An AmeriCan Yarn

I love Rick Mercer.   (Go to www.rickmercer.com)  He’s funny, smart, irreverent, and is never afraid of making a fool of himself for the sake of  his country.    He talks about political things that I can never say on this blog, so I thank him for being my voice.   Plus his famous rants are always bang on, and leave me cheering and laughing.   Rick’s sense of humour projects what lies at the heart of Canada:  cheering for the underdog, the ever-present self-loathing and inferiority complex along with the justifying need to overcome those things, the desire to do the right thing, and the righteous beast within that rears its head in the face of injustice and especially in the wake of stupid politicians’ actions and words.  Rick is a master at highlighting the inconsistencies, fallacies, and sometimes just plain dumbness of politics in Canada.  And with that as a springboard, he’ll never run out of material.

A few years back, he ran a segment on his show, where he went down to the States and held man-in-the-street interviews, asking your average American citizen questions about Canada.  The point was to highlight how little Americans know about Canada and Canadians in general, as opposed to our ingrained  knowledge of the USA, its culture and its politics.   And you know, it stands to reaason that we WOULD know more about the US,  given that they are bigger and more influential.   Even if I sometimes feel Canada is saturated with American culture, it’s still better to know the score with your neighbour than it is to be ignorant, even if you come by that knowledge and understanding through assimilation and osmosis.  (I’ll try to apply that same logic to my own tale of two solitudes……but that’s a whole other blog post). 

ANYWAYS…..  Rick Mercer’s segment was funny, the people interviewed were good-natured about their ignorance of we, the people of Canada, and it made for good TV.  Everyone was happy.  But here’s where I got to thinking……

As you know, dear reader, my Mr. C. is an American living in Canada with me, his French-Canadian sweetheart (his words, not mine).  You would think that there wouldn’t be too many differences between us, given that I’ve just said that Canada is absorbed into US culture.    However, Mr. C’s political views (sometimes) clash real loud with mine, and we’ve had many opportunities in the past two years to put the word “truce” into action.  Yet our cultural differences have knit us into this warm and woolly scarf, where we bask in happy contentment & respect for each other’s country.  There’s more to be gotten from learning and understanding then there is in standing with your arms crossed, unwilling to budge.  Especially when you’re married.  And you sleep in the same bed. 

As Mr. C. and I embarked on this amazing knitting project of enmeshing our two selves together, I found myself feeling more and more….dare I say it…..ignorant.  Ignorant of my heritage, ignorant of my culture, ignorant of how my government operates.   As a newbie to Canada,  just about everything was new and different to Mr. C.:   our “Monopoly” money (he eventually conceded that ours is better),  health care (’nuff said),  looking for work, Celsius degrees, our politics, our history, our history as it relates to American history, our perceptions of Americans, our perceptions of him….HE was new and different here;  people were quick to pick up on his accent, to his growing bemusement, because he doesn’t feel he has one.   I keep trying to explain that we ALL have accents, however, it might take time. 

So whenever Mr. C. came across something he wasn’t familiar with,  he would, of course, turn to me, his smart Canadian wife, his link with his new world, and he would ask:

“Why did Trudeau repatriate the constitution?”   ”What’s the House of Commons?”    “What’s the FLQ?”   “What’s the NDP?”    ”Why do I have to take my shoes off in the house?”    “Why do you have  a Governor-General?”    “Why do magazines cost more in Canada?”    “Who’s Brian Mulroney?”     “What’s the deal with Québec?”        “What’s that in Farenheit/gallons/miles?”     ”Why the conflict between the English & the French?”     “What’s a ‘too-que’ and why do you pronounce it ‘too-que’ but you spell it ‘toque’ ?”  ……..

And I, in all my Canadian smartness, found that more often than not, I could only smile sweetly and say: 

“I’ll have to look that up and get back to you…..”. 

It’s embarrassing.  It took marrying an American to make me see how pathetic my knowledge, awareness, and understanding of my own country was.   When you know your history, when you understand your culture, how your government works, all of that stuff, it goes deep inside of you and gives you a much deeper sense of belonging and enlightenment.  You understand others on another level, you see past the garbage-media-fed mentality and you succeed in “un-stunting” your own growth:  in other words, what was “Us vs. Them” becomes “Us & Them”. 

But when you don’t fully know from whence you came, and when you can’t explain the whys and hows of important events that have shaped your country, it’s more than embarrassing.  It’s apathetic.   Apathy is the opposite of passion and enthusiasm.  And I am nothing if I’m not passionate. 

So, in case I’m not the only Canadian who finds herself in this apathetic boat-to-nowhere, here’s what I propose to Rick Mercer:

Mr. Mercer, in the same vein as your “What do Americans know about Canada ” segment on your show, maybe you could do one where you hit different provinces and ask the average person on the street what they know about Canada.  We’re quick to laugh at Americans’ lack of knowledge about us, but I think we’d get a bigger laugh at our own deficiencies about ourselves.   We’ve proven time and again that we have a great sense of humour (elections, anyone?),  and think of what this would do to the self-esteem of Canadians everywhere….by doing this, you would greatly contribute  to the enlightenment and progress of this magnificent country!  Take a step to lead us out of this apathy, Mr. Mercer!   Show us the short-sighted, unaware people that we really are, so we can become open-minded and true citizens of Canada and the world!

I, for one, am trying to take a more active interest in how my country is put together, if only to preserve the image that Mr. C. has of me.  If he starts suspecting that I may not be completely up to snuff in the brains department, I may NEVER get him to take his shoes off inside the house! 

In the meantime, me & Mr. C. will cast on,  knitting &  purling our lives in a unique red, white, and blue pattern, happy and content to know that our warm and woolly scarf grows warmer and woollier with each difference shared and understood.       

Love,

Chantal xoxox

The Good, The True, The Tender…..

“Nor need we power or splendour, wide hall or lordly dome;

the good, the true, the tender, these form the wealth of home.”  

Sarah J. Hale (American writer, 1788-1879)

Mr. C:  Ok, now take the Highway 417 East ramp.

Me: Ok. 

(Kids jibbering in the back about songs on G’s iPod Shuffle)

Driving along 417 East in Ottawa, on our way to the Canadian Museum of Civilization for a day of fun and wonder.

Mr. C:  Now we have to watch for Exit 122 to Parkdale Avenue.

Me:  Ok  (driving along, marvelling at how easy it is to get around our capital city).  Read me the next few directions so I know what to watch for….

Kids in the back, listening to music, scrolling through the songs, talking and laughing about gross things that pre-teens find so funny…….

Mr. C:  Ok, once we take the exit, you’ll turn left onto Parkdale Avenue.  Then you drive about a mile and then you’ll take the ramp toward East.   After that you turn right onto the Ottawa River Parkway. 

Me:  Ok, that’s good. 

We reach Exit 122 and turn left onto Parkdale Avenue.

Me (watching for the next direction):  Ok, now where do I go again?

Mr. C:  It just says to take the ramp toward East. 

Me:  That’s it? 

Mr. C:  Uh-huh….

Me (driving along, probably too fast, suddenly seeing a median to my right with a sign “EAST” pointing towards a ramp on the right of the median, and below it a sign that says “WEST” indicating to continue straight through) (pointing): THAT’S IT THERE, RIGHT? 

Mr.C (pointing): EAST!

Brakes slamming, screeching, sideways skidding, BUMP-BUMP-BUMP, scraping, sudden stop……  The median found itself underneath our car.  

Mr. C: Everybody ok?

Me (nodding): …….

Kids: ……..

Mr.C (in a strong, gentle voice):  Just try driving forward and off, Sweetie…..

So I did. 

Kids (recovering & laughing):  Whoa!  Did you see how the Shuffle skipped when Mom hit the curb!…..Mom, next time, just keep going straight…..

Amazingly, the only (visible) damage was the front left hubcap that was dented & popping out when the wheel hit the curb and hopped the whole car up onto the median, which stands to reason as the front left wheel received most of the impact.   All the wheels were ok, nothing fell off from underneath the car…..We’ll know more next week when I take the car in.  I was sure I had busted up the wheels and ruined our Thanksgiving weekend in Ottawa.    As I continued our drive to the museum, I thought of how much worse it could have been…..when I saw the sign & realized I wasn’t going in the right lane, then felt myself losing control as I tried to get onto the East ramp, the car could’ve rolled had it hit the median any other way, or I could have found myself spinning back into traffic…..

I was a little shaken and completely embarrassed for the rest of the day, but tried to put it out of my mind so that we could enjoy our family time visiting one of the nicest museums I’ve ever been to.   I pride myself on being a good driver, and Mr. C has always said how safe he feels in a vehicle when I’m driving, that he doesn’t feel nervous as a passenger…..now I felt like a complete dweeb, worried that this incident would change the way he sees me.

But just when I think I love Mr. C as much as I possibly can, something happens and my heart grows bigger, because I’ve just discovered another aspect of his character that makes me love him even more. 

When I hit that median, he was very calm.  When he told me to drive off,  with a voice that people have when talking to someone who’s in shock who needs to react but won’t unless you use a gentle, authoritative tone.   Now I know I can count on him to be calm and clear-headed in an emergency, in case I can’t be.    As I reflected on this whole shebang (accent on BANG) in the days that followed, I knew I was married to one of the most caring and sensitive men in the world, because not once, NOT ONCE, did Mr. C ever say anything derogatory or mean about my driving.   He didn’t make any stupid jokes about women drivers.  He didn’t fly off the handle and scream at me.   In fact, once we parked the car at the museum and assessed the damage, he hugged me as I sobbed, and he immediately took the blame for the incident, saying he distracted me by shouting & pointing when he saw the East sign, and that HE should’ve been paying closer attention to where we were going.   

Nevertheless, I was so embarrassed that I couldn’t look him in the eye for a long while, yet he waited patiently, waiting for me to talk about it, then reassuring me that it was all ok.    Since that day, unless I talk about it, he doesn’t bring it up. 

Feeling that you’ve disappointed your sweetheart is not a good feeling.  Mr. C could easily have been angry with me, or continued to rub salt in the wound by being sarcastic or by ridiculing me, or he could have given me the silent treatment, thereby letting me know how stupid and incompetent of a driver I really am.  But Mr. C is a man whose strength lies as much in his heart as it does in his biceps.   I marvel at this tall, red-blooded American who has such a gentle grace about him, in how he intuitively senses what I need from him and gives it to me freely and in such subtle ways that I’m not always aware of  it until I’ve had time to reflect, like I’ve been doing for the past three days.   Then, after mulling over  his actions in my head,  the honesty of his love for me rises in my heart like the Harvest moon.  

With each passing day, with all of the joys that we share, with all of the deceptions that we face together, I’m rooted in security and peace of mind, knowing that no matter what, I’ve married a good man who will stand beside me through it all.  He asked me the other day how does a couple know they’ve reached the “true love” stage, when do they know they’ve passed the initial infatuation/romantic/lust stage…..(ok we don’t really get past the lust stage, do we?).   So I thought a little bit and said:  You know your love is true if it feels like you’re Home. 

Welcome Home, Mr. C……..

Love,

Chantal  xoxoxo

A Fall Reading List For You

A word to you, dear reader:  I had included the links to all the books listed below in my original posting, but somehow the gremlins got in and the links did not work properly.  I’ve disabled the links for now, and I’ll try and fix them asap for you, so please return here if you’re interested.  Thank you, and so sorry for this.  (Really, I want to swear like a sailor and scream like a banshee, but I will refrain). 

I’ve been doing alot of reading, and realized that I have not posted about what I’ve read in a very long time.   Every day is a good day to read, but in the Fall, I start wanting to read even more.  

I recently attended an information night at my daughter’s new school (she’s in grade 7, Lord help me), where the teachers presented their curriculum for the year, and I was duly impressed with their enthusiasm and desire to teach children in that age group.  I could never be a teacher, so to me, anyone who chooses to do this of their own volition, who holds the education of children over and above their desire for advancement or to make money, has my respect.    

That night, G’s French teacher presented her material, but before she did, she began by saying that someone who reads every day holds the keys to not only understanding  themselves, others, and the world, but to learning  how to learn.   Which is very important for a teacher facing a classroom every day;  children who don’t read have a harder time learning, and eventually become adults who don’t read and can’t stay focused. 

I’m fortunate that my mother gave me this gift of reading from the time I could flip the pages of the books lining our bookcase, and thankfully P & G have inherited this same love-for-reading gene, in spite of the attention-grabbing computer and video game worlds.   I can’t imagine not reading, and next to music, reading and writing are my most favourite activities. 

Ever notice how you can tell that you’re having a conversation with a book reader  as opposed to someone who rarely reads anything more than traffic signs?   Formal education, social status,  home environment,  physical health, family……all those things are moot when it comes to talking with someone who reads on a regular basis.    I’ve tread very shallow waters talking with university graduates with great family connections, big important careers, fabulous wardrobes, perfect nails and fancy licence-plated vehicles that cost more than my yearly salary.   I can tell they don’t read (much) because the mutual interest goes no further than what’s on the outside.   The conversation quickly becomes vacuous, and eventually all about them. 

But I have done some amazing deep-water diving, talking with readers from all walks of life, who have some or  little or no formal education, family lives that are less than stellar and usually turbulent, who are unemployed or toiling at a day job while nursing that passion that burns inside of them, be it playing in a band or moonlighting as a chef, or just trying their best to be their best.   I think of the richness that has been added to my life by knowing people who were illiterate, people who would love nothing more than to be able to read but who’s circumstances have prevented them; these people give so much grace and wisdom to those around them.     There’s much to be said for not judging a book by its cover, or its past, present, and future……

People who read formulate opinions and are able to consider others’ thoughts with a little more equilibrium.  People who read can express themselves in ways that build their confidence, which comes in real handy for those who are shy.    People who read can talk about a variety of things with others, they have the opportunity to dream and let their thoughts take flight with what they’ve read.   They are stimulated  spiritually and mentally.   Not only that, but a reader’s brain undergoes all these great synapses that allows them to stay focused, to pay attention, which is important for children and adults alike.   People who read learn patience, learn how to connect ideas, they learn to take their time to learn.     

Now before there’s an uproar over the value of someone who reads over someone who doesn’t, let me clarify that someone who doesn’t read is not someone who can’t read.   Someone who can’t read probably has more skills and a finer-tuned mind than someone who can read but chooses not to.  What a waste.   I guess I can’t imagine what it would be like to be quite capable of reading, but of not being interested, of not having that fire lit inside. 

The next time you’re reading, or you see someone reading, don’t make the mistake of thinking that reading is a passive, non-engaging, anti-social activity.  There’s alot more going on than what you see, and the benefits to humanity that come from the simple act of reading are endless.  Think about that while you have a look-see at books I’ve loved reading in the past few months. 

 

Oryx and Crake  by Margaret Atwood

A gift from Mr. C., which we brought with us for Ms. Atwood’s personal autograph when we met her last November.  A thrill of a lifetime for me (thank you, Mr. C.) .  I devoured this story, and was not disappointed.

Why Do I Love These People?   by Po Bronson

This book has the capacity to renew your belief in the power of family.   Each story in this book was touching and had something in it to which I could relate.  It’s the kind of book you want to buy for everyone you know.

Night Gardening  by E.L.Swann

I know, it’s a romance.  But it’s not your ordinary romance.  It’s way more sensuous, without being ever being trashy or silly.  I think I found this book at the library book sale, and I liked the cover.  I was surprised by the central characters, who are not your typical main romance characters.   It’s a beautiful, very sensual story of two older and wiser people…..there should be more stories like this.

 

Listening Is an Act of Love : A Celebration of American Life from the StoryCorps Project

Another gift from my sweet Mr. C.  I took this book along with me when the children & I visited PEI in July 2008, to have a reminder of my husband who was still living in Florida at the time.  I would read it at night in the  little by-the-sea cottage that I had rented for the week, while the kids slept,  and I’ve re-read it since then.   Surround yourself with good things, I say.  This book  will be dog-eared, I’m sure….. it already has tea stains on it.  A sign of being loved.   

You’re In Canada Now….. A Memoir Of Sorts   by Susan Musgrave

Another twice-read book……Susan Musgrave is one of Canada’s poets and so far, her life has been veeeerrrryyyy interesting. 

Elsewhere by Gabrielle Zevin

I found this book at the library book sale, read it in two days, then discovered it was a teen fiction.  I don’t know why that mattered, and actually, it doesn’t.  And I’m sorry to admit that, had I known beforehand that it was a teen fiction, I never would have probably picked it up, let alone read it.   So much for not judging a book by its cover, or in this case, its gendre (I think the reason I took it WAS because of its cover!) The story is thought-provoking, the characters endearing, and I would probably read other of Ms. Zevin’s books.

 

Longing  by J.D. Landis

This was one of those $2.00 bargain books at Chapters (which they don’t have anymore….that store really has changed over the past few months…..it’s not so much fun to go there anymore, but that’s another story for another day).  The story intrigued me, and when I began to read it, my intrigue continued to grow.  This is a book that makes you want to learn more and more about what  you’re reading, about the characters (in this case Schumann & Wieke), about the historical places and events that were going on, it makes you want to seek out their classical compositions and find performances of their work on YouTube.  This is a book that you underline passages, because they are so well-written, or they have struck that C chord in your heart.  I will have to re-read this book a second time, but much slower.  The first time, I was reading it through, anxious and wanting to know what was going to happen next.  It was like eating all the chocolates that I could in one sitting, and knowing they tasted good and sweet, but not really getting the chocolate high, you know?  The next time I read this book, I will savour it and take my time to research the historical characters as I come upon them in the book, so that I can have a better context.    

How To Lose Friends & Alienate People:  A Memoir  by Toby Young

OMG! OMG! OMG!  Read the book then see the movie, like Mr. C. did, or see the movie then read the book, like I did.  But do both.  This was a hilarious read, and much deeper and thought-provoking than I thought it would be, after seeing the movie.   Despite all that he says and does, in the end I was cheering for him.  I’m looking forward to reading his next one. 

The Weight of Water  by Anita Shreve

A dramatic account of an historical event on the U.S. east coast, this author has magically woven a very different past and present into a story where crossroads are reached and to continue the journey requires courage and trust. 

 

Homer & Langley  by E.L.Doctorow

Holy moly, what a discovery I’ve made!  When I saw this new book in the New Arrivals section at the library, I quickly nabbed it.  Hot off the presses!   And I was not sorry.  The story itself is fascinating, but I’ll let you read the book and its reviews.   Go on Wikipedia and search for the Collyer Brothers AFTER you’ve read the book.   What entranced me was  E.L. Doctorow’s writing style.  He is an American treasure who  transforms words into works of art.  This was a book where not only did I lose myself in the story, but I found myself reading and re-reading passages because of  the sheer beauty and genius of this writer.     And imagine my delight when I was looking at the book titles in our bookcase at home, and came across E.L. Doctorow’s Sweet Land Stories!  I must have got this book somewhere along the way and shelved it for a rainy day……Ah, would you look at that, it’s raining……

To you, dear reader,  I thank you for taking time out of your day to read my thoughts on reading, and I hope these book recommendations will give you hours of enjoyment and lead you to other writings that bring goodness to your life.  See?  That’s another, lesser-known benefit of reading:  someone is thankful you read their stuff.  

Love,

Chantal

As You Wish

I had alot of fantasy games that I would play when I was a child, and being as I was mostly a solitary kid, I never ran out of imagination to fill my time with.    I had friends, of course (some real, some not), but I was mostly content doing things on my own, letting my creativity and imagination come out however it would.    I remember once playing with paper cut-out dolls (by myself), and I guess I was really good at giving my dolls voices, because when my mother came upon me in the living room, she was sure I was sitting there playing paper dolls with friends (real ones)!  She  told me about that later on in the day, and for some reason, that story stuck.    As an adult, I came to find out that people were worried about me back then, because I was a loner kind of kid; and sure, there were periods of time where I was too alone, but in retrospect, I see that now as being a form of self-preservation from what I was going through at the time as a young girl preyed upon by a vulture.    But no worries, folks, I turned out ok!    At the time, however, I don’t remember feeling lonely, and I don’t remember longing to play with other kids when I was alone.   I just preferred doing my own thing, I suppose. 

One of those “own things ” was playing school.    I liked school, I didn’t love school.   But I looooved playing school at home.  I often converted my bedroom into a classroom, with stuffed animal students, and my little round  formica play-table serving as the Teacher’s Desk.   When my parents bought the corner store, I had a whole basement to play in, and over the years, many parts of that basement were converted into my school space.   I loved playing school so much that on the last day of school, I would bring a garbage bag, gather all the discarded workbooks from my classmates who had better things to think about, and I would drag my loot home, where I would divvy all the papers into piles and prepare my “class”.   This, on the LAST day of school!  Good grief….

Going to friends’  houses and discovering that they loved to play school, too was the greatest!  I’d get ideas from how they did things, how they set things up, what they used for desks, and how they decorated their “classroom”.   My friend  in grade 5 or 6, her name was Darquise, (yes she was real…..),  she was a popular girl, always the teacher’s pet.  So it was a privilege to get invited to her house.  She had five siblings, and part of their basement was converted to a classroom, with real student desks that their dad had obtained from some sale at the school board.  They had it all, the supplies, the decorations on the walls, the blackboard, even the little bell on the teacher’s desk.  I was in heaven.   Darquise, her siblings & I would play til I had to leave for supper, and I’m only sorry I didn’t get to go back more often.  I met Darquise again a dozen years ago, where we ran into each other at  Wal-Mart (surprise), and guess what she is now?  A school principal! 

But that’s not the point of my story.   Little girls who play school don’t all grow up to be school principals.  Some little girls who played school grow up to be government employees with dreams of writing writing writing.   And they have the good fortune of marrying a man who is a heart-reader.   

We’ve just moved from an apartment to a house,  which means Mr. C. & I are having a blast, shopping the classifieds and visiting the bargain stores for some much-needed good used furniture.   Little by little, we figure out what we need the most, then scour the ads, hoping to find THE bargain.  And we usually do.  So as we slowly settle into our little castle, I saw the need for a small desk that might be set up in the kitchen,  like a little office space kind of deal, you know, to put our papers in, pay bills, make lists, a place where we can find our stuff.   We left it at that, and continued our search for some piece of furniture that would fit the bill.  (When you furnish your house this way, as opposed to walking into a furniture store and saying I want this & this & this,  you need patience and the undying faith that something good will turn up if you just wait long enough…..hold on to that thought because it will become important later on in the story).

So I drive up to the house one night after work, and Mr. C’s truck is backed up in the driveway, and there’s this HUGE old-fashioned wooden desk sitting in the back.  It’s like a schoolteacher’s desk from the forties, with three drawers on either side, pull out shelf-y things at the top to write on, and a drawer in the middle.   And brass drawer pulls.  Not cheapy metal, brass.     Think Sherriff Andy Taylor’s desk in the Andy Griffith Show.    It’s very scuffed and the top of it would need some serious refinishing.   But that’s not what I see. 

I see that little girl again, playing school in her room, sitting at her formica table, imagining herself a great teacher to her panda bears and dolls…I see dreams floating out and around, dreams of being someone special, dreams of mattering to someone, dreams of accomplishing good things but not quite knowing how, dreams of creating a life,  long-ago extinguished dreams of following her heart only to find out that her heart wasn’t in it, dreams of writing.  Not the next great novel or bestseller, just writing.  Period. 

“It’s for you.  We can put it in the family room, and you can set yourself up in there.”  He’s come outside to see what I think of this big old piece of furniture.  He thinks I’ll be disappointed in his offering.   Two weeks prior, at the pharmacy  he & his co-workers were renovating , he asked if anyone wanted the old desk up in the bookkeeper’s nook.  Nobody did, it was free for the taking, so he put dibs on it, paying his work buddies some  beer money to help him load this used-up unwanted desk onto his truck.  Two weeks without saying a word, two weeks of holding in this most wonderful surprise.   He thinks I’ll be disappointed with this old beat-up desk that was so big & bulky back in its day that they had to saw off the back legs  just to get it into that bookkeeper’s nook. 

He thinks I’ll be disappointed…..heck, I am so excited that I feel I could pratically haul the thing out myself!   Over and over, as we set it down, as we clean it off, as we position it in the corner in the family room by the French doors so that there’s lots of light, I thank him, over and over.  I can’t come up with anything more profound to say than “This is the best gift anyone has ever given me!”, hoping he can  really feel how much his thoughtfulness means  to me.    At the time, that was all I could articulate, but this is what I was really trying to tell Mr. C.:

You haven’t yet  sought to create any corner of the house as your own, as your domain, your own special place to write.   Between the two of us, you are the writer,  I’m more the putter-downer-of-ideas.   And yet, the first piece of furniture that could serve you as YOUR writing place, you give it to me.   To set up with my things, my books, my pictures, my laptop.  My space.  A room of my own, as Virginia Woolf would say.  

You bring me this beautiful desk, this very used and abused desk, with sticking drawers and wobbly tablets, a desk only a dreamer could love.  A desk to store all my dreams in, all of my school-girl aspirations that grew and eventually dissipated….or maybe those aspirations only clouded up  into a different atmosphere, re-shaped into different purposes.   A desk only a dreamer could love,  loving it with each object she places on it, loving it by filling up drawers, loving it by running her hand over the rough-yet-smooth surfaces while she ponders the past, while she ponders passed the regretful past and into the joyful present. 

I have never received a more meaningful gift from the heart, Mr. C.   The desk is a tangible symbol of who I was before, and who I am now.  It ties you to me in a way that nothing else does.  Had we found this desk together in the classifieds or at a used furniture shop, it would not have the same meaning for me.  The fact that you saw it, you saw its possibilities, and you offered it to me is one of the purest expressions of love.   When you furnish your house this way…when a couple seeks to care for the other more than for the self, it requires patience and faith.  When the motivation is the other person’s joy, it makes patience and faith a piece of cake.   Adjusting to being a couple is not always a piece of cake, but I’m grateful to Him for having given me the patience to wait for you to mosey on into my life, and the wisdom to recognize the gift that you truly are.        

My relationship with Mr. C. is much like my relationship with my desk:  it’s a work-in-progress.  I move things around, I try different approaches, I make mistakes,  I  appreciate it more and more as time goes on.   I see the faults and the quirks (his, mine, AND the desk’s) as part of  the whole, without which it would not mean anything to me.   I get to take my dreams and bring them to new levels of realization.   So no, I won’t be looking to change it, or refinish it, or give it a new look.  If anything needs changing, it’s my own perceptions.   From the moment I laid eyes on my desk, I accepted it as it was, and I love it as it is.   From that early moment when I knew that Mr. C.  and I were true companions, I accepted that moment as it was, and I love him as he is. 

My desk

Class dismissed.

Love, Chantal xoxox

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

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

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

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