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

Wolf Cub, Do Your Best

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love,

Chantal xoxoxo

To Lighten Your Darks, Wash In Courage

tr.v. re·lin·quished, re·lin·quish·ing, re·lin·quish·es

1. To retire from; give up or abandon.

2. To put aside or desist from (something practiced, professed, or intended).

3. To let go; surrender.

4. To cease holding physically; release

Today is the Autumnal Equinox, the day is as long as the night.  Perfect balance. 

In a week, it will mark five years since my Dad passed away.   Before we headed back to our hometown for his funeral, I remember my sisters saying that our father had gathered everyone together at a time of the year when Nature was at her most spectacular.  It was like he was giving us these rich colours of the season to show us that our joy at having him as our father was as meaningful as the pain and sorrow we felt at losing him.  Perfect balance. 

When you think of courage, who do you see?  Courageous people don’t think or talk about courage; every day, they live it.  They don’t pray for it or look to others to give them courage.   They just live as they do.  They actually do something on a regular basis that makes them courageous. 

Like getting up early every day to go to work and provide for their family.   Without complaining.    Like being generous with their time and money.   Without even thinking of being thanked or expecting recognition.    Like being up to their necks in financial hardship.   Without letting the stain of neediness tarnish their own self-respect.   Like having rock-steady faith in the darkest of journeys.   Without giving creedence to false arrogance and delusions of being able to do it alone. 

My Dad was very much a man of courageous relinquishment, if you will.   For as long as I’ve known him, he’s had to let go of a part of himself in order to live as he felt God asked of him.  And if you asked him if he was courageous, he would’ve laughed and said any courage he had didn’t come from him.   It would be easy to think that he lost it all, his health, his money, and in the end, his life for nothing.    That would be true if he gave up.  But he never did, he never let it show if he did.  Any darkness that he found himself in was befriended and turned over to God.  Probably not in that exact moment when he felt most vulnerable, like in that moment when your eyes are unaccustomed to the dark after the switch is thrown.  It always seems darker than it really is.   I’m sure there were times when my Dad was scared sh*tless at what he faced.  I never knew if he was.  He always carried on, like a wounded soldier on the battlefield, determined and sustained by unknown forces, to seek the light at the end, to complete his tour for the good of those who fought alongside him. 

It’s not the big, tough loudmouths of the world who make a difference.    The real heroes are not the politicians or the celebrities who have it all,  yet who have nothing.   It’s the quiet, ordinary people who sit beside you at work, the ones who serve you coffee, the ones who make sure their elderly neighbour ate supper that night.  It’s the ones who give a damn about that one kid in their class who everybody else has written off as a “problem child”, it’s the ones who give up their own free time to deliver Christmas hampers during a blizzard.   It’s the ones who stand up to the meanies of the world by offering them a helping hand or a genuine “Good morning”. 

So when my father had filled all of his days with unsung acts of courage, when he had relinquished all that he had been given,  when his light came into perfect balance with his dark, it seems now, in retrospect, that he truly began to live, even though he had passed away. 

I would give anything to be with my father again, and I can’t.    There’s too much I still didn’t know about him, there’s so much that I can’t remember and I can just kick myself for not paying closer attention when he WAS here, there’s so much I want to say to him now that I’m older.  This is my relinquishment, part of what I have to gradually let go of. 

As time goes on, and memories (although always present) become more like still shots instead of the moving pictures they once were, the light of joy edges closer in balance to the darkness of grief. 

Love to you, Dad

Chantal xoxoxo

You’ll Never Walk Alone

The pain of losing you does not get easier, the space between grief and joy widens, but the pain of it only becomes more pronounced as I get older.  And I seem to need you more, when in fact, I should be needing you less.  Or at least that’s how it should work with parents and children.  Maybe not.  Maybe we need our parents more as we age. 

Today is Father’s Day, the kids are with their dad, they’ve spent the week preparing gifts and homemade cards.    I miss making you cards and homemade gifts.  I took advantage of a little time alone and ran some errands.  Stopped at a red light, I thought of you and  was overwhelmed by this sudden attack of tears and sorrow, the likes of which I haven’t felt in a while.   

When I was maybe four or five years old , there was a small carnival that had come to town, and you brought me to the carousel.  I don’t remember going on any other rides, only that one.  I picked a brown horse, and you helped me up, then you stepped off the platform and watched me from behind the gate.  I waved and smiled my biggest smile for you, my dad, and held on tight to the pole as the music began to play and the horses galloped mechanically in the sunshine. 

But as soon as you were out of sight, my expression changed.  I became serious and focused, my head held high, my nose in the air, feeling like I was a princess who didn’t need to be waving to anyone.   My eyes gleaned over the other parents standing around, and with my flat gaze, I was wanting to show everyone that I was a big girl, I didn’t need anyone.  I was riding the carousel and doing it on my own. 

And then I would come around to where you were standing, and as soon as you entered my field of vision, I reverted back to that little girl, my heart swelled at seeing my dad, and I would giggle and laugh, waving at you, and basking in your delight at seeing me go round and round on my horse.   But as soon as I couldn’t see you anymore, I would become Ice Princess once again, and I played this game for the duration of the ride, reveling in this skewered sense of power and at the security in being the apple of your eye.

Today, driving and having a mini-meltdown in the car as I thought of you, everything was whizzing by real fast, crashing together, the carousel, your smile, growing up, then whoosh….I was beside you as you died, holding your blue fingers, watching your eyes lose their sparkle in quick little bursts until there was nothing, until you were gone.   I realized how that simple, joyful experience of riding the carousel has defined much of my relationship with you.   

In your presence, I could not contain my joy, and while I was away from you, I felt I had to maintain a certain coolness, to show myself that I could move through this world without you.  So that you would be proud of me.   On the road you and I have travelled together, and especially since you passed away, I think that girl on the carousel and her dad watching her go has come to represent more and more the essence of our relationship.  It’s very strange to think back to a fleeting moment in your life and realize that it means so much more than what it appeared on the surface.  Not only the memory of that moment has stayed with me all these years, but the feeling of it, the emotions I had inside of me at that time, they are very present, still very present. 

I have never lost that feeling of being your little girl, and as I reach back into my treasures of memories, I’m four years old again, getting off the horse,  hugging you and feeling my cheek against your black five-o’clock-shadow, holding your hand, walking away from the carousel.  We were practicing how to let go and stay connected.   In that carousel moment, all was good in the world.   

Your courage and your faith are always with me, even when I feel I’m undeserving of such a humble man’s gift to his daughter.  I wish you peace, Dad.  You are the best Dad in the universe.   

Love,

Chantal xxoxoxoxoxo

 

 

Spring Cleaning, Anyone?

Sleeping dreams are very strange, and I’m sure you can give them any meaning that you want if you think about it long enough.   But I think dreams are necessary to help us sort out our waking lives.  If we pay attention, it’s interesting what we dream about….. 

 A little over a month ago, I had this dream:

I was in my old house, the one I shared with my ex.   It was a two-storey semi-detached house that we had built, with the bedrooms upstairs.  In my dream,  I was sleeping in the back room, which was G’s room in reality, but in my dream it was just a bedroom.  The bedroom next to it was P’s room, and in my dream he was a baby, although the dream was actually taking place in the present.  P was in a playpen in his room.  He fell out and hugged the floor, saying “maison”, which is French for house.  My father (who died 4 years ago) was in the master bedroom, and he was at the age he was when he passed away, around 73.   In the dream, my dad was lying in the bed, but the bedframe was not as it had been in real life.  In real life, it was a maple sleigh bed (I miss that bed).  In the dream it was just an ordinary bedframe, nothing special.  I was still in the back room, but I could see my father in the master bedroom down the hall, sort of like if I was floating around, yet remaining in one place.  I remember thinking in my dream “They must have taken the sleigh bed to the new house.”  The “they” who must’ve taken my the sleigh bed away was my ex-husband and his soon-to-be-wife (or the movers).   This helped me to put my dream in a time sequence:  I was in the house, which was no longer mine, at the time that my ex-husband and his soon-to-be-wife were moving into their newly-built home, an event which happened over a year ago now.   Back to the dream:  I’m still upstairs in the back bedroom, I can hear my ex-husband downstairs.  The children were very young in my dream, P was a baby, and G was about 2 or 3 years old.  I don’t recall seeing G in my dream, just hearing her chattering away.   In my dream, I can “see” my son, P, and my father, I can only hear my ex-husband and my daughter, G. 

This is not a recurring dream, I’ve only dreamt it once, on February 3rd of this year (I write my dreams down in my journal sometimes, that’s how I know when I dreamt it…..it’s not because I have this incredible memory).  Personally, I think this dream is LOADED with metaphors and significance about my divorce, and about the guilt I will probably always feel at leaving.  It’s also about loss, loss of special people, loss of heart (because home is where your heart is), loss of special objects.   I’m sure you can add your own analysis of my dream……

I do often dream of my old house, of my old life transposed over my present life, but I think this is my psyche helping me to let go of situations and events that no longer exist.  It’s my soul’s way of preparing me for a new life, which not by chance, happens to coincide with Spring and rebirth, during the season of Passion….(ok I just reread that and it sounds like I’m telling you I’m pregnant, but I’m not.  Just so you know. )  The new life that I’ve embarked on involves taking the hand of my true companion, and keeping what I need from the past as I let go of an old life that no longer sustains. 

Maybe it’s not so much about the losses themselves, maybe it’s more about how much room you have in your house to store them.    

Love,

Chantal xoxo

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 

As my old Pappy used to say….

My father passed away in September, 2003.    A year or so ago, I had a dream about my dad.  This was a good dream, and it was the first dream of him that I remember having after he died.   In the dream, my sisters, their children, and myself are gathered in a house I’ve never been in.  We are all in the living room.   I see someone in the kitchen and walk from the living room to the kitchen, which is this old-fashioned looking kind of kitchen, with  tall cupboards painted ugly dark green colours, and this ceiling light that gives off a sickish yellow tinge.  The someone in the kitchen is a man, dressed like James Gardner in Maverick, with a white shirt & black tie thingie….

This is exactly what he looked like, except he had his hat on, and no gun.  And no badge.   And the best part was that it was my Dad, not James Garner.   First he was sitting at the kitchen table, and he was smiling.  My dad had a great smile.  Some people, when they smile, their faces hardly move or change.  Not my dad.  When he smiled his brown eyes lit up, and he had these great smile-wrinkles around his eyes, deep ones so that you could tell that he was smiling.  So anyways, my dad dressed as James Garner in Maverick is sitting at the table smiling at me.  I turn towards the living room, to see what the others are doing, but they’re busy talking about my dad.   I want to tell them that Dad is here, but I’m too happy and don’t want to break the magic.     I realize no one can see my dad, except for me, because some family members look at me and I know they can see the kitchen table, and that if they could see my dad, they would be coming into the kitchen, too.   

I don’t remember my father speaking in this dream, just smiling.   He gets up from his chair, stands up and walks out, tall & proud in his Maverick look.  And he’s not limping.  My father had a very pronounced limp, as he had broken his leg in too many places during a construction accident when he was about 45 years old.  But in my dream, he walked without his tell-tale limp.  He walked out the back kitchen door, and I watched him go.  In my dream I returned to my family in the living room, but as I’m talking to them, it’s as if they can’t hear me.  They see me, they’re smiling at me as they carry on their conversations, but they can’t hear what I’m saying.  I don’t remember what I’m telling them, just this feeling that I wanted to share this most incredible sighting of my father. 

I don’t remember what was going on in my life at the time that I had that dream.  But I do know that the dream made me feel peaceful, and reminded me of watching the Rockford Files with my dad when I was a kid.   

But last night, I had another Dad dream.   I woke up around 1:3oam and tossed and turned til about 5am, trying not to worry about the things I was worrying about, but not doing too good a job of it.   Anyhow, I finally slept a little in the early morning hours and had THIS dream:

I’m sitting at my desk at work, and I’ve got my telephone receiver held to my ear, except I’m not talking.  Then I can hear my father’s voice on the phone, but he’s not talking to me, he’s talking to someone in English, telling them that he can’t handle this anymore, that he’s too lonely, and that he needs to get out of the nursing home that he’s in.   He doesn’t say so, but I come to know that he’s too lonely because he misses my mother (in reality, my father passed away six months before my mother did).  My heart breaks as I hear my father plead with a total stranger to rescue him from his despair.  As I’m listening, I’m berating myself for not visiting my father more often, and when was the last time that I had called him?  I couldn’t remember and berated myself for THAT as I frantically leafed through my address book to find my father’s phone number so that I could call him and reassure him that it would be ok, I would come by & visit.   As I’m going through my address book, I see that I don’t have a phone number for him and I berate myself for THAT, I mean come on!  Your father has been in a nursing home for several months and you don’t even have his phone number?!?  (In reality, my father did not live in a nursing home).  As I dumbly stare at the little blank space where my father’s phone number should be, a voice tells me, You can’t call your father, he’s dead.  At this point, my dream propels me into a kitchen where my ex-husband is sitting there with me & the kids, and I’m telling him this strange occurrence of hearing my father on the phone & when I tell him that I couldn’t call my father anyways because he’s dead, my ex-husband gets up from the table a little green around the gills.  

Today, in the real world, I had a semi-confrontation with my ex-husband, which was resolved and everyone’s happy again.   But this latest dream of my father left me feeling bereft and missing him very much.    I’m not sure if I’m dealing with feelings of guilt about my dad, about not having done enough to help him, especially in the last years of his life.  I know that my sisters and I all did our best to be the daughters our parents needed us to be, I have no doubt about that.    I don’t know if it has anything to do with the last month of his life, when he was in severe pain, and one night, when I was visiting him in hospital, he told me to bring my truck up the front & take him out of there…..he was obviously delusional, but it was hard seeing him that way.   I could probably be analyzing this forwards and backwards &  come up with many explanations.   I don’t know if the fact that my ex was in there indicates that I still have guilty feelings to work through because of the divorce, as I separated a few months after my dad died.   

Then again, maybe this dream wasn’t about me, maybe it was about my Dad’s painful experiences that are stuck somewhere and need to be acknowledged.  I don’t know.  I’m not a dream interpreter, but I do think that we receive important information through our dreams.   And I think that our grief is expressed in our dream life as much as in our waking life.   I’m just not sure if this is supposed to be a sign of some sort.  I’m paying attention, so I’m guessing that it will reveal itself in time……

Peace,  Chantal   xoxox

  

Hugs

  

Four years today…..it doesn’t get easier, living without you.  The intensity changes, that’s all.   In many ways, the grieving becomes sweeter.  Memories become more saturated with sound and colour.  When I think of you, they’re not thoughts so much as feelings associated with those thoughts.  Joy.  Laughter.  Reflection.   We did alot of just being together, not really talking too much.  We were very similar in that respect.  I was happy just being with you, tagging along.  I was happy just being with you, Dad. 

And I didn’t hug you enough…….   

Love, Chantal   xoxoxo

Instant Karma

 

 This Sunday, my son & I are participating in the annual Terry Fox Run.  We’ve done this for the past three years, in memory of my father, who passed away 4 years ago September 28.   If you’re interested, please visit this link  www.terryfoxrun.org, which will give you loads of information on  what it’s about, if there’s a run organized in your part of the world, details about Terry (WHO, BY THE WAY, IS ONE OF THE GREATEST CANADIANS), and about how his Marathon of Hope back in 1980 has sparked great leaps in cancer research.  The statistics are hopeful. 

At the run site, there’s usually a banner set up, where people can write messages or thoughts about loved ones who have passed away from cancer, or who have survived it, or who are currently in the battle of their lives.  It’s one of the most moving things to do the run with hundreds of people in your community, then at the end, you stop and read this huge banner that’s the length of about 5 picnic tables, teeming with all of these heartfelt messages of love, sadness, profound grief, yet always punctuated by hope.

My goal here today is not to hit you up for money for the cause (if you want to do that, you can go directly to the website & donate your coffee money there).  I’ve already got my pledge sheet at work, and the generosity of my co-workers has been outstanding once again.   No, my goal here is to create a little instant karma.

I’m hoping that the organizers will have the remembrance banner set up again this year, as my list of people that I want to write about on that banner is ready to go.   I call it my Terry Fox Heroes List.   If you have someone in your life who has died of cancer, if you know someone who has survived it, if you are a survivor yourself, if you are battling this disease or are accompanying someone who is, here’s what you can do:

Leave a comment on this post with the person’s name (full name, initials, nickname, doesn’t matter); you can include as many or as little details about them as you want.  I’ll check back Sunday morning before leaving for the run, and will add any names that have been left here to my list of heroes.  Once P & I will have finished, it will be our privilege to  write all the names from our list onto the banner.

This doesn’t seem like much, I know.  Writing names on a banner.   And the point is…..?

The point is this:  it’s about making a small gesture to remember people who have fought a big battle, and whether they have surrendered or whether they are victorious, we need to be in the presence of their courage.   The person writing on the banner, the person reading the banner:  both will be changed in a small but very significant way that will pay it forward.   Our actions, however small, help to shape the bigger picture.   In this case, the bigger picture is Life, of which suffering and death are a part of.   Coming together at events such as the Terry Fox Run gives people the chance to celebrate life in the face of disease and death, to feel warmth and support from others who have had similar experiences, and to meet everyday heroes.  It’s all about the links……

 I remember being with my father when he passed away, my sister and I surrounding him with as much gentleness as we could, holding his blue hands…..his courage throughout his life, and especially at that moment,  is one of his legacies to me.  Including his name on that banner brings his courage to others as well.  He’s my own personal Hero with a capital H. 

May we all shine on…..

Love, Chantal xooxoxo

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