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

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

Strawberry Fields Forever

Sometimes, you read a book, thinking it applies to a certain area in your life, and then you let it mull in your heart for a while, and you realize that it really didn’t have anything to do with what you thought it did in the first place.

Last month, I read Mitch Albom’s “For One More Day”.   It’s the story of a man who’s mother has passed away (yes, I seem to be reading alot about death), and how he gets to spend one more day with her and relives key moments in his life.  As I read the book, the concerns I have about divorce and the impact on children came up alot, and that’s where most of my focus was…..I was reading it more as gaining another perspective on how children and adult children perceive and live through divorce.  But the premise of the book is, if you were given one more day with someone you love who has passed away, how would you spend it?

Of course, I immediately thought of my father, and fantasized about all that I would say, picturing a day for him & I to share, making the moments count.  And I thought about this for a long time.  I didn’t think of my mother……not right off the bat.   My father was easy to love…..my mother, well let’s just say I had a harder time being the daughter for her that I think she needed.

When I was a kid, I was abused by a priest, who was a close family friend.  Two years into it, I gathered up my courage and told my mother.  For reasons that I’ll never know, she chose not to do anything about it.   When I told her, she looked at me, she repeated what I had said, and turned away.  That was that.  I never brought it up again, until I was an adult.    I knew this person was still out there and was possibly aggressing other girls, and because I felt responsible (if only I had kept telling all those years ago, maybe other girls would’ve been spared),  I reported him several years ago to police, who then launched an investigation, which resulted in 13 other women coming forward.  There was a preliminary hearing, then the actual court, then the sentencing.  He received 2 years less a day and served about half of that in prison. 

I’m not saying this to garner pity, neither am I ashamed, although it’s not something I go shouting from the rooftops.   What happened to me has certainly impacted my life in ways that I’m still discovering, but it by no means defines who I am.   I don’t see myself as a victim or a survivor, but I do see myself as a fighter.  Even if all I’m fighting are my own demons.         

Prior to the case going to court, my mother had acknowledged what had happened to me, but said she couldn’t remember me telling her about it way back when I was 11.  I think this was one of the hardest things about that whole scene, and I carried so much unreleased anger directed at her for nearly 35 years as a result.  In my eyes,  I always felt that she had chosen to protect him over me, and I could never understand why.    Now that I was a mother myself, I couldn’t imagine being passive and shutting my eyes to something like that. 

But I’m not here to judge her, I’m just stating how her actions (or inactions) made me feel, and how it has affected my sense of worth, because holy mack, if my own mother did not see me as being worthy of protecting, who on earth would?  And how would I ever be able to regain that self-worth on my own, by myself? 

On the Sunday before I was to testify, my mother called me at 5am.  At the time, she lived further north, about 2 hours away….I had been up for a while, thinking about the next day and mentally preparing myself for what lay ahead.   The house was peaceful, everyone still sleeping.  My mother’s voice was soft and quiet, and as she spoke, I could tell she was smiling alot, so as not to cry.   I remember, she said.   She remembered when I told her all those years ago about being abused, that she hadn’t known what to do, and she had prayed so many nights for the abuse to be erased from my memory, hoping that I would just forget about it and move on with my life.   She asked for forgiveness, and added that she didn’t expect any.  At the time, my heart was breaking for me and for my mother, and I had waited so long to hear those words from her that, naturally, I said of course, I forgive you, Mom…..it was a quiet moment, where neither of us cried (she wasn’t a big fan of tears, my mother), and where some ground was gained, some peace sewn up to patch the rips and tears of our mother/daughter coat of love that we had discarded so long ago, but that we unknowingly needed now to keep us warm in the storms that were brewing on the horizon.

I know I was sincere when I forgave her that day, because I knew that the power of forgiveness is not so much for the one who did wrong, its healing power is also for the one who extends forgiveness.  And I so wanted to heal from all of this, from this lifelong burden of resentment and anger.   But in the years that followed that phone conversation with my mother, I still felt such pain about it all, and I was disappointed that my forgiving her wasn’t making me feel better.   I was still so wounded. 

Today would’ve been my mother’s 79th birthday.   She passed away nearly four years ago, six months after my father.  She was a smart and funny woman, but she always had her guard up.   I don’t think she lived the life she wanted and many of her dreams were squashed.   What she said to me that morning, that she hoped I would just forget about it all and move on with my life…..that indicated to me that she had serious wounds of her own that she had forced down deep inside of herself where nobody could find them.   And in that moment of being confronted with the knowledge that someone she had completely trusted betrayed her in a  most despicable way, in that blinding flash that she must’ve had when I said that so-and-so is doing this to me, in that deafening moment, she chose the safety of walking away.  But I don’t think it was to protect him, as I’ve always felt.   I think it was to protect herself, to bury even more whatever hurt she had suffered.  Whatever it was, my revelation to her about being abused would mean she would have to unearth her own demons, and I think it was too much for her to face.

Some of us stay and fight, some of us fly away……both are acts of courage.   

I choose to spend “one more day” with you, Mom.    Let’s go pick strawberries, and you can steady yourself on me as we walk.  I’ll feel your shaking hand on my arm as we make our way to the best spots, and you’ll tell me some jokes to make me laugh.   I’ll tell you about the kids, how they grow so fast.  I’ll tell you that I wish you weren’t missing who I am now,  I think you would like me.  We’ll talk about Dad, and I’ll tell you about finding my true companion.  I’ll complain about my job and you’ll complain about living in a nursing home and we’ll both complain about the mosquitoes in the strawberry fields.   And you’ll listen just like you did, during that last year of your life…. I remember watching you when others would talk to you, you would listen to them like whatever they were saying was the most incredible story you ever heard, your eyes would go wide and you would smile and everybody would feel good.  I know I felt good, feeling that what I said to you mattered.  After filling our baskets,  we’ll drive back, and I’ll turn to you and say, Do you remember when you called me, early that morning, and you asked me to forgive you?  And you’ll look at me with your brown eyes, softer and kind of droopy now  with age, giving you a sad-puppy look.  And pressing your lips together into a smile to stop the tears from coming, you will say: Yes, I remember.    

I’ll put my hand in yours and say:  There is nothing to forgive.    

Now we are both released………

Love, Chantal xoxoxoxo

When Your Brain Speaks to Your Heart

You can’t eat and cry at the same time.   This is good news for me, because I’m not a multi-tasker.  I try not to walk & chew gum at the same time, because I’ve biten my tongue once when I tried.  Anyhow, I discovered this revelation today as I tried to eat a cheese sandwich and cry at the same time.  I was eating because I was hungry after browsing the library this morning, and I was crying because I felt the familiar lump in my throat known as ISMS (pronounced izzmzz), Inadequate Single Mom Spasm.   

Yesterday was my son’s ninth birthday.   We had gone shopping earlier in the week, and he selected an archeology set as his gift.   He’s been hammering at these rocks all week, with his little safety glasses on, so intent and full of purpose, discovering glow-in-the-dark dinosaur bones that he’ll be able to reconstruct.  A regular little Indiana Jones in the making.  The night before his birthday, I set the table with a colourful tablecloth, I criss-crossed multi-coloured garlands over the table and hung them from the ceiling, I blew up balloons & attached them to his chair.  I had found a cute stuffed puppy, to remind him of his little speech he was currently writing for school (about a boy who wants a dog & who finds ways to earn money to buy one), and being that the stuffed puppy would be a reminder of me, I spritzed it with a little bit of Nina perfume, the one he & I discovered one day at the drugstore (http://crrz07.wordpress.com/2007/09/18/daughter-of-eve-daughter-of-desire/).  I signed a birthday card, and set it at his place at the table, beside the wrapped puppy.   

He was thrilled when he saw the display in the morning…..he unwrapped the small gift and pressed the stuffed dog close to his chest, and immediately recognized the scent.  I thought to myself “That scent will live on in his memory and remind him of me….” just as Elizabeth Arden’s Bluegrass scent triggers memories for me of my own mother.   He read the birthday card aloud and smiled at my good wishes for him.  P was even more thrilled when I came to the table singing               ”Bonn-e fêt-e, P…..”  and bearing a stack of crêpes drowned in maple syrup, with a candle shaped into the number nine stuck in the middle.   He thought a while about his wish and blew out his candle.   We feasted on the rich breakfast, got ready for school and work, and off we went into the most perfect winter day.  As he brushed the snow from the car, P commented that the mild weather was God’s birthday gift to him (it’s been really cold this week).  

So I dropped him off at school, wished him a great day.   He was going to a junior hockey game that night with G and their father & stepmom.   P now lives with me every week,  G continues to live one week with me, one week with M.   My son goes to his father’s every other weekend.    We’ve decided to give this a try for a little while.  In any case, this weekend, the kids are with their father.  Needless to say, I thought all day yesterday of my little guy, who’s growing into this funny, sweet, and oh-so-intuitive young boy. 

So why the crying, you ask?  I know, I have so much to be grateful for.  I have no need for tears.  But when I came home from the library today, my daughter had called & left a message.  I called back to their father’s cell, thinking she had called from that phone.  M answered after several rings, all out of breath, informing me in his annoyed tone that I think is reserved especially for me that he was at the skating rink playing hockey with P, that G was at home with Stepmom and probably had called me from the landline phone.  Oh, I said.  Sorry. 

I call up G, and she happily informs me that she & L are getting the place ready for Patrick’s surprise birthday, with decorations and a pirate cake….That’s wonderful, I say, blinking back tears (why are you crying, you silly goat?).  She says his party will be great etc etc etc, but I don’t hear anymore what she’s saying.  I’ll see you tonight at P’s hockey game, Mom!  Love you!  And off she went……

I tried to multi-task by eating & crying & thinking.  The thoughts in my head ping-ponged from my heart to my brain:

I’m so glad he’s having a real birthday party.  What do you mean, a real birthday party?  I wish I could’ve given him a real birthday party with little friends.  What you give to him is just as real as what M&L give him.   I wish I was there to celebrate with them.  I wish, I wish, I wish…..(brain-eyes rolling) Ok, so they have more time, more money, more energy, more space, more people to help in the caregiving of the kids.   Don’t turn this into a competition of who gives more, because you will lose.  Not because you have less, even though you do, but because the anger and helplessness that you feel in the face of their abundance, the guilt that you allow to STILL hound you, all this shifts your focus from what is important and serves only to keep you far from grace.  What is important is that you are his mother.  And what you give to him is just as wonderful and memorable for him as all that he receives at M & L’s.   And you owe it to him, to his sister, to continue to be the mother that they love.  The one who holds her head high, who can and always does what’s right by her kids.  No guilt.  

Now stop crying and eat your sandwich, I’m hungry……

Quiet Hero

I came across this poem, in honour of soldiers’ wives, written by Kathleen Mills of Savannah, Georgia.  It was published in Canadian Living magazine this month, and as I read it, I thought about all the people who are separated from their loved one, because of work, circumstances, sickness, death……and who carry on with the joy of living despite the void created by the One who is away.   I don’t know any military families, and those husbands and wives left behind have great courage.  So do those whose loved ones are miles away in hospital, or receiving cancer treatment, or starting a new job in a new city far away.   I think of my parents in the final year of their married life, who were separated because of illness and hospitalization and eventually death, and who’s love for each other shone through so bright.   I wish I could tell them how much their life as a couple brings meaning and peace to my own life now……So on this Day of Hearts, I thought I’d reproduce the poem here to share with you. 

QUIET HERO

by Kathleen Mills

She wakes very early, he’s leaving today,

She will stand tall and proud as he’s walking away.

He glances back warmly at his children and wife,

Knowing they will bravely carry on with their life.

Her strength and her courage only one understands,

He is walking away with her heart in his hands.

For he knows that without it he would be lost,

But they both know freedom comes at a cost.

She walks away holding her children so close,

Swallowing tears for the one she loves most.

This quiet hero does not walk into war,

She soldiers on behind her front door.

She will move through her life the wind at her back,

Determined to keep her family on track.

Her tears fall in silence while she lies in her bed,

Her fear is right there but nothing is said.

She will ask that no medals be pinned to her chest,

Her husband’s safe return her only request.

Few understand her commitment, her life,

She is the quiet hero, the brave Soldier’s wife.

 

(print by Alfred Gockel at Art.Com)

May those you love know that they have your heart……..

Love, Chantal xoxoxo 

Daughter of Eve, Daughter of Desire

What happens when the father of American literature collides with an Italian designer of elegance & sophistication in Northern Ontario?

P & I went to the drugstore on Saturday, to print some photos.  In order to get to the print centre, we had to walk through the fragrance department, with its gorgeous displays of flacons and scents, and beautiful young women standing at the ready, samples and smiles doled out with equal enthusiasm.  I love fragrance counters.  All the expensive scents that I’ll never buy but still get to try out, that feeling of being worldly and sophisticated,  being slow & deliberate in my meanderings, looking, picking up one bottle & putting it down, then moving on to another that catches my eye & spritzing it on my wrist….then waiting, and letting the scent waft around me.  Closing my eyes and going “mmmm”…..then walking away, to the chagrin of the salesgirl who thought she’d be making a sale…..but no!  Anyways, I’m getting carried away here…..

As we were walking through the fragrance department, we happened upon the display for Nina Ricci’s new perfume, aptly called Nina.   I would buy it just for the beautiful bottle it comes in:

 P & I were so enchanted with the display & the colours, we actually ooo’d out loud.  I picked up a bottle & spritzed some on, and I immediately fell in love.   Not being familiar with the concept of testers, P was shocked that I did this, until I explained to him that I wasn’t doing anything illegal by spritzing on perfume from a tester.  I showed him the tester sticker on the bottle; he nodded his understanding, but I could see that the more he learned about the world, the more he found adults hard to figure out (he discovered this week that I am really Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy).  Anyhow, I spent the whole day smelling Nina-licious….even the kids kept snuggling into me every chance they got to inhale this apple-musky-vanilla scent….

So what does the new Nina Ricci fragrance have to do with Mark Twain?  Probably not alot, really, except that the fragrance Nina is inspired by Fille d’Ève, created in 1952 by Madame Ricci, and I’ve just finished reading  Eve’s Diary,  Mark Twain’s witty interpretation on how Eve might have lived her first days in Eden.  A romantic masterpiece if ever I’ve read one.  Written about 100 years ago, it’s thought to be Twain’s posthumous love letter, to cope with the grief of losing his wife.  That, in and of itself, is reason to read the story.  

In the Christian tradition, Eve is the one who ate the apple, who tempted Adam, who also ate the apple, thereby setting in motion the concept of original sin, and the whole world went to hell in a handbasket from there.  Or did it?  I think Eve gets a bad rap from humans.  She was created with desire, that’s part of woman’s nature.  The apple she ate is her fearless daring at satisfying her desires.  But she couldn’t have known desire if she had not experienced loss.   Only from loss does one feel desire.  And because loss manifests itself as a wound that must heal,  you can only heal by desiring to love again. 

Eve’s Diary is about a woman having a difficult time adjusting to her surroundings and dealing with loss.  Sound familiar?  Mark Twain could’ve called it Chantal’s Diary, or Philomena’s Diary, or Sarah’s Diary, or Everywoman’s Diary…..you get my drift.    In reading Eve’s Diary, I was reminded of my own journey through a marriage that ended in divorce, at my own bewilderment and sorrow at wondering where I went wrong, then making the even more sorrowful discovery that I had actually lost myself in the process.  

To love again…..that’s something I desire, most certainly, and more than I care to admit.  The loss of love is something I need to heal from.  And so I suppose that having experienced this loss, the way to healing it is to desire to love again.  Which I do.  I do desire to love again, as opposed to what I used to think, which was that I wasn’t worthy of loving anyone, let alone be loved by someone.  So that’s part of the healing.  Good.  I’m on my way. 

However (and you knew this was coming), some losses require a little more healing than others.  My mother passed away a few years ago, and the last year or so of her life was the most gentle time I had with her.   The preceding 36 years were not that great, marred by events in my childhood that rocked the house, ours and the Lord’s.   Some aftershocks are still felt after all these years, but they’re minor now.  I am, after all, an adult.   Thirty-some years is a long time though, to be carrying around hurt and rage.   I lost my mother physically, yet it’s not that loss that I find I need to heal from the most.  It’s my sense of value and worth as a daughter, as a child.  I wanted to matter to my mother, that I was worth protecting.  I wanted to feel that in her eyes, I was a shining star.  That I mattered to her more than anything that she had going on at the time.  

 

When I look at the relationships with the men in my life, with my friends, with my sisters, with my children especially,  I see how I’m trying to find a little bit of the mother I lost in that 30-year time span.  Subconsciously, I’m looking to be special to someone.  That sounds really pathetic, wimpy, and kind of self-centered.   And I’m sure if another woman would tell me this, that she wants to be special to someone, I’d probably frown, raise an eyebrow and think “We’re all special, you ninny, now get a grip and move on!”  I wouldn’t tell her that, of course.  Let someone else burst her bubble.  Because as much as that might sound weak or whatever, it’s kind of courageous to be so openly (stupidly?) vulnerable.   

If I would send a secret to PostSecret, that’s what I would write on my postcard:  I need to feel that I’m special to someone.    On the postcard, there would be a picture of a mother from the ’50s, all smiling, in a fabulous dress & apron, a freshly-baked pie in one hand, a bible in the other, and her back turned to her daughter.   The daughter has this look of longing in her eyes as she looks to her mother to give her sustenance….just a little. 

I miss my mother with all my heart.  That last year was our year to forgive and give love.  I don’t begrudge her the choices she made, but I am still angry and hurt.   The discovery of the year?  Even though she’s gone, the rage at the emotional losses can still heal.   They heal with my desire to love again.   

Just like Eve.  By eating the apple, she had the courage and desire to live the pain as well as the joy, she listened deeply & heard the whisperings to love again.  

 Love, Chantal xoxox         

Sweet, But Not Made of Sugar

  

Saturday, it poured.  I mean, really poured.  Beautiful, big fat drops of rain coming down in sheets.  I walked to the library, and my jeans were soaked to the knees.  It was a great feeling to get home, change into some dry clothes, throw the balcony doors open so I could hear the rain as I made soup & grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch.   I watched movies, did some reading, painted my toenails, and generally puttered around the apartment, while listening to the rain.   I’m trying real hard not to let loneliness get to me, and sometimes I’m good at warding it off, but sometimes I’m not.   Monday morning, I dropped the children off at their father’s.  By Wednesday, I was dreading coming home to an empty place (and this was after having supper with my friends)….Thursday, I came home from work, had supper & then watched the light change in my apartment as the sun went down; I couldn’t muster the energy to do anything more than that.  Friday night, I took myself to Chapters & stayed til closing, just to be around other people.   And now another week without the children has gone by, and I’ve survived.   I’ll be picking up the kids in the morning, and I’m off work to spend the last week of summer with them before school starts. 

It’s not that I don’t have anyone to hang out with….I could call my sister or one of my friends.  And it’s not that I’m choosing to be by myself, either.  It’s more like I feel I need to be, because I suppose I’m in a sad mode and don’t want to bring other people down, and I don’t really feel like talking, being as I talk to people all day at work.   As I was driving home from work on Friday night, I thought about how, when you’re in a good relationship, you have someone there to hold you up a little when you’re feeling shaky; but when you’re alone, you are your own main support.  You can only receive so much from friends and family, in the end it’s up to you to prop yourself up and give to yourself what you need.   I guess it’s better than being in a bad relationship, where you don’t have support from the person who you should be getting it from. 

Sometimes, what I’d like is for someone to just be there, no talking required, just another presence so that I don’t feel so alone.    Which is why I’m really looking forward to getting a dog!  

See, I started this post, wanting to talk about rain and my mom, and I went off on this Lonely Girl tangent…..So, when it was pouring rain on Saturday, it brought me back to when I was about 4 or 5 years old.  My father had an Econoline van that he outfitted for us to go camping in, with seats that doubled as beds, a removable table & storage space under the seats.   One rainy day, my mom took me to the van parked in our driveway, and we went in & lay down on the seat/beds on either side of the van.    She told me to close my eyes and to listen to the raindrops falling on the roof.  It’s the best way to fall asleep, she’d say, to the sound of rain.    I did this for a few minutes, but then I opened my eyes just a little, and saw  that she had fallen asleep.   I took out my Crayolas & colouring book from inside the storage space under the seat & kept myself busy until she woke up.  It wasn’t very long,  I think she just needed to nap.   This might have been after she had gone through health difficulties and was back home after being hospitalized for what seemed to me to be a very long time.  In her need to get some rest, she gave me a wonderful memory….I can still hear the rain on the roof of the van, I can still smell my Crayolas, and I still feel that quietness as I watched her sleeping.

There, I can add “Reminiscing” to my Lonely Chasers list. 

Love, Chantal xoxoxo 

Butterflies In My Stomache

Have you noticed the Monarchs this year?  They’re huge!  Big as bats, and their size just adds to their delicate beauty as they flit and float in the sunshine.  All summer long, I’ve noticed that there are lots of butterflies this year.  Maybe it’s just me, but it seems that every day that I’ve been outside, at work, at the beach with the kids, anywhere,  I’ve seen at least one huge Monarch butterfly.   Remarkable.

I haven’t written in a while.   That’s not true……I’ve actually written alot of drafts (17 to be exact) on different things, but I’m having a hard time putting my thoughts down, or at least in a way that makes some sense to others other than me.   So I haven’t felt that I’ve written anything worthy enough to post on here. 

Until I started reading Paulo Coelho’s book, Maktub, on the weekend….it’s like his writing sets me off on these tangents where I reflect and can’t help but put the book down after reading just a few passages, and think think think….. 

Until I saw this on Amy Archer’s site this morning, and was inspired once again by her photos:  http://www.archerfoto.com/photoblog/index.php?showimage=251

And so I had to write.

So what is the relation between Paulo’s book & Amy’s photo, you might ask?  Well, Maktub is a collection of wise, soulful thoughts that he’s put together, like short anecdotes that you read over and over and find a different meaning each time.   And Amy’s photos are wisdom & soul in visual form.   I get to page 18 of Maktub (which means ”It is written”) and I read the following (which I’ve loosely translated to English, as I’m reading the French translation of the book):

Imagine a caterpillar.  It spends a large part of its existence looking up at the birds flying, and becomes indignant of its own destiny and of its form.  “I am the most contemptible of creatures, it thinks, ugly, repugnant, condemned to crawl on the earth.” 

One day, however, Nature asks it to weave a cocoon.  There it is, all scared:  never has it woven a cocoon.  Thinking its constructing its own tomb, it prepares itself to die.   Even though, up to then, it had been very unhappy with its lot in life, it wails again to God:  “Just when I thought I was finally accustomed to it, God, You take away from me the little that I have!”  Unhopeful, it shuns itself in its cocoon and waits for the end.

A few days later, it finds itself transformed into a superb butterfly.  It can fly in the sky, and is admired.  It is amazed at the meaning of Life and at God’s plan. 

I’m reading this very simple text, about something that isn’t new to me, I mean I KNOW how butterflies become butterflies.    I had never considered how a caterpillar might see its own life, though, assuming caterpillars can contemplate this to begin with.   I believe they can.   The caterpillar crawls along on its own way, and one day it’s compelled to do something it has never done before, something it has never been prepared to do, yet it feels this force that drives it to go on and weave this cocoon.   And despite its fears, or maybe because of its fears, it resigns itself to its destiny.  

I’ve sort of been caterpillary lately.   A sad, pathetic, crying, green-with-pink-and-yellow-fuzzies caterpillar:

Being superficial and nasty with myself about my appearance (shallow) and feeling not-too-good about myself physically.   

Resentful about things that happened too long ago and that I thought I had dealt with, but which seem to rear their ugly heads once again, about things in my childhood, about things that contributed to my marriage breaking down.    

Wondering, and being really ticked off:   ”OK, which grieving phase am I in now, after 3-4 years?  And shouldn’t  the grieving intensity become less, not more, as time goes on?  Should I not have moved on to something else at this point?”.    (When I say grieving, I was talking about grieving for my parents, but when I reread it, I realize I’m grieving for my parents AND for my marriage, all of which are gone).  

Missing my parents, and finding myself thinking of my mom more than I ever did, in ways I never did, alternating between being so angry with her I could spit, and then flipping the switch to wanting her to hold me like I don’t remember her EVER doing, really, but I still want to curl up in her arms and smell her Bluegrass perfume while she’s wearing her sleeveless, A-line turquoise party dress with the sparkly rhinestones sewn on the bodice. 

Feeling denied by Love,  trying to turn away from someone who gives me something that may happen only once my life, and yet is so unattainable.  And feeling so lonely as a result, the kind of lonely that makes me hide under the covers & hope the feeling passes (it doesn’t, and I gotta get up because the children need breakfast)…..And by the way, Dolly Parton, love is NOT always like a butterfly, it’s more like a heartcrushing-rollercoasting-elephant.  But that doesn’t make a pretty song, does it….. (Love is like an elephant, A heartcrushing, rollercoasting behemoth, A rare and brutish thing…..) I think I like Dolly’s version better….. 

Resentful at M for putting his life back together after separating, so much better than I have….and maybe a little sad that he really didn’t love me back.  That’s a hard, unexpected one to get through.    

Regretful at the sadness my children are experiencing at living with divorced parents.  That’s the most predictable but hardest one to get through.   

And did I mention a scaredy-cat caterpillar?  I’ve been looking for a house for over a year now, and all of a sudden I seem to get cold-feet, thinking I can’t really possibly own a home and care for it all by myself without declaring bankruptcy at some point, can I?   Then there’s the dog (still imaginary but becoming more & more of a reality) that the kids & I want and dream of and talk about and plan for, because I really need a dog in my life right now,  a living being that I can transfer some of my sadness to and give the surplus of love that I have in my heart.   And it would be good for the kids, too.   And the volunteer work that I really want to do with an organization that I think is really important to the community, who left a message for me nearly 2 weeks ago, asking to call them if I’m still interested in doing volunteer work with them (YES!  I AM!)…..I still haven’t called them……The What Ifs,  Are You Nuts, and You Can’t Afford This, they all  dance their little jigs in my head to the rhythm of  Be Happy With What You Got & Forget Those Silly Dreams, You Big Chicken.   

So you get the picture, it’s the Feeling-Sorry-For-Myself Syndrome.

Maybe being afraid and yet abandoning yourself to what lies ahead, without knowing what lies ahead and trusting that what lies ahead is for the best is a mark of courage and faith.  Both of which I think I’m seriously lacking, but maybe I’m more courageous  & closer to (worthy of?) God than I think.   Like Coelho’s caterpillar.  Maybe Nature is asking me (just like it’s asking every other human being on the planet) to do something I’ve never done before, to follow my path and trust.  Because I was created a free being.  Maybe all this emotional merry-go-round is just me weaving my cocoon with silken threads of hope.   

So that I can be strong enough to fly.          

Love, Chantal x0×00x

A Love Story

 

These are my parents, Victor and Yvette.  They were married back on August 10, 1949, and were married 54 years. 

It’s one of my favourite pictures of my folks, taken shortly before their wedding day, when they were both  20 years old.   Aren’t they just gorgeous?!?!    They look like movie stars of the day…..and you can see the joy and optimism they felt at starting their lives together .  

I love looking at photographs, and over the years, they would serve as conversation starters with my mother…..I’d use them as an excuse to talk with her after we’d had an argument or when things were difficult between us, when neither of us seemed to be able to bridge that gap and had a hard time saying Hello without starting a nuclear attack!   In those moments, asking her to tell me about someone in a picture or about an event that was captured on film was a way for us to extend an olive branch.   Of course, she & I would look at photos in an atmosphere of calm and happiness, too…..now that she’s gone, and as I sit alone, pouring over old photographs, I can  hear her describing the memories that lived inside her.  She was a great storyteller, my mother was, very expressive and funny…..that’s something I had never really thought about before writing this, about how great her stories were, made even greater because of how she wove her memories and her laughter into each of them.   I love her in this picture, she’s forever a strong, happy young woman with a curly head full of dreams of life and love with my father.     

My father, on the other hand, was a quiet man of few words, and when I would show him photographs of him & my mother,  he would look at the photo in his hand, nod and smile and say Um hmm.   After a while, I developped a sense of being able to read his thoughts and feelings about something, without him saying anything, and I could see how his eyes would light up with the good memories that those photos brought back.    My father, the quiet one, is forever the young man in this photograph, expressing volumes with his broad smile, proud and happy to be with my mother, a man building his dream of family, work and community.

As I was taking a shot of this picture of my parents with my digital camera, I was focusing and zooming in & out, trying to get the best frame possible to post it onto here…..and as I was doing that and looking at my parents’ image on my digital camera, the image would, of course move around a little as I was adjusting, and it made it seem like I was seeing a home movie of my parents, like they were actually moving….it was kind of strange, and when I realized it, I continued to do it on purpose, just to see them move, like they were still here…..

Je vous aime beaucoup.

Chantal xoxoxo