you, dear reader:  When I started this post at around 9pm, the interview was on YouTube, I uploaded it on my post so that you could see it.  I’m double-checking it as I always do before I publish a post, and lo and behold, at 11:15pm, YouTube states that “We’re sorry, this video is no longer available”.   ISN’T THAT CONVENIENT?!?  I’m thinking SOMEbody has his hillbilly knickers in a knot…… I’ll give you the link anyways, in case it miraculously becomes available, but if it doesn’t load after 30 seconds, you know something’s up:   

UPDATE AS OF April 9 at 7:00AM:  THE LINK TO THE INTERVIEW NOW WORKS JUST FINE   SO GO AHEAD AND CLICK ON IT FOR THE FULL EFFECT:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IJWS6qyy7bw

I found this unofficial but excellent version of the interview’s transcript, which might help put things into context for you (and this blogger is pretty interesting, too!): 

http://rankin-inlet.blogspot.com/2009/04/almost-complete-transcript-of-billy-bob.html

However you read this, it’s up to you……So here we go, with a one and a two and a one two three four:

Billy Bob Thornton says Canadians are mashed potatoes without the gravy.  Canadians are very open-minded about their music, but I’d be surprised if The Boxmasters succeed to turn ”gravy-less” bland, unresponsive Canadian concert-goers on to their brand of music after Mr. Thornton’s less-than stellar interview.   I was embarrassed for his band members, who seemed to genuinely want to talk about their music.   Watching the interview, you could tell that they knew what was coming, they could see the top of Billy Bob’s head about to explode.  These are three grown men used to cleaning up after one big baby’s hissy fits.   Kind of sad and painful to watch.  Maybe they’ll consider dumping His Royal Arse and continue their musical journey on their own while gaining the respect of their peers and some fans along the way.

Much will be written about this, much already has.   Here’s my two-cents.

 BBT is a legend in his own pot-polluted mind.    Kudos to Jian Ghomeshi who, in typical Canadian fashion, showed class throughout the  interview and even treated King Billy Bob with respect that wasn’t earned.    The deal that BBT made with the producers of Q was that there were to be no questions about Mr. OscarWeiner’s film career (only primadonnas “give instructions”; real hard-working, touring musicians are more than happy to talk about their music and their achievements to everyone who will listen).  And not once did the host of Q ask him anything remotely connected to movies or films or anything he had done in the past.  All his questions had to do with music, with the band, with his musical influences.   Standard questions that are asked of anyone who is relatively new (which the Boxmasters are), questions that let the audience discover a little more.   To these questions,  Petulant Thorn-ton answered with the same “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  As a means of introduction and to put it all into context, the host mentioned that BBT was an actor (Oh horror) and that music was always a priority for him, that the other stuff was something that sidetracked his musical aspirations.  You can see DivaBob rolling his eyes, with his mouth hanging open, ready to sling-blade whatever gets in his way next.   

Mr. Thornton, did you really think that your band would get on the radio up here or anywhere for that matter,  if you hadn’t been Billy Bob Thornton-award-winning-actor-screenwriter?   And to be quite honest, Mr. HeadStuckUpMyArse, no one outside Arkansas has heard of the Boxmasters, so isn’t the point of touring & doing radio interviews to get people to listen to and appreciate your music?   

Egos are a funny thing (in the funny-weird way), and celebrity egos are even funnier (in the funny haha way).   Billy Bob was being a billy bob, when he actually thought that he’s as musically relevant as Tom Petty.    Tell me, quick quick, when I say Tom Petty, what’s the first thing that comes to mind, eh?  I have at least 12 songs playing back-to-back in my head, enhanced by the images of album covers and concert footage I’ve seen since I was ten.  Over THIRTY years’ worth.     

Good, okay, now….tell me, quick quick, when I say the Boxmasters, what’s the first thing that comes to mind?  

……………………….

Did you draw that blank or did I?  Exactly.   Next week, no one will care about or remember who these guys are.   The Boxmasters are here in Canada to promote their 3rd CD, opening for Willie Nelson (who couldn’t get Jessica Simpson to open for him…nuff said) at several venues in Ontario.  Judging by this interview, and by the lame comments about Canada that “Bud” posts on their touring blog, I’m guessing that they’ll remain a blank entry in the collective consciousness of music-lovers. 

Take off, eh?

Chantal xoxoxoxo

Lord, Love A Duck

Another winter storm, and yet it’s April.  Sigh. 

Last week, the weather was cold but sunny.   Driving into the entrance at my workplace,  every morning last week,  I would see this mallard couple waddling across the intersection, coming from the old age home next door and making their way God-knows-where.   They were just the two of them, he with his bright blue/green head, she in her camouflaged dress.  Ducky and Lucky, I named them.  I wondered where they were doddling to, as there isn’t any body of water nearby.   They’d have to fly over the boulevard to get to a creek, so why not just fly there from here, why take the risk of tottering  across a busy intersection in morning rush-hour traffic?  

One morning, I was turning into the entrance, checking to see if they were there,  when I saw him,  alone.   Alone in the middle of the intersection.  He was just standing there, hardly moving, but  looking back now and then towards the old age home.  I was wondering where his partner was, I couldn’t see her.  I slowed down and stopped my car, the mallard clearly in my view to my left.  I looked to the right, on the grass.  There she was, tentatively approaching the edge of the curb, and there he was, waiting in the middle of the road for her, stopping traffic to allow her to make her way safely to him, so that they could continue their journey together. 

They must have this incredible communicator built in, because when he turned to her, she stopped and stayed on the curb, as if he was signaling her that there was danger.   Then he turned and continued on his way across the road, where he waited for her on the other side.   I would have gladly stayed parked there in the middle of the road to give her time to cross, but I sensed that she was waiting for me to move on.  So  I slowly edged my car  forward and drove off, checking in my rearview mirror.  There were no cars coming, and I saw a little brown form waddle quickly but cautiously across the road to her mate.

I could imagine the quacks and the coos as she reached him, her little heart beating fast underneath her speckled feathers. 

“Good job, Lucky!” 

 ”Phew! I was scared!  That crossing seems much bigger when I’m alone!  Thank you, Ducky, for waiting for me….” 

I imagine that Ducky’s little heart must have been beating hard, too, as he watched her cross that road. 

I don’t suspect that Lucky and Ducky will be there tomorrow morning, what with this storm blowing everything all over creation.   They’ll probably be sheltering themselves somewhere, huddled close with their heads tucked under their wings.    Which is good, but too bad for me…..I’ve been looking forward to seeing them together, their small, fragile naturalness up against harsh metal and asphalt.  Defying the odds to journey together in this world.  Determined to make it, and to make it as one.   They sort of became a little symbol of hope in a world that can sometimes be cruel and unforgiving.  

In a couple’s life, there are many moments.   The most important ones, the ones that are life-changing, are the smallest ones…… Secretly watching him read and studying how his eyebrow arches up in the most perfect way as his eyes move across the pages……  Catching the tone in her voice and knowing she’s said something really ordinary, but she’s said it to you, which makes it extraordinary…….   Being absorbed in your respective books at the coffee shop, and feeling his hand squeeze your knee, under the table……..    Making her laugh…….    Hugging him for the millionth time, and being taken right back to that moment when you first hugged him and knew that this is where you wanted to be for the rest of your life…….   Watching her move around in the morning, getting ready for the day, and being sad that she’ll be out in the world for a few hours without you……   Letting him see you cry………    Remembering her eyes on you when she promised to be your true companion……..   Holding on to his hand as you negotiate the slippery sidewalks…….   Catching her scent on her coat as you help her into it…….   Hanging on as long as possible to that intimacy when you’re the only two people in the whole world…….. 

All these small moments are so fleeting, so ephemeral sometimes, they can even be missed completely…..and yet, they are what love is built on.   Love constantly forgets itself.    To love someone, there needs to be a setting aside of egos.  Easy to do in the beginning of a relationship, and something that requires care as the relationship grows.  But the rewards of truly loving someone, of loving someone truly, are immeasurable.   

Those small moments, I can’t imagine taking them for granted, and yet we do.  We all do.  Life is what it is, a great ocean of joy and sorrow.   For some reason, lately, I’ve had Liam Neeson on my mind, and wonder how do you move through the death of the person who was your center?   How do you enter into the dance of grief for the One who gave you those small, fleeting moments upon which you built a life together?   All those small moments must be excruciatingly painful when they resurface in grief.   Heartbreaking and bittersweet….and yet….it’s those small moments that heal.   Natasha Richardson’s tragic death, when she was at the prime of her life, gives rise to many questions on life itself.   Years after my parents passing away, I am still grappling with grief.    

And in all of this grappling, I’ve discovered that, for those who remain,  death is not a closure.  You cannot find closure from losing your spouse, your lover, your parent, your child.    You can seek closure, but you won’t find it.   On my grieving path, I’ve found that death is more like an opening for the living.   Those small, fleeting moments that make up your memories of the person you love who has passed away, those small moments come back to you.    They’re painful to recall, certainly when the loss is new and recent, but also especially when they surface at a time when you feel you’ve entered a more settled phase of your life in grief.   

The reason you were given those small, fleeting moments with your loved one while they were living is so that you could live through your grief when they’re gone.  

Which is why we need to remind ourselves now to cherish the small moments with those we share our lives with, to not take them for granted.  Because when you’ve passed on, your spouse, your child, your parent will need those small moments that you shared together, so that they can find the open door to life.  Ultimately, that’s what grieving is, finding the open door to Life.

I may not see my little mallard friends again, and hopefully they’ll have safely made their way to where they need to go.   Their small moments of caring for each other will go far in building a life together.    Funny what you can learn from a duck…….

Love,

Chantal xoxoxo

Skål!

 Way back in 1990, almost 20 years ago now, my first husband and I took the one and only trip we would ever take  together in our entire 17-year marriage (a weekend in Montreal 5 years after the birth of our kids doesn’t count).  I know that sounds like a sad commentary on the state of our marriage, and it is.   In retrospect, our lack of taking time to be alone together was a contributor to our eventual disintegration as a couple.  That, and many other factors, of course.   A marriage of nearly two decades doesn’t fail on one issue only, just as an enduring marriage doesn’t hinge on one aspect.  There are many spokes to the wheel of love, and it takes two to keep it turning.

So back in 1990, the  Meech Lake Accord was on its way to defeat,   the Oka crisis was unfolding,  The Tragically Hip won a Juno for Most Promising Group, going on to become one of Canada’s most influential bands,  the Hubble Space Telescope was launched, leading to important breakthroughs in astrophysics.    And M & I were flying to Stockholm, Sweden for three weeks of discovering a new country.    I had always wanted to visit a Scandinavian country, and to his credit, M was game to go anywhere I chose.  So we saved our money, planned our itinerary, including a side trip Baltic Sea cruise to Leningrad (before it became St.Petersburg again) and set off on our adventure.

It was an amazing trip,  my first time flying, a learning experience in self-sufficiency, and an awakening to how big, beautiful, wonderful and small our world is.  We met Swedes  (the most healthy-looking and attractive people on this planet that I’ve ever seen, from the youngest baby to the oldest grandpa);  our trip was coloured with their warmth and humour.  We befriended Polish immigrants who worked at the student residence where we were staying, and we enjoyed many late nights being regaled with stories from their country and served extra helpings  on our dinner plates of the most delicious Swedish meatballs I’ve ever had.  On our last morning, we had to leave early, before the breakfast canteen opened, but to our surprise, our Polish friends had prepared a huge breakfast tray for us, with way more food than the usual yogurt and cereal!  

We met the friendliest Americans from OshKosh, Wisconsin, from California, from New York.  Some of them we met while in Stockholm, some we met on the cruise to Leningrad.   On the ship, Fred and Winnie, a couple in their 80’s from New York who were seasoned world travellers, took us under their wing and were delighted that the youngest couple and the oldest couple on the cruise were at the same dinner-table.  We were pretty smitten with them, too, and felt very protective of them when our group ventured into Leningrad for an evening at the circus; Fred and Winnie were immediately surrounded by young Russians wanting to exchange cigarettes, but M & I worried for nothing…Fred and Winnie were prepared with a shopping bag of chocolates and American flag pins that they doled out to the boys while never breaking their stride on their way to board the bus to take us back to the ship. 

We met a German Mercedes-Benz dealer on that cruise, whom we avoided after our first encounter, convinced he was a spy or smuggler or dealt in some type of illegal activity.   A little  overactive imagination while travelling is a good thing sometimes.

We walked everywhere we could in Stockholm, we got lost on the bus (we weren’t really lost, M was getting upset, but I just told him “Hey, if we stay on it, eventually the bus will return to where we got on, and then we won’t be lost anymore”).    One morning on the bus ride from our residence to the centre of the city, I saw a woman across the aisle from me who had a lidded basket on her arm, and out popped the head of a sweet little dog!  I was amazed that animals were  allowed on public transport.  

Another day, with our overactive imaginations in high gear,  we thought we were being tailed by someone on our way to the Toy Museum and tried out our evasion techniques (but we weren’t really being tailed…..at least that’s what we told ourselves).   We drank strong coffee that cost $2.00 for a teeny tiny cup in outdoor cafés, we marveled at the cleanliness of a city with nearly 2 million residents.   Walking with our trusty map (which we forgot on a park bench somewhere on our very last day),  we quickly learned the main streets and spent our days wandering and discovering this beautiful city.   We visited the island of Djurgarden twice,  the Skansen museum, and the very impressive Vasa Museum with its fully restored 17th century Vasa Ship that sunk on its maiden voyage.    Stockholm Palace was grand, and watching the changing of the guard was something else.  During our tours of all the museums, during our walks along the cobblestone streets and alleys lined with centuries-old buildings, I came to realize how new my country was in comparison, how here in Canada we don’t have this identity steeped in thousands of years of history.  We cruised the archipelago, we visited the Nordiska  museum, we went to the Museum of Modern Art.    Our newly-bought 35mm camera came in handy and we  took a gazillion pictures.  Which brings me to the point of this whole post.

When I separated, I made sure to take all the photo albums and pictures with me.  I sifted through them all afterwards, giving M his pictures and those of him and the kids, and of course all the pictures of the kids that we had double prints of.  But the pictures and souvenirs of our trip to Sweden, I kept those.   I don’t know why I needed to hang on to them, but I did.   I haven’t looked at them since I moved out, which has been almost 5 years ago now.

If you have a look-see on my sidebar, (yep, right there on the right), there’s  a link to Archerfoto, which is the website of one of THE primo photographers whose work leaves me dreaming.   Her photographs of buildings, nature, people, streets, animals, they ALL pull me into their world.  I know diddly-squat about taking pictures except point & shoot, but I’m amazed at all I’ve learned just staring at her wondrous photos that she has on her website.  I have to hold back on commenting on every one, lest she thinks I’m some obsessed fan, but I swear, every single photograph that she puts up there elicits a reaction from me, there’s a story in each one of them being written out in my head as I contemplate them.    And you can tell alot about a person’s creativity, quality of workmanship,  and level of skill by the comments of photographers and non-photographers alike.  I visit her site daily, eager for the new photo, but just as grateful to browse and locate my favourites.

So when she came out with this new site  to display more of her unique and beautiful work, I was excited at the prospect of losing myself in her world, of  stopping to figuratively smell the roses (and the tulips), and especially of being inspired in my own creative writing.  Because that’s what gifted artists do, they inspire the rest of us to imagine and dream and create.

I know, I know, I’m getting to the point of this whole post now.  I clicked on her new site, Amy Archer Photography, and I scroll the galleries, wondering which one to open first.   The title “Family In Sweden” catches my eye; as I slowly cycle through this “family album”, I’m floored by how I’m transported right back, nearly 20 years ago, to Stockholm, to the colours, the cooling dark green of the foliage, the building facades, the sunlight reflecting off waterways, bathing the city in warm liquid gold.  I’m back in Djurgarden, feeling the cool June breeze.  I can smell the highly-polished scents of the museums enveloping the murmuring of tourists, I’m sitting again at the open-air restaurant in the middle of the city by the life-size chess game with the soft wind blowing clouds to hide the sun, momentarily turning the brightness into muted tones of shade and coolness.  Kind of like the Swedes, bright and cool. 

Through the sharing of her pictures, Amy has allowed me to connect to a time when I lived  a special dream of visiting a country that I had longed to see since I was a young girl.  I was a soulfully sad girl back then who grew into a soulfully sad but content woman, and I seemed to identify with Swedes for some reason, admiring their clean living, their social structure, their industriousness and inventiveness, their soulful sadness that seemed as ingrained in them as it was in me.  Since then, I’ve discovered that soulful sadness underpins warmth and joy, and that we are complex humans, no matter where we come from. 

And maybe that’s what Amy’s pictures give me, a sense of warmth and joy in their tranquility, in their reflectiveness.  That even in something that brings me sadness and melancholy, and makes me feel that I’m still in mourning for a marriage failed, I’m renewed and continue healing.  

I discover a deeper self, one who brings much to the life of her children.

I uncover the womanloverfriend I have become for my Mr. C., who helps me keep the wheel of love turning.  

Most of all, I recover the young girl with dreams of writing and living a simple life. 

Thank you, Amy…..you are a gift. 

Love,

Chantal xoxoxox

Wolf Cub, Do Your Best

He stood in the centre of his pack, promising to do his best.  Straight as an arrow he stood, shy,  his cheeks a little flushed when he unexpectedly had to say why he wanted to be a cub (”Because I love the Scouts and I want to have experience”). 

My son made his Wolf Cub Promise last night, to do his best, to love and serve God, and to do a good turn for someone everyday.  For three weeks, we’ve been talking and practising, going over the motto, the law, the maxims, the left-handed handshake, the hand sign.  As we drove to the school gymnasium, he was nervous, worried he would forget what he had learned in front of his pack. 

I reminded him that his grandfather, my dad, was a Scout Leader for decades, and one who was much loved and respected by the youth he guided and by the other leaders that he worked alongside.  I told P that his grandfather was smiling down on him right now, and that P should remember this when he was making his promise:  that my father was also a very shy man who overcame it to serve others all of his life, a Scout through and through. 

P’s father attended the little ceremony as well, and we took lots of pictures.  When P received his neckerchief and his badges, as well as his Good Deed coin, he was beaming, and so were we.  As the Cubs sang out their song of praise and guidance, my thoughts went to my father, wishing he could be here to know my boy, to witness this little moment in a school gym, just as he had attended countless ceremonies like this in his day for boys who have grown into men, men who hold special memories of my father as their Scout leader.  

When we arrived home, P showed his treasures to Mr. C., and we looked at the pictures from the ceremony.   I took P aside and presented him with a gift on this special day:  12 years ago, the Scouts held a Jamboree, and presented my father with a special plaque, honouring him for his dedication and hard work throughout his life for the Scout movement.  Translated, it reads:   For you, Victor.  You are always ready to help the Scouts without expecting any reward.  Baden Powell would be proud of you as we all are.  The District thanks you.

When P unwrapped the plaque, I explained what it was, how my father had been so proud to receive it that summer day, how he would have wanted P to have it, and how I was now passing it on to him.  The look of sincere joy on my son’s face said it all.  He had been asking to see my father’s mementoes from his scouting days for some time, and I kept putting it off.  I’m glad I waited until this moment.  I know P did not expect me to actually GIVE him something of my father’s, so that made it all the sweeter.

The plaque now rests in P’s room, on a shelf he cleared especially for his Cub Scout things.    This warms my heart to no end, to be reminded of my father through my son’s experiences as a Wolf Cub.  As I told P after giving him the plaque:  You are a generous boy, and you have an open heart, full of love for others,  always ready to do your best.  Just like your grandfather. 

P thinks being in Cub Scouts is the best thing, and he thanks me often for signing him up, even though he was extremely shy.   After last night, though, I think sometimes it’s a gift I gave myself, to see and feel my father again. 

Dad, your grandson’s tenderpads have toughened up…..he’s ready to follow his pack on their adventures.  You would be proud of him……

Love,

Chantal xoxoxo

Marry Me

I fell in love with you before I even saw you, before I even heard your voice.  Your words captured my heart, and they weren’t even romantic words, then. Yet.  But they were the words of a gentle/strong man, a gentle man, a gentleman.  I try re-reading those emails to see where exactly we fell into each other, at what point did we surrender to that knowing…..but I don’t know when exactly it happened.  I like to think that that knowing, that hidden sense, was always there, waiting to be discovered.  Patiently waiting. 

I’m a woman, just an ordinary woman, you’re a man, just like any other.  So what occurs for two souls to recognize each other and become extraordinary, unlike any other?  What happens to make it that each is unique for the other? For me, I saw in your writings the man you’ve proven yourself to be:  strong of heart and yes, of body, protective, generous, supportive, caring and most of all, vulnerable.  But you’re not TRYING to be these things, you ARE those things.  And perhaps, looking back, it’s your vulnerability that drew me in.   You weren’t trying to hide it, nor were you trying to display it.  It’s a part of you that I could see in your words, in your letters to me, in your emails, and eventually I heard it in your voice that first time we spoke.  I heard your heart, rejoicing in loving me.  I heard your mind running ahead with thoughts and ideas, coming through the wire. 

I fall in love with you every day.  When I get up early in the morning before everyone else and plug in the kettle for tea, realizing that you have filled it up the night before, just for me.  When you apologize for something you did that you sense has irritated me (I know, I’m working on relaxing).  When you face your day with a smile and send us off with a cheerful heart, watching us go while you stay home, waiting waiting waiting for all the red tape to be cut through so that you can find work and feel you are contributing in a way that you’re accustomed…. Be reassured, my dear husband, that I don’t pay no mind to that, I know that it will come in good time.  But I bet there are many days when  you don’t feel like being cheerful…. you never let it show. 

I fall in love with you when I see and hear you with the kids, creating bonds with them, laughing and being goofy, and I can tell that you are relishing those moments with them, that being close to them brings you closer  to me. 

I fall in love with you when I see you write, I fall in love with you when I feel I’m a part of that passion for you.  

I fall in love with you in those difficult times when we have disagreements, when even the passing of the night doesn’t bring understanding…..only when we glance furtively at each other over breakfast, and with great relief, our eyes ask for and give forgiveness.   Even when we hurt each other with incisive and ill-spoken words, consciously and unconsciously, I fall in love with you because I know that forgiveness is on its way.   Forgiveness and an open, embracing spirit is not something you learn alone.   You are my teacher.  With you, as it was in the beginning of our courtship, as it is now in our first married year, there is room for making mistakes and being quick to forgive.  I am always learning with you. 

I fall in love with you falling in love with me.   I’ve never been someone’s passion.   May I always be the woman you need, the one you can’t get enough of.   May I always be the best friend you can’t wait to see and share those little daily things that may be mundane to others but that mean so much to us.  May I always be the gal you want to eat popcorn with at the movies, the one you can’t wait to curl up in bed with at night to read to and talk with.   May I always be your Hippie Chick, and may Led Zeppelin always play in the background of your thoughts.  May I always make you want to make me laugh, because a woman can be serious for only so long.  May I always remember to let you take care of me, teaching me that there is great joy in being cared for.

This is for you, my Love, my Hero, my Knight in shining armour, my Leading Man….happy first anniversary, Honey.

True Companion

(Click on the the link, it will take you to YouTube, for a special tribute to my Love).

I love you, Mr. C.

Chantal xoxoxoxo