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

Honey, I Think There’s A Teardrop On My Letter

“He can come Friday night if he doesn’t cry for you on Saturday night.  And he can’t be following me around, clinging to me 24/7.   It’s up to him.   And if  he starts coming here every other Friday night, too, we’ll have to revisit the financial arrangement.”

I hung up the receiver, swallowed the lump in my throat, and turned to the pile of  letters on my desk.  They needed my signature, gotta mail them out, they’re dated today.  Don’t cry.   Pick  up the pen and sign your letters, if not, they’ll be stale-dated and you know what that means…..you’ll have to re-do them.   Don’t cry.  Drink some tea; it’s hard to cry when you drink something. 

Ok, deep breath and don’t don’t don’t think about how your heart is breaking for your little guy.   Don’t think about how you are still regretting separating from the children’s father nearly five years ago now,  because of the hurt and pain that the divorce has caused.   Don’t think of how callous and selfish Father of Children sounded when he firmly stated that P can come one extra night if he meets his criteria (no crying, and he has to keep himself busy).  Don’t think of how you can’t imagine yourself ever saying: “Nope, I don’t want P to stay with us if he cries because he misses you.”  or “Here, take your daughter, she’s driving me crazy and I can’t live with her anymore.”  You know you’ve thought those things, everybody does, but you’d never say it, and you certainly wouldn’t follow through on it.   Don’t think about how you would much rather put up with some crying at night then seeing your boy only 4 days a month.  Don’t think about how selfish YOU sound, worrying about your kids’ hearts and feelings when so many children have it WAY harder than yours do.  More guilt.   Don’t think of  how much P is missing out on his life with his father, with his little baby brother whom he adores.  Don’t think of how P is at the age when he wants to be his Dad’s shadow,        10 years old is when your Dad is The Superhero Of The World, isn’t it?   Don’t think of how P is slowly being alienated.  Don’t think of how this never would be happening  if you hadn’t left that marriage  in the first place, so this is your fault again.   Don’t think of the guilt you feel about the divorce, don’t think about the guilt, don’t think about guilt, don’t think…..don’t think.   

Too late.

I set the pen down, put my elbows on my desk and hold my head in my hands.  Defeat and sadness wash over me.  I don’t even realize I have tears rolling down until I hear one teardrop hit the letter, Mr. Client 28476′s letter.   Shoot….that kind of snaps me out of it, and I quickly soak it up with a tissue, blow my nose and hope to heck nobody walks by my desk with a cheery good morning.   Surely, the person who sits on the other side of me will wonder what the heck all the sniffling’s about.

I look at Mr. Client 28476′s letter and the teardrop has dried up, no wrinkly spot.  Good.  Phew.  I sign it, and think about Mr. Client 28476 receiving this letter with my now-invisible teardrop.   He’ll never know that the letter-writer was having a melt-down while she signed it.   He’ll never know that in the margin of his official-looking letter, there’s the trace of sodium chloride and water, a tiny unproductive pool of sadness and sorrow.  

Can someone pass the hugs and the chocolate, now?

Ok, I’m at work, you can’t hail a hug like you hail a taxi.   But I get the next best thing….Mr. C calls before I go for lunch, and I fill him in on my depressing  morning conversation with P & G’s father.  In his reliable, comforting way, my husband manages to lift my spirits and renew my confidence in myself, without bringing down the father of my children.   Sitting at my desk, listening to his words through the receiver, I can feel his arms around me, his hands smoothing my hair back, kissing my tears away; the chocolate is melting in my mouth.    My afternoon is much better, and a phone call from P, fresh and so hyped up  from his first day at soccer camp, is all I need to restore my faith in my ability to keep doing the right thing by my family, despite the guilt. 

I realize this might not be a big deal compared to what you may be going through, and because I know this,  I really try to keep things in perspective.  Sometimes though, telling yourself  it’s no big deal is the same as repression, which leads to depression, which is anger turned inward.   Know that I’m offering up my struggles for you, so that you can have hugs & chocolate, too, when you need them.  

Love,

Chantal xoxoxoxo