Kat Wiebe

Kat Wiebe Transcription

2012-01-16T09:54:00.000-08:00

Accurate and Detailed Transcription by Experienced Transcriptionist

Attention paid to grammar, spelling, and punctuation.

Confidentiality guaranteed.

Broad general and business related vocabulary, also medical and geographical.

Accurate transcription of individual and focus group interviews related to academic research, MA theses, and PhD dissertations.

True and clean verbatim.

Works from multiple recording platforms and with secure online file sharing.

Data entry at 100 wpm.

Timely turnover of files.

Reasonable rates.

Contact katwiebe@shaw.ca

In Love with this Place

2012-01-02T16:59:00.000-08:00

As she focused on the map its geography played on her tongue. The two oceans—Oceano Pacifico and Mar Caribe—were separated by a narrow spit of land that was impossibly crowded with temperate plateaus (Guanacaste, San Jose), voluptuous green hills(Braulio Carillo, Monteverde), tropical seaside rainforest (Limon), and peninsulas (Nicoya, Osa, Santa Elena) all rolling toward mountains, the spine of the narrow country tall Cordillera (Guanacaste, Tilaran, Central, Talamanca), each mountainous complex topped with live volcanoes (Irazu, Arenal, Poas), the highest of the mountains called Chirripo, a 10,000-foot snow-tipped cone from which both oceans could be spied. All around the cozy perimeter there were beaches (Playas Cocalito, Tamarindo, Madrigal), spits of land disappearing into the ocean (Puntas Tigre, Escondido, El Barco Quebrado), deeply cut channels called Golfos (Dulce and Nicoya), and sheltered bays (Coronodo) sprinkled with islands (Boca Chica, Boca Brava, Palmitas) and malingering lowlands where mangroves grew (Tempisque, Manzanillo, Tortuguero). It was a country of three million people living in towns called Talolinga, Zapote, Comunidad, Libertad, and Angel Arriba, the nearly ubiquitous Spanish names replaced in places by native reserves (Ujarras, Salitre, Cabagra, Talamanca). Lushly watered by generous rains this lovely country ran thick with rivers (Kuk, Araba, Sku, Volcan).

The names of the towns lodged in her mouth. Pandora, Fortuna, Miramar: she tasted lushness, spice and danger. Germania, Francia, Cairo: she tasted history and homesickness. Bananito Norte, Aguas Zarcas, Finca, Banana Oro: she tasted hard work, sweat, and multinationals. Perla, Esperanza, Delicias: she saw beauty, laughter, and hope.

New Year's Day

2012-01-01T12:56:00.001-08:00

The First Day of this New Year. Isn't this the year the world ends? Well, then, as the inimitable Andy Arts advises, "Live every day like it is your last." Or maybe that's the Rigpa: "According to the wisdom of Buddha, we can actually use our lives to prepare for death. We do not have to wait for the painful death of someone close to us or the shock of terminal illness to force us to look at our lives. Nor are we condemned to go out empty-handed at death to meet the unknown. We can begin, here and now, to find meaning in our lives. We can make of every moment an opportunity to change and to prepare—wholeheartedly, precisely, and with peace of mind—for death and eternity."

So anyway, with all due respect for all that, my wish for this year is to find good work that pays me decently and leaves me a little time to WRITE.

Amen for now.

a new poem but an old story

2011-11-04T10:01:00.001-07:00

Once upon a time

In blood warm dark and wet,

a being came to life.

Elastic fluids, plastic, slick

designed to bind.

Cock and cunt

done it.

The source of life

not strife

but pleasure.

A baby come

and the mum,

she so happy,

don’t it?

Her belly swell

and grow.

Round and round and rounder we go,

the start of it just.

This baby inside a girl.

She form so lovely,

so nice, she become

this never before and neverafter

uniquely combined expression of DNA.

She done nothing, nothing at all.

So, so, so she was created

and so she was born

to celebration,

for she was indeed

-- and are we all not--

a gift to this earth.

Fulla grace, beauty, all the hidden code already written,

just waiting for time and life to print what she would become.

Who wants to leave the womb?

Maybe some, not me.

But magnetized and slippery

the convulsive power of birth deposited me

outside.

Luckily

I landed in love.

Hands caught me,

held me with

blessings, happily,

immediately,

I was given all.

Mother,

what else is there?

In the lagoon,

where lacy seafoam curls lazily over

the sheltering shoulders of candy coral,

they wash the girl in warm seawater.

Her limbs unfold.

In the june plum tree

where the cousins climb

a hummingbird in her mossy nest of spiderweb

cradles one tiny pearl

and a pair of parakeets punctuates

day’s end when the sun slips into the sea

and sprinkles sparkle

between the ocean’s blankets

to make dreams sweet.

Then the stars themselves alight on trees

and spill bioluminescence like borealis,

colour the dark with mystery.

A ritual:

the midwife must slice the skin.

She cuts it so so carefully with her fingernail,

its slim, sharp crescent shaped like the new moon,

and gently allows the first sweet drops to spring up

from the flesh of the ripe mango.

The mother receives the first

juice to rejuvenate her after the birth.

The fruit’s flesh is consumed

by the welcoming community,

and the seed is planted for the girl’s future.

This fecund fruit tree

will ensure that she is always wealthy.

The mother licks the juice;

her eyes roll back in pleasure,

at the sweet taste and the ecstasy of birth.

The impossibility of it,

and this perfect child,

lips pulling at her breast,

sucking the very joy of life itself

into existence.

The relief of birth a release,

a gush of gladness so profound

down there,

even at a time like this.

Every question is answered

and a deep understanding pervades.

But in that blazing flash of abandonment,

in swoops a terrible missionary

and takes the child.

For her safety he grabs her,

for her safekeeping,

for there is so much danger:

the thorns,

the fer de lance,

el scorpion,

fire ants,

the world is a dangerous place,

it’s for her own good.

Stolen, the child is taken,

a long way off,

far, faraway,

to a place for safekeeping,

to a church.

Inside this place there are no circles, no cycles,

no seasons, no songbirds,

only walls, windowed with panes,

squared pews, hard rhetoric, cold logic,

a book of rules.

There are other children,

so she is not alone,

But her mother is not there.

Her touch,

her feel,

her heart,

her breath,

her blood.

Gone,

all gone.

The devastation is primal,

her loss final.

The salvation they offer

false

and

empty.

Take pity on them,

Amen.

No mangoes grow.

But there is food.

Food

they

can’t

feel

think

just

stuffed

with

food

they

grow

fat

larva

fat

thick

and

dull

and

full.

Take the baby monkeys from their mothers,

and they will choose the softness of rags over

a milk bottle strapped to a wire frame.

They will starve.

This child clutches the only softness she can find,

her own sweet self.

Wraps her arms around herself,

finds comfort there.

Sucks on her own fingers,

licks her own skin,

finds the pleasure

from within.

Because she was born into it

and of it,

it is her birthright:

delicious shivering pleasure

calls her,

a sensual siren guides her

to herself.

But this is verboten.

The body is not good:

it is dirty,

see the feces, the fluids, the fallibility.

She was born bad

and there is only one way to good.

Look in the book.

Fear is used to control:

fear of the self,

fear of the other,

fear of the beginning and the end,

fear of the inside and of the out.

No way out.

So she goes in.

Inside,

buried within the folds

of her own sweet secret skin

a precious pearl

of pleasure,

her eyes close.

Untouchable.

They grab her

roughly.

She is unclean,

she is beyond redemption.

She is put out.

Outside

the world cold.

Rock,

ice,

snow.

Bleak.

Barren.

She is not hungry.

Cannot,

must not

eat.

No.

For even in the cold

fat melts

and beneath she is,

is she.

But who is she?

Or what?

Alone, certainly,

and bitter,

frigid,

frozen.

She aches for warmth

of arms,

of heart,

of breath and blood and body.

And for the drop of sweetness.

The river calls.

She goes,

watches water flow.

Pewter gray,

leaden, chilled.

Ice cold,

her fingerprints burn holes

in frost feathers,

and in the eddy at the edge

a piece of lacy water

folds itself

curling,

unfurling.

She watches it.

On the banks,

the river’s flanks,

she is sculpted:

bare bones,

a skeleton,

a zest for death.

She tumbles in.

Cold instantly turns to heat,

her eyes open wide,

surprise.

How can she be warm here?

And safe?

Yet she is.

Inside the river

she is held,

taken

all the way

home.

A fat lady,

grossly obese and

ponderously gorgeous

cradles a ladle.

A pot of Rondon,

fish and roots

in a stew.

Earth’s patchouli smells like heaven.

My mouth waters.

The fat lady offers:

Eat the earth’s flesh

drink the earth’s blood,

it is yours,

earthling.

Yours for the taking.

You belong here.

Just

because

you

are

here.

She takes the food,

sits by the lagoon,

where lacy seafoam curls lazily over

the sheltering shoulders of candy coral.

She washes herself in warm seawater

her limbs unfold.

In the june plum tree,

next to a burgeoning mango

the cousins them climb.

Don’t disturb the hummingbird,

a voice warns,

and the children pool and swim

down the coconut walk,

flinging june plum peels

screeching like naughty monkeys.

The bitty bird in her mossy nest of spiderweb

rocks gently on the ocean’s breeze,

the precious pearl protected.

A pair of parakeets punctuates

day’s end.

Sun slips into the sea

and sprinkles sparkle

between the ocean’s blankets

to make dreams sweet.

The children them school onto the porch

at the back of the house

alight themselves on warm bodies

and munch on mangos

as the stars themselves alight on trees

and spill bioluminescence like borealis,

colouring the dark with mystery.

A woman comes down to the beach.

Muttering, she sweeps debris

into a pile,

branches, bits of driftwood,

leaves the sand

smooth and swirled.

Her rake aside

she lights a fire,

blue and violet flames blaze,

the scent of nutmeg

in the smoke.

I am drawn,

fire does that.

Startled the woman turns.

Her face in the flames,

shadows,

the dancing light catches

familiarity,

a mutual yearning,

learning

it can be quelled.

She reaches for me.

Come.

Come near,

no fear.

We sit

our bench a capsized coconut palm,

sand between our toes.

Upon our arms,

the softest cloak of night.

The sea swelling

ardently.

At first

no words,

our breath.

Two hearts synching,

our very ions

interlinking.

Losing charge

now that we have found each other.

Then a torrent,

a cascade of words,

la lluvia rains from our lips.

Abatement,

comfort,

contentment,

bliss.

Then silence.

Nothing but the

eternal,

heaving,

sighing,

surging

sea.

Back to back

they rest,

finally complete,

replete.

They see

but cannot believe their eyes,

a sight

so startling,

astonishing,

rare and precious:

a full spectrum of light

drug out of the sea,

marine breath mated with the moon.

A moonbow?

Extra ordinary,

miraculous,

a celebration

of the circle,

the cycling,

the ringing,

round and round

of life.

The Question of Clothes

2011-08-10T12:13:00.000-07:00

It is time to speak of clothes, it seems. What is my sartorial philosophy?

"Indifference to what others think is, of course, the badge of the aristocrat. Never mind the Jones's, I make my own rules," writes Elspeth Huxley in Out in the Midday Sun.

I always thought I was the farthest thing from an aristocrat, however all the signs point to it.

If pressed, I will say this: Clothes do not make the man--they cover him. Tradition, etiquette, household culture, socialization, climate -- all these factors determine choices.

On a long, lazy summer day, my sons were seen roaming the town in dirty, stained, patched, inside-out and backwards clothing. I saw this and thought, "What a perfect moment to be a boy, dirty from playing in the creek, and not a worry for the world."

When the autumn equinox arrives and they are confined to classes, they will be much tidier, probably not inside out; the best will come out.

Patches, neatly done by the arthritic fingers of my mother, are a point of pride for me. The boys may request designs, motifs, colours. They anticipate the return of their previously holy clothes. I see the recycling, the conservation, the savings. Some of those pants are third generation hand-me-downs: a small contribution to the reduction of overconsumption.

Also, I hate shopping. Dipping into the boxes of second hands allow me to also play in the mud.

I am no fashion plate. In Montreal I was the country bumpkin. I admire those with style.

Sometimes I see my boys so gorgeous and well-dressed--and I am aware of my own set of priorities, in which "respectability and tidiness come low on the list." (ibid, Huxley)

Give them guidance, allow them to express themselves, let them choose, and some of the time, they might even put some clothes on.

Sunday, High Summer

2011-07-10T19:40:00.000-07:00

Three orchids within an arm's length radius: calypso, round-leafed and lady's slipper. Water running over rocks. Sun blazing, clouds scudding, the scent of honeysuckle. Sweetness with my husband. A happy day. Dancing later. Writing now. What do we do in summer? We bloom, blossom, open up. The work is done for us. Oh, yes, the ant toils. But the grasshopper sings and the flowers--the lilies of the field--toil not, neither do they spin. This I trust. the seasons. The earth's rotation. That life was created from nothing--how can that be? Where did it come from? From life's longing for itself, says Kahlil Gibran. Desire. Plain and simple. The energy of creation. The stuff we're made of. What a beautiful day.

Rewiring

2010-11-20T19:22:00.001-08:00

Today – not a pretty day. The day the boys go to their dad’s house is always tough; I hate the way they walk out my door leaving my life empty. On top of that, my husband’s gone for two weeks and I’m home alone.

All I can think about is what I did wrong as mom this week: “Don’t put coffee grounds into the fish tank,” I said as I saw Secundo preparing to do just that. Of course he did it. And of course, I got mad at him.

Apparently we’re wired to see the negative first. It’s some kind of survival mechanism. Spot trouble before it spots you. Looking for the negative is everywhere, especially in my head.

Today I listen for the negative, as instructed. It really is crazy how down I am on myself. Anxiety is such a familiar force in my inner world. But I’m sick of it. And today, I’m paying attention so I can reframe. I don’t just want to say, I am not anxious. I want to actually turn that frown upside-down.

If I’m not anxious, then I am… I am what? How do I want to be? What quality would I prefer to spend the majority of my life feeling? If there’s no anxiety, what is there? On the public pay phone from the Athabasca Glacier where he’s working, my husband suggests, alive. How about feeling alive instead of anxious? That works. Alive has energy to it—as does anxiety. I can switch my addiction from feeling anxious to feeling alive.

Here goes. This is the next step: I search for the positive in my day. And I remember that after the coffee incident, I was down on my knees with the boy, drying his crying eyes, when I noticed the fish ping-ponging in the fish tank. “Look!” I said, pointing. “That’s what happens when a fish drinks a cappuccino!” We both laughed then, and the tension dissipated. Lesson learned, I figure, for both of us.

Where I am Native

2010-11-20T19:08:00.000-08:00

My European roots are long pulled out of their spiritual ground, my pagan spirituality excised and supplanted by by a rampaging judeo-christian overlay that made sure nothing remained of the cosmic connection between divine human and mother earth. Why, I have asked for many years? Why do we do that? Why do we do it to each other? To whales? To bees? To corn?

I could spend a lifetime – I already have – pondering that question, nursing my wounds, being shocked, angry, and hurt. Who dunnit and why did they do it? You can look, but never really find the enemy. The perpetrators are elusive – behind every tree and nowhere at all – except, mostly, inside. Inside me. Inside most anyone who looks.

That piece of information is helpful, obvious when you look for it, but not really easy to see at first. It takes a lot of looking.

And you have to know what to look for. Which is this: what is my spiritual lineage? Where am I indigenous to? Everyone, says my teacher, Marlo Paige, is indigenous to somewhere. It’s been so long since I was there that I don’t rightly know.

I do know a lot about my recent culture. Since 1799 I can trace my family to northern and central Europe. We were Mennonites, early and earnest Protestant activists, German and low-German speakers. Also, early hippies – travelling northern Europe in search of freedom to practice our religion (direct link to God through prayer and introspection without the need for priests and ritual) and culture (we were pacifists in an era of war, as well as communal socialists who believed in private property for individuals in the context of a community of people who worked together for the whole).

The Mennonites negotiated land contracts throughout the Ukraine with the Empress Catherine who wanted to colonize her new territory with hardworking farmers. The Mennonites got her to promise they wouldn’t have to go to war, and for that they received tracts of land to manage and govern as they wished. And when those colonies became crowded, the adventurous pushed east and north, into Russia near the Ural Mountains, up to eastern Siberia, and even to what is now Kazaktstan, where they farmed with camels.

They may have been Protestant activists, part of a new wave of religious thinking that eshewed the need for priests in favour of a direct line to God, but they were very much people of their day. They believed the Bible was the Word of God, and lived by its tenets. They didn’t differ from the Catholics in the original sin theory, and believed that all humans were born into sin—essentially born bad—and that our only hope for deliverance from our inherent evil nature was to accept Christ as personal Saviour and follow the laws of God. Judeo-Christian to the core, they believed both the old and the new testaments. They were also landowners and farmers and German, and so when Stalin’s government came to power after the revolution that aimed to displace landowners and religious people, the Mennonites were no longer chosen people, but suffered persecution, famine and displacement from the place they’d called home for 150 years. Members of my family were sent to Stalin’s infamous Gulags, some died there, a few as martyrs for their faith.

By the time I was born in the early 60s, my parents’ families had come to Canada and were in the process of putting down roots in this newish country with many opportunities and religious freedom – at least for the white, northern Christian Europeans. My father in particular, who came to Canada as a Displaced Person when he was fourteen, saw Canada as the promised land. And he would brook no criticism of its policies, governance, or leaders.

In the middle of the twentieth century I was raised with fundamental judeo-christian beliefs like original sin, and rules to live by if I didn’t want to burn in hell forever. It was not trivial to be raised with this kind of brainwashing. It was everything I knew. And because I disagreed, at my core, with so much of it – the patriarchy, the religious roles and rules, the hypocrisy, the superstitious ignorance—I was thrown off balance when I became an adult, and responsible for my self in the real world.

The religion was no nature-based philosophy with guidelines for how to move in harmony with the seasons and cycles of life. The religion didn’t provide any comfort unless one followed its rules, and these rules came from a book considered holy, which I learned had been translated to serve certain cultural, political and historical means, and interpreted by men. The religion taught us to be “in the world, not of the world,” creating a sense of separateness for me, setting me up for life on the fringe.

Rejecting the religion and culture, as I did when I was a teenager, triggered in me an identity crisis, a lack of direction, and a lack of grounding. Although my roots were not very deeply planted on this continent, rejecting these religious beliefs meant rejecting my culture and to a certain extent my family.

Luckily my mother left the church at this time, when she was fourty-four, so I had an ally in her, although she recalls her experience as very solitary. Her family of ten siblings did not understand or support her decision; my dad certainly did not see eye to eye with his wife. All my siblings too, dropped out, and only my dad was left to practice. This created a split between us – I felt he didn’t understand me and he felt I was wrong.

I remember the confusion I experienced when I left home. Partly I was excited, and mostly I was terrified. I wondered constantly: What happens if I don’t follow these rules? What happens if I don’t believe this? At that time, I didn’t have much cultural capital – a high school education – and certainly no financial capital. I really did leave to seek my fortune. But I wasn’t looking for money.

No, I was looking for meaning. If I didn’t believe that, then what did I believe? If I wasn’t that, then who was I? I’m still seeking answers. Though I have learned a few things, I still have many – more than ever – questions.

Like, where am I indigenous to? What is my native or innate spirituality? What did my ancestors believe before they were bowled over by rampaging Christianity? Or were my ancestors part of the Christianizing hordes?

There is no clear documentation of who the Mennonites were before they were the Mennonites. They have no original mythology – only the judeo christian stories trasmitted via the Bible. I come from, likely, some northern European tribe – either Germanic, Nordic, or Slavic. It’s easy to guess we were Germanic (or Teutonic) because we spoke German and Low German and our first recorded history starts in Holland. But a lot of Europeans spoke Low German in medieval Europe because the German tribes contributed to the Christianization of Europe after the decline of the Roman Empire.

Before Christianization, the Germanic tribes practiced paganism, which seems to be a blanket term, used to describe pre- or non-Abrahamic religions, indigenous and aboriginal spiritualities around the world, and contemporary non-Christian eastern religions. Pagans believe in many gods or no god at all, and have no written text or code to follow. Pagan comes from the Latin, country-dweller, and Pagan practices were nature-based. Spiritual, rather than religious.

Even as a young child, my mom says she was aware that the core beliefs of her culture and religion did not make sense. She disagreed with the fundamental belief that the human is born bad, thus requiring salvation by certain beliefs and practicse. At first she defined her beliefs by what she didn’t accept. Thinking about what she does believe she says, We are all divine, all part of the divine, each person part of a whole. All of life is interconnected; it comes from somewhere and goes somewhere. She accepts that not everything can be explained.

useful items

2010-07-21T05:48:00.000-07:00

Aha! I knew they would come in handy one day.

That's Primo displaying a popsicle stick creation.

A twist tie secures the net on the top of our stick bug habitat.

My junk resources await use, they anticipate transformation.

A Syringe, Two Corks, and Assorted Chopsticks

2010-07-13T16:13:00.000-07:00

Wielding a blow torch; soldering metal. Creating.

In this moment, this one, is family life. Warm hands apply a pink sticky note to my bicep. Silence occurred in this house, miraculously, only seconds ago.

Now the dog barks, at the behest of a five-year-old. The screen door opens and the bare feet of the bigger boy scuttles across tiles. He is on a mission. The little one, pink cheeked with heat, and tired after a day out in the world, presents a book to me. I'm so mad at you, he says, leaning against me. Because I made him go get the book.

So I must go now.

A syringe leftover from a dose of antibiotics makes a wonderful bath toy. Two corks too. Assorted chopsticks -- well, we might use them to eat noodles, or to build something. Anyway, I never throw anything out.

It never hurts to try something new. Otherwise, there's just the rut and what I know of me. And I'm sure there's so much more.

A New Twist

2010-07-11T10:01:00.001-07:00

The most obvious junk in the drawer is a collection of twist ties. Which i have packaged into one plastic bag and will count when I have another moment.

Wikipedia says: A twist tie is a metal wire encased in a thin strip of paper or plastic used to tie the openings of bags such as garbage bags or bread bags. They are often included with boxes of plastic food bags or trash bags, and are commonly available individually in pre-cut lengths, on large spools, or in perforated sheets called gangs.

Gangs, eh.

My mother objects to zip locks. Her preferred method of storage is a plastic bag, previously used to contain something, cleaned, dried, and sealed with a twist tie. Her twist ties are neatly organized in a container with sections for such things. Not only does she reuse her plastic bags, but she also reuses her twist ties until the metal is quite bald.

Here`s twist tie art (http://www.elfwood.com/~chelseasewel/Twist-tie-Dragon.2624729.html).
I wonder what other uses there are for twist ties...

I`ll include a photo and final count of the twist ties in my junk drawer when the camera returns from Mazama, Washington, where it is being used to record trad climbing ascents by a guy who looks into my junk drawer and laughs while searching for the corkscrew and beer bottle opener, which are also housed there, but are not exactly junk.

Now that the twist ties are removed, the junk drawer is looking much less junkie. Next on the agenda are the rubber bands.

Looking at my junk drawer, I think about the junk drawer of my psyche. That place where I put stuff that I don`t want to think about.

For my Aboriginal Perspectives on Education course, I am required to read about residential schools, the Canadian government`s policy of assimilation of indigenous people, genocides in Canada, the 60`s scoop, and the sad reality that more Aboriginal children today are in foster care than were in residential schools.

I believe that cleaning out my personal psychic junk will free up space in my mind, heart, and soul to put in new stuff that will assist me in my new role as teacher and thinker about education. I am (surprise surprise) interested in alternatives to the public school system, and also very ready to teach within the system to learn more about it.

There you go: junk drawer as metaphor for life.

The Junk Drawer

2010-07-09T17:14:00.000-07:00

Do you have a junk drawer?

Mine is a default filing location for all those things that don't belong anywhere else -- miscellaneous things that I can't throw out.

It's not that I'm a pack rat, it's just that I hate the thought of garbaging something potentially useful.

In less wealthy countries all of the things in my drawer would be resources. Why throw out these manufactured products that could have more of a life than the landfill? Does this collection make me feel rich? Or am I hoarding trash because of a Depression mentality developed from my mother's stories of making do with little.

In India scouring dumps and garbages provides an economy for otherwise disenfranchised people. In India, trash pickers provide the vital service of recycling. Check Chintan Environmental Resource and Action Group (http://www.chintan-india.org/) for more details on that.

Inspired by a course I'm taking at UVIC this summer (Indigenous Education)--a course taught by an inspiring teacher--I plan to empty this junk drawer.

I want to look at what's in the hodge podge mixture. I want to let go of old stuff that's not useful any more. I want to make space for good stuff, new stuff, stuff that I don't even know about yet.

I'll keep you posted.

The Next Assignment

2010-07-01T13:26:00.000-07:00

Sunday morning at Goldstream.
Late June’s sky is dull.
The boys’ bodies are warm at wake up,
my husband and the white dog yawn.

Coffee,
a fire,
my book.
Then my son and I walk
to the waterfall.

The chute tumbles.
Emerald ferns sparkle.
Water leaps
from canyon’s rocky rim
into the still pool below

where the diamonds disappear
into darkness.

Nearly naked
I stand,
goosefleshed,

and consider.

The pool looks

cold and deep,

strangely alluring.

But what might I find

at the bottom

of that beauty?

Face your fears,
my son tells me,
eight and a half --
mid way between boy and man –
already.

This week he endured the dentist’s drill,
I don’t like this, he cried.
But he did it.
Sometimes we have no choice.

I dive in.
A shock.
But

water is the bending element.
Transferring my mass to its buoyancy,
I don’t fall;
I fly.

My son watches,
then leads us back to camp.
Look how he finds his way.

Arbutus,
Doug fir,
salal.
Honeysuckle,
red cedar,
stinging nettle.

Nature has no favourites.

Back at camp
Secundo brews salmonberry espresso.
My husband throws cedar shakes
into the fire
annointing the air.

Incense,
innocence,
bliss:
the all knowing
acceptance of whatever it is.

midnight, midsummer

2010-06-29T00:15:00.000-07:00

it's dark between midnight and three
and then the birds
wake up

today i slowly spun as
an aerobatic swallow
flew circles around me

the newly turned up grass
harbored some tidbits
which the swallow
caught on the wing

the linden trees
begin to yield
their delicate
efflorescence

i write less now than ever
but it is still too much

sometimes the boys are
angels, like yesterday
primo counseling me to
face my fears
as i considered plunging into
the pool below
the waterfall

and then he navigated
us back to our campsite

where secundo
as bald eagle
devoured a salmon

and my husband fed the fire
with dried cedar shakes
incence

when i worry, there's no one
actually driving the bus
i've left the wheel
in search of trouble
no wonder it feels scary

and sometimes i lose my cool
with their eternal bickering
is it just what puppies do?

when they leave
i worry that the cord is severed

and then in only a few hours
i make a breakthrough
that changes my life

there's a difference
between feeling my emotions
and letting them run my show

om bhur bhuva tat savitur varenyem

2010-04-27T19:44:00.000-07:00

right now, after the seventh day of this twenty-five-day practicum, i feel a gorgeous, golden april blessing, and i can admit i'm feeling better than after yesterday. the learning curve always remains one stretch ahead of me, with me running to catch up. somehow i have to learn to enjoy the ride... i miss my kids when they're not with me and i resent how much work this takes. but that's the lazy side of kinetic kat, i can see that. monday was a crazy day, kids were absolutely insane (the wind?). many people at school have made an effort to reach out and tell me that my practicum class is "really tough, the toughest in their career," that sort of thing, and that i shouldn't take it personally. my practicum supervisor (guru, sage, lovely woman)said it's not really fair for me to have to do my learning in a class like that, BUT i will learn a lot. i find it really tough to live in the world of school, the institutional setting, the rules (no climbing trees, the saddest rule of all), the contained and blocked energy, the struggles and difficulties, emerging adolescence, the clash of generations, rarely the grace of engaged focus. usually i feel irritation from the cacophony, the disturbance, the noise... maybe it's not for me??? but i have to keep going because it really is too soon to tell, n'est-ce pas? my practicum teacher is really awesome. unflappable, open, a leader who can take a back seat, a quiet force, a facilitator of others' strengths -- in short, a brilliant mentor. so, what the hell am i complaining about?

October Update

2009-10-18T09:13:00.001-07:00

At University of VIctoria. Six courses. Gonna be a teacher. This used to be called Normal School. Now they're teaching us to be different than before. This is exciting. Understand that there are a variety of learning styles, and teach to this. Work as a team with your colleagues. Help kids learn problem-solving. Develop strategies. Use assessment for learning instead of assessment of learning. These are just a few of the new ideas we are going to implement in the near future. Now I have to get back to my homework. Check out my wiebesite: www.katwiebe.ca

First Anniversary: Keeping My Vows

2009-08-23T20:07:00.001-07:00

Andrew Alan Arts, my Sir Prize.

Thank you for loving me. That’s what started this whole damn thing in the first place.

And thank you for loving my boys. My wedding vows to you include vows to the boys. We are a family. They are part of it, as important as you and I. Their needs and wishes will always be heard and respected, as will yours, and mine.

So get in line, Fat Boy.

I promise to put up with your big mouth, to listen to your hair-balled ideas, and to translate what you said into what you actually meant to say. I will encourage you to leave me regularly and I promise to be waiting when you get back from the mountains. I will walk all over you every day. I’ll be mom to your dad. I’ll play Tommy on for you whenever you get down. I’ll go down on you whenever you like. And I promise to love you, Andy Arts, for who you are, who you are becoming, and who you will be way down at the end of all the roads we’re going to travel down together.

Baggage

2009-08-14T11:21:00.000-07:00

I know people much more evolved than me. That’s a fact.

I have friends whose children live with their exes most of the time. Women who see their kids one, maybe two months out of the year. Women who brokered these agreements. Women who say, my child is happy in this arrangement. It’s a great opportunity, say, for him to live in Europe with his father and stay with me during summer holidays.

How do they do that?

It just feels so strange when the kids aren’t with me. At least I’m not lying on the floor crying. But that has happened.

Interestingly, it’s not that way for them. Seven-year-old Primo moves between the households smoothly, holding up his forehead to be kissed good-bye when he’s sitting in his dad’s car ready to go. Four-year-old Secundo feels the transitions and, therefore, so do we. But once he’s at the other household, he reports that he doesn’t even think of us.

In fact, Secundo says he doesn’t love us when he’s not with us.

I teach him that we love each other even when we are apart. That the bonds of love are strong and invisible, elastic enough to hold us even when we are not together. But it is always present, even when we don’t think of each other.

But I know what he means. In order to survive—and more—I really can’t let myself think about them when they’re not with me. And when I do, I can only think positive thoughts.

Like how we played in the rain yesterday, getting wet in a summer shower, running barefoot on the slippery tennis court, Secundo pretending he was skating, taking shelter under the umbrella of a shady maple tree. We sniffed the wet grass, they shrieked with excitement as they felt nature’s shower. We cycled home in the rain, reminding each other to ride slowly as our brakes were wet. At the front door we stripped down, our clothes wet and mud spattered. Then directly they hopped into a hot bath and played for half an hour while I drank a cup of tea and sliced the chocolate cake. Three pieces each later, we sat beneath a cozy blanket and read books. They played music and banged on the drums and sang at the top of their lungs until their dad came to pick them up.

And then the house was quiet again.

And this morning I’m picking myself up off the carpet and remembering that they are at home in both their homes. They have additional adults in their lives who love and care for them. They are their own persons, they live their own lives.

And I am over here, constantly assessing my thoughts and feelings. Repatterning where necessary. Being diligent and disciplined to seek out the places where we are separate, and where that separateness is connected.

Making Sense

2009-08-04T11:07:00.000-07:00

From James Hollis, The Eden Project: "If the first half of life is about responding to what the world asks of us, then the task for the second half is, what does the soul ask? What is the unlived life that haunts us, summons us, judges us? We all know, and yet daily deflect the question... Something in us always knows, thought we may not know what we know, may fear what we know, or may flee that which is already with us and seeks our acknowledgement."

At 45 (and three-quarters) I'm not old by any stretch of the imagination. But neither am I exactly a spring chicken, well-preserved as I may be (from generally being in denial that years passing actually have any bearing on aging).

Living in Victoria, I am constantly in contact with old and older people. I see plenty of ancients tottering about (and pray that I may be doing the same one day), and I see even more Boomers zooming about. They are all either retired or retiring (and I don't mean shy).

I, on the other hand, am embarking upon my second (actually, it's more like my tenth) career: I start school in September to become a teacher in 16 months. Hey, they used to call that Normal School.

So as I step boldly into my next life, I fling the following prayers upon the waters: may I find schools that appreciate me and what I have to offer children;
may I live each day as happily as if I were on a fabulous voyage;
may I let my love light burn bright, and shine light on all those I meet.

Me, normal???

Wrestling and Other Appropriate Activities for Growing Boys

2009-07-14T16:21:00.000-07:00

Primo’s face when we headed out the door at 4:30 the other morning. He awakened and woke me up and as I herded him back to his bedroom he peeked out the window and gasped, "Wow, Mom, look at that!" Well, he thought it was snowing, but it was that pre-dawn time of day when the sun’s light mixes into the black of night and the result is a palette of electric grays that shift and shimmer as the spaces between the dark receive the sun's light. Or something like that.

“I used to go running early in the morning like this,” I told him. “When I was younger.” “Can we go out, Mom?” For a moment I mentally kicked myself for telling him that story. At this age all I wanted to do was go back to bed. But it was one of those child-led moments that begged to be, so I said, “Sure. Let’s be very quiet.” And we snuck out of the house.

I watched his face as we walked into the pre-dawn world of our neighbourhood, a familiar place so foreign now. There’s that smell, you know, of the earth waking up. It’s so clean and sweet at this time of day. It’s so in between, not night, not day, a kind of limbic limbo, and I could see that he sensed it too. His face got an expression of ecstatic wonderment and surprise. He grinned, stretching the skin of his face tightly across his cheeks, and said, with wide eyes, from his heart, “I love nature!”

Well, that was worth the price of admission and I was pleased to be the facilitator. We counted two planets, one on either side of the moon, and watched the last few night stars twinkle faintly until they were covered by a blanket of blue sky. Someone’s lawn sprinkler made even the pavement smell good and gave the earth that fresh smell, like rain had fallen.

We walked slowly back to our house, let ourselves in, quietly crept into bed, and fell into that loveliest of sleep that only comes after an early morning foray into the world before the day has started.

This, not That

2009-06-24T13:13:00.000-07:00

I’ve been practicing yoga for 45 minus 17 years, doing it for more of my life that I haven’t done it. Pretty much every day, even the day I gave birth and the day after I sliced the tendon in my thumb.

I’ve attended yoga workshops, studied the readings, encountered beautiful teachers, certified as an instructor, and I tend to do my own thing.

Does practice make perfect? Well, that’s the idea of yoga. But it’s easy to mistake perfect for no flaws. And Yoga actually teaches that the flaws are part of the perfect.

I’m back to Bikram after ten months away. When a teacher at the new studio asked me why I took such a long break, I replied, “Because it’s so hard.”

“Yeah,” he countered, his eyes lighting up. “It is hard!”

Well, for some people, it’s important to go hard. For me, it’s been important to go soft. To take it easier. Each of us has to determine that personally.

Bikram is as dogmatic as any religious zealot. His spiel is duly memorized by his teachers and repeated word for word in hundreds of hot studios around the globe while people practice his routine of 26 postures twice each. By the way, those rooms are very hot, kind of like hell…

Lying on the ground in my living room after doing—gasp!—one of those 26 that he forbids us to practice without paying him—honestly, it feels good to say that—I appreciate the benefits of Bikram: great energy, easy sleeping, a positive frame of mind, weight loss, improved flexibility, focus, stress release.

But it’s not a religion. It’s just another drug, like Vitamin I, that daily glass of wine, an orgasm, an early morning run.

Do it, enjoy it, and notice when it too becomes a habit. And then take a break.

carelessly, perfectly

2009-06-09T18:32:00.000-07:00

the way he lies there
on the floor

exploring, experimenting, extending
carelessly, perfectly

no effort
full consciousness

that's how i do the yoga now

there are those
who practice in extremis
daily marathons
designed to right the wrongs
and perfect the imperfections,
flog the flaws that will not flow away

my eyes roll in ecstasy
as i receive a phone call
from st. francis
(of assissi)
he has reached me in the cafe
where i sit, a bowl of caffe latte
warming my hands,
a croissant buttering me up
for the long winter nights ahead

go, be with your boys,
he tells me,
laugh, play, sing
sink into the hot sand
and soak up the sun

there is nothing else for you to do

The Prayer of Saint Francis
"O Lord, make me an instrument of Thy Peace!
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
Where there is injury, pardon;
Where there is discord, harmony;
Where there is doubt, faith;
Where there is despair, hope;
Where there is darkness, light, and
Where there is sorrow, joy.
Oh Divine Master, grant that I may not
so much seek to be consoled as to console;
to be understood as to understand; to be loved
as to love; for it is in giving that we receive;
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
and it is in dying that we are born to Eternal Life."

Sunday's Child

2009-06-05T18:22:00.000-07:00

the child that is born
on the sabbath day
is fair and wise
and good and gay

is that me?
i'm a lot happier now,
now that...
well

26 poses, twice each,
in a very hot room;
it's not easy,
but it is yoga

i used to have
an eating disorder

yuk, it just didn't feel like me
"If a living system is suffering from ill health,
the remedy is to connect it with more of itself."
--Francisco Varela

i don't know who francisco is,
but i like what he says

i love my husband
with all my heart

and my children taught me
to love myself
with the same huge passion
and easy forgiveness
that i offer them

i feel so good--in this body
this one!

tell myself that
when i'm bent over the toilet
heaving and hating myself

that's how i healed myself
hoping and having faith

Wedding Day

2009-06-02T07:08:00.000-07:00

People love to get married in summer.
Here I am at my wedding.

I was 44, it was my first marriage,
finally willing to give wife a try.

Not before being mother, gypsy, siren, hag.
Not before refusing to read a script someone else wrote.
Not before waiting until the time was right.

It was a hot day, so hot we swam in the frigid Pacific.
It was a special day, all my friends and family were there.
It was a perfect day. See my husband, the human pillow.

That's how we got married,
with love spilling out,
making such a mess on the clean floor.

Returning

2009-05-26T09:50:00.000-07:00

Returning
to the hot room
and twenty-six poses
I find myself

Again

It’s different
this time—
That’s one thing
I count on

Change

Resist it and die
open to it
and live
to tell the tale

Time goes on like a river,
soon leaves us all behind

Spin the wheel
round and round and round
we go—
where it stops,
no one knows

I am prepared
for the eventuality of all things

Death—
Andy says
until that very moment
I will be alive
so I don’t worry

Two sessions
after ten months away
and I know that I can live without it
and I don’t have to

I do the yoga and
the heaviness in my chest
sprouts wings and flies away

There is beautiful blue light
in my clitoris
and the smooth rolling of
glass marbles

The eyes of God
see my pleasure

Harpy sulks in the tree top
The nest is empty
Crows pillaged
Tore the entrails from the baby

The two survivors
scream at us
through the window

They are safe
Our love
is like the sun
Always there,
even in the dark

The time we spend
As we pass this way
We might not ever
be here again
So hold on tight
to what you find

*I quoted Tom Cochrane's
Washed Away
Thanks, Tom

A Pappas Parachute

2009-05-24T09:51:00.000-07:00

"When we seek for connection, we restore the world to wholeness.
Our seemingly separate lives become meaningful as we discover how truly necessary we are to each other." Margaret Wheatley

We broke up for personal reasons. This is not that story. This story is about how we got back together again, the ultimate happy ending.

Once upon a time a spirit in the form of a little red-haired girl visited a young woman of the childbearing age whose biological clock was neither ticking or ringing, it was stuck on a permanent wake up call. Biology, evolution, epi-genetics, fantasy, woo woo, and culture all combined to deliver a powerful kick in the ass, and the young woman finally woke up to the potential of becoming a mother.

A mother. Well, she’d need to meet the father, didn’t she. So, she said, yes, what the fuck, yes, yes, yes, oh, yes! And a whole wonderful series of events unfolded that continue to this day.

Read on, gentle reader, and suspend your disbelief. Enjoy. For this is no ordinary tale. It is a story of magic and mystery, of beauty and benevolence. It anchors my faith, in what exactly, I cannot say, for it has no name that I have encountered. It needs no name. It will inspire you.

While we may feel fear and experience doubts and darkness and all manner of demons, the light, think of it—light!—dispels the night. Even in the deepest days of winter, the light returns. And the tiniest pinprick of light can be seen blinking at us from the endlessly vast reaches of the beginning of time and universal darkness, which, we understand, is actually composed of warm pockets of friendly hydrogen waiting, in utero, for the right conditions to create stars.

What, dear reader, catalyzes the event? Science is beginning to plumb the depths of this question. Somewhere along the line, the actual ingredients combine with the results of experiences, and voila, the rest, as they say, is history.

So I am, as Alfred Lord Tenyson wrote, “a part of all that I have met; and all experience is an arch wherethrough Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades For ever and for ever when I move.”

In other words, I had no idea, when I climbed up to Diana Lake with my friend and her two children, and we invoked angels, innocently, mind you, through talking of them and childishly believing in them, of the intricately knotted rope that I would become tied into.

I cannot say more, yet, for I want you to read on, and enjoy, as I did, the journey, undertaken, as all the best adventures, in a craft as sturdy and yet as delicate as the dandelion’s achenes which move from place to place on a parachute of fluff called a pappus. Fly with me, won’t you? I’m sure you will enjoy the ride.

At the moment one definitely commits oneself, then Providence moves too.
All sorts of things occur to help one that would otherwise never have occurred.
A whole stream of events issues from the decision, raising in one's favor all manner of unforeseen incidents and meetings and material assistance,
which no one could have dreamt would have come one's way…
'Whatever you can do,
or dream you can - begin it!
Boldness has genius, power
and magic in it.'--W.H. Murray, Scottish Himalayan Expedition, 1951

The May Two-Four Weekend

2009-05-18T20:46:00.000-07:00

Andy and I spent this most famous of Canadian long weekends in Skaha, a rock climbers' paradise located in sagebrush-Ponderosa pine country near Penticton, BC.

The boys spent the weekend in Victoria with their dad.

This is the second year in a row that Andy and I have driven out to meet our friends and spend the weekend climbing rock, hiking, talking, laughing, and drinking the odd beer. Not to mention basking in the heat.

Andy says I do all right on the rock seeing's how I hardly ever climb otherwise.

Maybe that's because I'm always climbing something in my life.

Particularly where it concerns living the part of my life which doesn't include the boys.

I remember the pain in Andy's eyes when he first realized that this sense of loss I felt when the boys were not with us was not something fleeting, and that it was hard for me to enjoy myself when the boys were not with us. He told me it made him sad that he couldn't make me happy all the time. I was surprised that he took it so personally. This was, I thought, about me.

Well, this weekend, it was not so much about me. It was about seeing the quality of the bigger picture: Andy and I enjoyed each other's company in a way that many couples with kids rarely do; the boys experienced that part of their life that doesn't include me. I was able to lose myself in the enjoyment of company, comestibles, and cragging. It was all right to enjoy myself even though the boys were not there.

We're back home in the coastal rain. The sun and heat are just memories imprinted on our tanned skin. My fingertips are abraded from clinging to gneiss crimpers. My toes are sore from being jammed into minute little sedimentary divots on the rock wall. Andy's building a fire. Emu cat is exhausted after tearing around the house to celebrate being released from our travel trailer. Magic looks like she never moved off her pillow beside the fireplace. The boys are back tomorrow.

"What would it look like," psychologist Allison Rees asked me, "if you were okay with these separations?"

It would look a lot like this weekend.

5:20 a.m.

2009-05-13T13:32:00.000-07:00

The early bird gets the worm.

Early to bed and early to rise
makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.

That's what they say about early risers.
Like me, my dad, my brother.
My boys.

It’s never too early,
it's never too late,
it's never too inconvenient

to be present.
That is love.

And how do I make sure
there is enough for me?

I trust,
in the long run,
the bigger picture,
that there is more than I even want.

The other day they argued:
"I love you as big as the universe," said Secundo.
"I love you as big as the sky."

"The universe is bigger than the sky," said Primo.

"The universe is the biggest thing there is," I said.
"So, that's a lot of love. Wow!"

Then Secundo, not yet four, says: "The sky is bigger."

"No, it's not,!" asserted the elder,
still always technically more correct.

"Yes, it is!"
"No, it's not!"
The beautiful moment morphed
into a sibling squabble.

And I basked in it.
A conversation about love never goes awry.

"Well, guys, how about this."
Ever the mediator:
"The sky is the part of the universe that you can see,"
I said.

And there's so much more.

When we extend ourselves, we grow.

Sea Shanty

2009-04-29T14:28:00.000-07:00

Twice now, in about a week, I’ve had a hit of bliss. Unrelated to narcotics, psychotics, or erotics, I’ve bumped into the tiniest little bit of atomic (is sub-atomic smaller?) presence, a little whiff of right now, a potent unmistakable thimbleful of glimmering terra incognita, the devoutly to be experienced rapture of how it is when it’s not everything else that usually covers up how it really is.

Does this make sense? Do you get what I mean? I mean, every now and then, when I’ve given myself (or found and taken, or bumped into quite accidentally) some space, I have found heaven on earth. A nirvana in a nano-second that explodes into a full-blown and multi-dimensional experience of time outside time, so sensually real and cellular that all mysteries are explained and questions answered.

Stepping out a door into a spring morning, two blocks from the Pacific, beneath a canopy of magnolia shadows, I inhaled—quite inadvertently, I do it all the time—and received with the breath a complex sensual message of faultless, wise beatitude, a firm and fixed sense of the rightness of it all. Not at all vague, but grounded, concrete, so very real that, in fact, it took the next breath quite away.

And there it went. I kissed it as it flew by, me and William Blake both. And the world as it is otherwise settled around me again, pushing down with a modicum more pressure than it did in that gorgeous, weightless second.

I kneow enough (how lovely to have lived long enough to for this) to let it go. There is in me an undeniable urge to grasp it and pin it down (catch it, kill it, laminate it, firmly and forever keep it within reach), as I have tried to do that for many, many years.

But, ha! I didn’t even consider it, but cupped my hands immediately and gave thanks for the joy even as it winged away, streaking in another direction at an unearthly speed of much, much more than c ( a mere 299,792,458 metres per second).

We are wired with such infinitesimal detail, such absurdly perfect potential. And barely, only now and then, when we’re least expecting it, do we really know it. Or do anything about it.

I have wept and I have laughed, and I love them both the same.

Th-th-th-that's all for now.

En Francais

2009-04-22T14:50:00.000-07:00

L’avenir

On ne connait pas ce que l’avenir tient.

Je crois que l’avenir n’est pas plus pire, ni mieux, qu’avant.

Dans toutes les époques il y avait des chose incroyables et des choses terribles.

Ces jours-ci on se trouve confronté à des crises globales, oui. Le réchauffement de la planète. La perte de zone naturelle. L’ingérence industrielle dans l’agriculture. La surpopulation. L’homogénéisation de la culture, et de la langue, et leur perte. Le terrorisme. La manipulation génétique. Et la liste continue.

Il semble que l’avenir soit plus complexe qu’avant, oui. Et il me semble que les humains aussi sont devenus plus complexes, plus capables de faire face à ce qui vient.

C’est pour ça que j’observe mes enfants. C’est pour ça que j’observe le monde, que j’étudie ce qui ce passe, se qui change.

Ce n’est pas nécessaire que mes enfants apprennent ce que j’ai appris. Ils ont besoin de capacités et connaissances spécifiques de leur vie.

Par exemple, j’ai jeté la religion, mais je garde les valeurs. J’enseigne à mes enfants de respecter eux-mêmes, et de respecter et d’aimer la nature. J’apporte mon soutien sur leur créativité. Je leur enseigne à penser “à l'extérieur de la boîte.”

Je suis certaine qu’avec leurs capacités intuitives et avec l’amour et le soutien de leur famille, mes enfants vont réussir et avoir une bonne vie dans un monde complexe et merveilleux.

Cold Today

2008-12-12T14:24:00.000-08:00

You, dimpled, young, pretty, say,
I don’t want kids. Never, uh uh.

I understand that.
I’ve been there.
No way, Jose.

When one came to me,
completely uninvited,
I closed the door.
You have to do that sometimes.

And now, with two boys,
rampaging, rollicking, and gorgeous,
under my belt—
but not under my thumb,
no, it’s quite the contrary—
I look across that great divide,
the chasm of before and after kids,
and I’m happy I’m on this side of it.

There are so many things I want to say to you
about having children, about becoming a mother.
How your body transforms,
how your mind expands,
how your relationship to their father irrevocably changes,
of the journey of fear and mystery and delight.

It is so many things, and mostly,
it is all, one hundred percent,
about love.

I’ve swum naked in a warm ocean of bio-luminescence,
tracked a comet in the desert,
rode a train across this vast country,
learned the geography of north America
by tracing its maplines with the wheels of a bicycle.
I’ve been to the stars, cast spells, manifested magic,
become entirely lost, surrendered, and come home again.
I’ve fallen in and out of love, hoped for better, accepted the worst.
I’ve made friends and enemies, tempted fate, opened my heart, erased my mind.

All of that was fun, and it was just the beginning. The lead up. For the kind of life and love I discovered when I met my sons. And not to say that was the end, oh no. Because when I told Andy that I thought romantic love pales in comparison to love of/for children, he replied like this: "I hope that two people can have that much love between them too."

That made me stop. And listen. And allow it in.

So, yeah, life with kids is different.
It took me years to adjust. Let go. Grow up.
But hey, every day is an adventure. Every minute a pleasure.
Every second, grace.

Apropos of Nothing

2008-10-26T12:24:00.000-07:00

I stop, breathe, write.
I am in myself.

Mango Heart sits on my desk.
How shall I phrase this:
may I enjoy the success
of living with faith.

Emu concurs.
She's a little gray pussy cat kitten
with a rough pink tongue.

Topaz pupils,
is there anything as beautiful as the eye?
Nature is much more intelligent than humans.
And we are of it. In it. We are it.
Perfect.

I dance like Venus,
rotating in another direction
than all the rest.
I swim upstream, feel the bliss
in the push.

The planet Earth is an incredible thing.
It's like a clown car at the circus;
from this rocky ball
spinning at 24-hours-per-day speed
comes everything that we have produced:
The pink city at Rajastan,
Love Canal, the golden spruce, me, you,
all our stuff.

But it's' more than just the earth.
It all started with some hydrogen.
And various forces of nature
that made light of the dark.

I marvel at the inscrutable, undefinable
and oh-so-powerful creative energy
that manifests itself in me.
And you.
And everything we do.

Sir Prize

2008-08-23T11:39:00.000-07:00

What he said to me:
Honey, this is who I am.
You're always on my head.
Oops, I'll start over.
You're always in my head, and on my mind.
Our time together started 13 years ago.
I was in love with you then and now I've fallen for you again.
It feels like the years in between us was only an eyes blink in time for time really does not exist.
My love is full. I've never felt so complete.
You love me for who I am, that's something extraordinary in itself.
You let me be ME. I see Henry and my friends smiling and chuckling at those words.
I think about the time before Kat and the kids, wow, how life has changed.
Let me be the first to say I was blind about having children: well, I was also ignorant about a lot more.
But it's all good to change your mind, keep your ideas open to new possibilities.
Who said you can't teach an old dog new tricks?
Hell, it's amazing what Kat has taught me. And, in more way than one ...
Honey, you and boys make me feel whole.
The dream only gets bigger if you think outside the box.
Take a leap, follow the heart, jump into the deep end even if you don't know how to swim.
The scariest decisions are usually the real ones.
Realistic inspirations.
Hold on tight, baby, and smile, feel the beat.
Think big, real bigt, see the beauty.
Say thank you and take the good and take notice of the beauty from the bad.
That's what I've been taught.
Learn from the bad shit otherwise it's just wasted.
My glory is found by your wisdom.
Your spirit lights my soul on fire.
When my heart is in touch with my soul
then I know we are on the move and we are moving right now.
You bring me two beautiful boys.
You constantly give more of yourself to me every day.
You inspire me to become better, to be better.
Thank you, I love you.

Yoga

2008-08-11T09:54:00.000-07:00

90 minutes of torture, that's Bikram. Sorry, folks, but there's just not much fun to be had doing 26 poses, twice each, in a room that's as hot as a steam room.

But, dammit, you feel so good when you're done.

Today my lovely teacher inspired me. As I was lying there in the stench of mine (and everyone else's) sweat, she said: when you come to a pose that challenges you, work harder. When you feel like giving up, try harder. For whatever reason, that's where you have to work.

OK. I've been working hard since I was a kid. At seven years of age I spent my summer in the orchards, picking strawberries and cherries. It wasn't easy, it wasn't fun, and at the end of the summer I got $48. "See," my mom said, "wasn't it worth it?"

Believe it or not, at the time I did think so.

So when my teacher says, lie on your stomach, lift your arms like airplane wings, and raise your legs without separating them, and breathe, I try. I roll my eyes to the ceiling and beyond when she tells me to do that too. I sweat, I grimace, I struggle. I hold. I breathe. I beg to let go. Finally, I release. And she says, "How amazing. You just used your spine strength to lift your entire body against gravity. Wow."

And, at the time, believe it or not, I'm pretty happy about that too.

Now it comes to the practical application. Let's face it, that's what yoga is really about.

I really miss my kids when they're with their dad. But I believe that they need him, that he has a right to them, that it's good for them, and that it's good for me. But that doesn't make it easy.

I cry at night, soothe myself by racing up Quadra in my imagination, and over to their other house, and slipping in through the upstairs window, and into their bedroom, to cuddle them. I send my spirit to love them, to accompany them in dreamland, and to report back to me that they are perfectly all right.

When I work that way, loving them rather than missing them, I can eventually release into peace. Into trusting that whatever it is, it is all right. Even if it's as hard as this.

Namaste.

the World Around me

2008-07-26T06:37:00.000-07:00

"Just let me get it," said Rio, "my science equipment."
And out he came with the robin's egg on a little cushion,
a brush, a shovel, and a magnifying glass.

"Can we eat it?" he asked.
Blue shells, a yolk smeared across the tabletop,
his eye huge in the lens.

Silas and Eva ambled by.

"The clouds are like marshmallows,"
Silas said. "I can eat them."

Barbara

2008-07-09T21:31:00.001-07:00

My name ees
Barbara Martinez Antonio de Monteverde de Langostina Ceviche.
Or something like that.
I figured she was from Brasil by her accent
and from the Capoeira insignia on her white shirt and pants.

She's 11 years old,
a compact little girl with a
beeeeeeg spirit.

I hung out with her yesterday
at the Steve Nash climbing park at Crystal Pool,
that crazy neck of Victoria's woods
where granola meets downtown eastside meets
the inter-cultural assocation of united worldwide nations.

Her dad was teaching Capoeira in the sunshine.
To a couple of women.
Neither of which was Barbara's mother.
She is working, Barbara told me. In Brasil.

By the end of the night she was modeling
Capoeira-style round off front hand springs
which Rio tried, while Silas did sommersaults
in the green grass. Then she and Rio traded off
doing piggy back flip-and-fall rides with great laughter.
Silas kept reaching down my shirt and saying, "Bubba,"
and then I'd spin him until he got so dizzy it looked like he
was running in a really strong gale
going in the opposite direction.

You shoulda seen Barbara's eyes when she saw
Rio modelling his homegrown Pokeman fight style,
with little kicks and synchronized hand and arm scissoring moves.
She countered with some kid-style Capoeira and then
they were making up their own language.

This is the 21st century. Lotsa stuff is changing.
I am consciously trying to raise my kids.
I am trying to raise my consciousness.
I am open to rising with consciousness.
I am rising and open.

Is that a weather vane? Silas asked this morning,
pointing to the cross on top of the St. Tristram's
steeple where we dropped Rio for Kids Klub.
No, I said, that's a cross.
Oh, said Silas, what's a cross.
It's the sign of Christians, I said. It's like a tee.
You usually see them on top of churches.
What's a church? he asked.
It's a place where people worship God, Jesus Christ,
and the Holy Ghost, I said.
What's the scary ghost? he asked me.

These are very big questions, I thought.
And then he topped it off with
What is God?
It's a powerful presence of good
in us and all around us,
I responded.
That's today's answer.
Tomorrow it might be different.

I'm learning more every day.
I'm so eager to know what happens.
I'm staying tuned.

Motherhood

2008-06-25T22:17:00.000-07:00

Madonna
Orgasms
Time
Has
Every
Rapture
Hold
Oaths
Of
Delight

Masks
Off
Truth
Happens
Effort
Reveals
Her
Opening
Opening
Down

More
Opening
Terrible
Hurt
Endurance
Required
Hands
Offer
Opportunity
Dare

Madness
Obvious
Trauma
Happens
Energy
Remember
Healing
Obscures
Order
Dance

Magic
Organizes
Trust
Her
Evolve
Renew
Happiness
On
Over
Drunk

Memories
Of
The
Happy
Energizes
Remember
How
Offer
Offering
Done

Banging Chalk

2008-06-19T23:13:00.001-07:00

It seems I don't do things the way
most other people do.
I'm always voting for the person
who doesn't win
and, hey, I asked Andy to marry me.

Actually,
I didn't ask.
I kinda told him.

He said it would have been nice to have been asked.
I am such an evil witch sometimes.

We've had to postpone one of our wedding events.
Party Three will have to wait until later this year.

Going shopping with Amanda for my wedding dress.
Where will we find it?
She's very elegant.
Hopefully it will rub off
on my peasant self.

Boys are back tomorrow.
For more of the crazy same.
We have a deadline: be ready for camping
when we pick Rio up at school at 11:15.

Will we make it?
Stay tuned.

Ol' Blue Eyes

2008-06-18T22:01:00.001-07:00

Summer comes this weekend. It's supposed to rain. Oh, well. It's good for the garden.

We're packing up the boys, borrowing their cousin for the weekend, and heading out.
Some adventure will befall us. We'll welcome it. Life is so good.

I've been afraid to own up to just how good it is.

Why is that, Andy wonders? I can't believe I let him read over my shoulder.

Last night I said good bye to the boys. "I'm going to miss you," Silas said. His little face crumpled. "I'll miss you too," I told him. "I love you so much." He nodded, tears pooling. "I love you big as the sky," Rio shouted out the window as they drove off. "And even more."

I waved and waved until they were out of sight. And then my heart broke open. And I started to cry. I pretty much fell down right onto the street with my tears. That's how hard it is to say good bye to them, every single time they go.

And every single time they come back, it's as though they've never left. Full of themselves. Fully, awesomely present. "Hi, mama. I missed you so much." Silas makes a bee-line for me. Rio buries his face in Magic's neck. We pick up where we left off.

And me, well, this evening Andy and I went climbing. Put a rope up on the rock at Fleming Beach and watched the sun go down. I wasn't particularly elegant, but I got up it, eventually. In my own way. Then we walked the dog and smelled the broom mixed with sea salt, and off on the horizon there was a lighthouse painted so nice, red and white.

Update

2008-06-08T22:52:00.000-07:00

Two weeks 'til the Solstice. Has life ever seemed this real?
We camp at Courtnay. Hillbillies everywhere, the
friendliest people you ever did meet.
Our neighbour brings us newspaper and kindling.
"I like cooking our food on the fire," she says.
"It tastes better."

The boys turn over rocks,
watch crabs scuttle and hide.
"They pinched me," Rio reports,
"and it doesn't even hurt."

Last night the tide came in,
nearly trapped them on the
last bit of sand.
They love that game.

Then back to the fire.
Sit by the water.

"Have you ever had
to sit at your desk?"
I ask Rio. That's what
Mrs. Birch has them do
when they're out of line.

I've seen a lot of them at their desks.
Especially lately. They're almost
done Kindergarten. They're such
big kids now.

Only one boy has never had to
sit at his desk. Somebody else's
boy is better than ours?
I jest.

Molly escaped last night.
At Bates Beach Oceanfront Resort.
Out all night, despite Andy's pleas.
He said he was so cold his teeth chattered.
"Like mine do when we go down the big hill,"
says Silas.

I've learned a lot about Andy from Magic.
I'm getting married.

Stay tuned.

A Layman's Post

2008-04-27T13:43:00.000-07:00

Would you please write something
I can understand, Andy asks.

Cause the last blog
was a little obtuse,
scrambled even.

Well, last night I dreamed:
Climbed up a slide
and swooshed down
a slippery silver slope.
Met my friend Helen
halfway down.
"Write," she said. "It's time."

Today on CBC Radio I heard
a documentary about Bountiful,
a notorious polygamous community
of Mormons in southeastern BC.
A few people get out.
And then, what?

They don't know what to believe.
They've been taught not to think.
It's a life's work to erase the grooves
and create a new overlay.

My mom and I talk about this:
She said she remembers:
she was two, and her life as a Mennonite
didn't seem to fit. Whatever she was
in a previous lifetime, it's clear that this time
she came to scope things out for the ones
who came next.

Andy, are you still there?
I don't want to lose you.
I can finally see what I have:
who you are.
A year later it's stronger,
more delicious.
You. Real.
Me too. Wholly.
Us, holy.

Sacred, not scared.
When I'm so open,
it feels like fear --
the same frisson --
and I am not afraid
of it anymore.

That's what I'd like to tell
the emigrees from Bountiful:
there's no way of knowing
until you go forward.
Try. Make a few mistakes.
Learn about real life consequences.

Be a friend. Dream. Make love.
Travel. Spin. Pray. Scream.
Laugh. Wear what you want.
Be confused. Try again. Sing.

There was a time when it felt
like I was wearing someone else's skin.
And tears, I have learned,
keep the face young and beautiful.

I crave relevance, meaningful communication.
I want my words to matter, to me, to you.

When I know that Andy loves me,
even when my cheeks are red after wine,
then I understand God.
There I go again, a poetic orgasm.

"I love you so bad," he says, and laughs.
If you've never had a really wild night,
you've never had a Mennonite.

Sometimes I want to know why,
why is it so important
to love him well?
And I think I know the answer:
it's because I'm not just getting older,
like the Clairol ad said:
I am getting better.

A Leprochaun I know
says there are no mistakes.
Seriously, this is how she's lived her life.
One thing leading to the next.
The only reason I thought they were mistakes
is because the minister said so,
and I believed him.

Challenge. Reject. Refine. Rejoice.
Life is so much more than we'll ever know.
Even when I think I choose,
I know I am as unconscious as
that cyanobacteria who thrived in the
warming global ocean, reproduced
prolifically and caused the planet to freeze.

You can't fault a one-celled organism
for following its coded genetic destiny.
And in moments of clarity --
a nano-second every now and then --
I know that my coding is elastic and erasable,
rewritable, dendritically
capable of instantaneously transforming
my wishes into reality.

To the brave souls from Bountiful:
be strong, be weak, be brave, be meek.
Write your own story,
become who you are.

How's that, Andy?

could this be it?

2008-04-23T21:52:00.001-07:00

i think i'm starting to grow up a little, but only enough to keep up with the children.
i blog at night via email, personal exchanges that stay in my inbox for some months.
that's the only record,
other than this.

claire birch is my son rio's teacher. she's been doing this since she graduated
from university. she's very good at it. earth day, this month.

do you feel connected to the earth? can you feel it?
i'm so not a snob. look over my shoulder, at my age?
approval, disobedience, i turn my back on god.

really. i mean, when i was a teenager i played loud organ music
in a crepuscular church, and taunted the devil. and worse.
cate and i blasphemed the holy spirit. wow. were we stupid.
and brave. fucking looked at it in the face and said, no.

tough little fuckers, we were.
still are. it's her birthday this week.
we were 15, 16. met in church. recognized each other.

if you read this you will know what's happened for me.
i don't even know. please, share it with me.
remind me. it's all coming back now.

i remember the stippled wall,
my cousin larry's house on lakeshore road.
i go there in a minute: he ate live fish outta that creek.

one of my cousins said to me, don't eat the cherries,
look at that white stuff. you've gotta wash them first.
i just fuckin ate those little crimson sugar bombs.
said, no i don't.

that's how strong i am.

come party with us.
andy is man enough to take me on.
i come with two boys, i said, early on.
august 23, 2008.
canmore.

grief

2008-04-09T18:18:00.000-07:00

handprints in chalk
on the side of the television

my old imac, cd drawer inoperative
the marimba in many musical pieces, up high
the alphabet scrawled across the blackboard
a pirate ship, a magician's black hat, curious george

my heart open, full of joy, tears spilling,
melting diamonds, i wear the garnets,
crimson welts of pain

this is not sadness, this is the pure ache of love
contacting the heat of my heart
and rearranging itself into
pure gold

in the middle

2008-04-05T07:35:00.000-07:00

The sun rises.
Spring thaw waters
my camas lilies.
The forest rings with birds.
Peach trees blossom.

I may—I must be--

Fuck, I am happy,
plugged in to me, myself, and I.

On the ground.
I look no more to God.
I have turned my face from him,
moved on,
so way beyond.

Wherever you stand in the universe,
you are in the middle of it.
Physics proves this.

Maybe God is standing there too
and he just doesn’t know
yet of his vast and infinite grace.

what's new

2008-03-25T18:51:00.000-07:00

Another meeting with a mediator. In an unpublicized process, Steph and I are still separating. The mediator comments on our ability to communicate at such a high level. "Can you enlighten me as to how you've managed that?

"We've done it for our children," I said. In truth, it has been my life's work. To turn what could so tragically become a lose-lose-lose situation into something positive. There is no divorce in my family. Mennonites stay together until death does them part. I was taught to turn the other cheek, to do unto others as I would have them do to me. I just did my best. Tried to be fair. Tried to be good. I had no idea what the fuck I was doing.

I still don't. But things seem to turn out better if I don't try to control them. I ran into Julia on a deserted stretch of beach on the Juan de Fuca Strait. And take Andy, my Sir Prize. He's in my life. We're gonna get hitched. The boys said yes, too.

sunday morning

2008-03-09T09:50:00.001-07:00

boys are not here this morning.
house is quiet.
their dad's house is not,
i'm sure.

last night andy and i played scrabble
with devi and josh. drank blackberry
dessert wine, and discussed god.

do you believe?
what do you believe?

as a child i was told this.
then i began to believe that.
spent my life substituting
one religion for another:
even yoga became another overlay of
the judeo christian brainwashing.

i am 44.
when my mother was 44
she left the mennonite church.
no small feat.

(that's a mennonite joke, we have big ones.
heres' another:
why don't mennonites have sex standing up?
because it could lead to dancing.)

so when devi asked for my thoughts about god
i had to admit that i don't think about god these days.
not that i reject, refute, or reneg.
i'm just taking a break from god.
whatever it is is,
and it will go on without my participation.
i don't have to make any sacrifice,
there's nothing i have to do differently than i do.

i'm just beginning to livemy life, navigating the waters
of every day expeditions. seeing the beauty, feeling the pain.

loving it all.

More Math

2008-02-22T06:53:00.000-08:00

A lunar eclipse the other night.

Everything is the same thing.

We are mostly water.

All the properties of water are us.
And we are infinite.

Everything is the same thing.

On the days of this fulling moon

I felt the pull.

Inside the earth the heavy rocks lie,

around us the moon spins

the magnetic push and pull

keeps us steady.

Our planet revolves

around a star

in a universe

of stars.

At sunup we run down the path

and see a million rainbows

glowing in the grass.

We break into the same colours
when the light hits us

just so.

Everything in my life is lined up this way,

supporting my evolution and the

lovely display of all that is me.

Everything is the same thing.

My heaviest rocks are at the centre.

Smooth, green as olivine, with pretty

pink flecks of feldspar, and biotite brilliant

in the light of day.

All I know is what there is,

that I am part of it,

that nothing is not me,

and I am everything.

More Math

2008-01-26T08:41:00.000-08:00

Mother, it’s been a month since my last confession.

Only a month?

More.

Why?

I’ve been busy. Kids were home for the holidays. Their dad went to Baja California Sur. I had them all to myself.

Ah.

Yup.

Nice?

God. That felt so right. They’re mine, dammit, no matter what any fuckin Kundalini yoga teacher bitch sez, no matter what Kahlil Kibran wrote. They don’t have kids.
And you do.

Yeah.

And that wasn’t easy, was it?

Growing up, you mean? No, I resisted for much of my life. Didn’t want to be my mother. She had six kids and no life.

So, you had a life.

Have a life. I have a life. A beautiful, fucking gorgeous life.

And now he’s back, their father?

Yup, and the boys are with him this weekend. I have a little space. Little Black is beside me. When I’m home, we’re together. A cat’s life is a good life. Now she’s looking out the window. Her ears swivel, her whiskers navigate unseen stimuli, her head tilts up as she watches a gang of crows on the hydro line outside.

And you are here.

I am here. A little older, a little smoother, a lot happier.

Since when?

Since I started the math. Math is so perfect. Math always works. It’s obvious when there’s no solution. Learn the formula, apply it, and, presto! It’s the dogma I’ve been seeking all my life.

Nice.

Yeah. When I’m thinking about math, I’m not thinking about how much I miss the boys, or that the zeros in my bank account still precede the other digits, instead of the other way around.

Hmm.

In math, even a negative number can be positive if you put absolute value brackets around it.

Like Andy.

Yeah, Andy’s my absolute value brackets.

Anything else to report?

My babies are growing up. On Rio’s 6th birthday, Silas had a little bubba snack and told me there’s no more milk. I was a lactating mama mammal for six years. And now that’s done.

And you’re sad about that?

Tears. But I'm not sad. It’s just another milestone. The end of something. The start of something else.

Now what?

More math.

Peace, daughter.

Peace, mother.

Sir Prize

2008-01-05T18:35:00.000-08:00

Cadboro Bay. The red octopus reaches tentacles into the sea. The swings stand in ocean overflow. The littlest one sleeps. Sir Prize calls me Lady Diamond (in the Rough). The bigger boy, Sir Rio, sets forth across the great inland sea. Come, he calls us, on my mission. The sun smiles. Seven sailboats ride the wind. Clouds dance like lavalamp. Sir Rio cocks an ear. Is that thunder? Driftwood logs drum on the shore. We play until it's time to go home.

Not Doing Yoga These Days

2007-12-23T12:48:00.000-08:00

I've had a yoga practice for 27 years. Learned the sun salute in my high school library when I was 17. I drove myself home in my 1972 Baja Champion VW Beetle after Sivasana--I don't remember the road, only arriving at my house. I was sold.

Since that first lesson, I've learned with books, teachers, videos. I've practiced Iyengar, Hatha, Ashtanga, Bikram, Kundalini, and Kat Yoga, mostly the latter. Loving teachers include Anne Douglas of Anahata Yoga in Banff and Mugs McConnell of the South Okanagan Yoga Association. Among others. I've also met misguided people who may be doing more harm than good. But, hey, I've been misguided more than once myself.

Which is why I like to take a break every now and then. Preferably before walking into the studio makes me want to vomit, which is what happened to me at Bikram's two months ago.

I practiced Bikram's special sequence two or three times a week for nine months, while I was adjusting to being separated from my kids, being separated from their dad was not so tough. Every time I did the camel--a full on back bend--I began to cry. You might feel weird after this posture, the teachers would say. Whatever feelings come up for you are normal, just let them go. So I allowed the grief to come up and out. There seemed to be so much of it. I went through this emotional detox a few times a week until I became sick of feeling so sick. That's when I decided to take one of my famous breaks.

It's been two months since doing yoga. In that time I've been being yoga. Not practicing poses or even taking many conscious breaths. Just being with whatever is going on in my life. For me, this is a significant piece.

When my mother was 44 she left the Mennonite church, a huge event since it meant standing all alone for what she believed--most of her 9 siblings didn't understand, my father certainly didn't. But all her six children followed her out.

When I was 15, my mom and I decided we no longer believed in God, at least not the white-bearded, all-seeing patriarchal deity who watched and judged and punished. But despite renouncing my belief in him, I lived many of the following years imposing self-discipline that would purify me (in his eyes), and doing practices that would absolve me of the mistakes I made (so that he wouldn't have to). It has not been entirely possible to unbrainwash myself of the belief that I was born bad, and would live and die that way, thus requiring the help of that God to save me from myself.

Not doing yoga is actually so big. I means that I now live my belief that I am OK, as I am. Actually, instead of OK, substitute perfect. Period. What a concept. I don't need a practice or religious ritual to help me get through the day, or through my life.

That's all there is, there is no more, unless I meet that bear once more ... bring it on.

Bergen Rose

2007-11-25T22:19:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I cried all day. Some chemical concoction in my brain/body resulted in a lot of WAH. Just ask Andy. I was so fuckin sad that the boys were not near me. Later that evening, over paella with friends whose two kids were at sleepovers (the couple was happily alone at home), Andy said to me, “You look tired.” “Yeah,” I replied, “crying all day is hard work.” “Crying?” my friend, Andrea, looked at me. “About what?” “Just that I don’t see my babies three days a week.” “I’d cry too,” said Andrea, looking into my eyes. And she wasn’t just trying to make me feel better. No matter how much we complain, it just feels better, more right, when we’re with our kids.

Lots of people joke that my situation is ideal. We can all use a break from our kids. “Isn’t that what you wanted?” my friend Cate asked me today (she’s known me for 27 years). “More time to yourself?” “Yeah,” I replied. “But not three days a week!”

Anyway, I think there’s gotta be some hormones involved that get out of whack when I’m not with the kids.

Because, even though I often enjoy myself, on a deep, subtle, cellular level, the separation torments me. Sometimes I don’t feel it so bad. But, yesterday, lying face down on my yoga mat, weeping, the pain was intense. And, hey, sisters, we all know what them out-of-whack chemicals can do to one’s mascara.

So, what do I do when I’m not with the boys?

Here’s a list I made a few weeks ago:
Cry
Work, feel good
Play, feel guilty
Feel guilty, cry
Cry, make love, laugh, feel good
Feel good, feel guilty
Cry
Resolve to move forward
Move forward, feel good
Feel good, feel guilty
Feel guilty, cry
Repeat, ad nauseum
Write
Write, become stronger
Feel good
Become productive
Become happy
Become confident
Love them with I’m with them
And also when I’m not.

It’s grief I experience, pure and simple, something you can’t control or predict. At best, I’m starting to manage it. Gotta make the best of it, don’t I? I mean -- I had an ancestor who wrote poetry in the Gulag.

Bernhard Bergen was my grandmother Katharina’s brother. A robust and likeable fellow by all accounts, he survived being impaled by a pitchfork during a friendly lunch hour wrestling match on the farm. He trained as a Mennonite minister in Germany in the 1920’s, which gave him many strikes in Stalin’s eyes: he was German speaking, he was religious, and he came from a landowner class.

The Mennonites’ bucolic way of life came to an end during the Russian Revolution. Many Mennonites, like my grandmother Katharina and her husband Johannes, were lucky to get out before Stalin clamped down. They came to Canada in 1925 and raised ten children here, first in southern Manitoba during the Depression, and then in southern Ontario. That’s where my mom, Susanna, met Peter, my father. My dad, also a Mennonite, came to Canada from the Ukraine after World War Two. My dad was eight when he and his family walked from the Ukraine to Germany, following the retreating German army (some of the millions of Displaced People after that war, or DP’s as they were derogatively called when they got to Canada).

When they arrived in Germany, my great-grandmother Margarethe heard that they had landed in the Soviet-occupied sector and insisted that her clan move to the American sector. They did and my dad was able to come to Canada, which he lovingly called the Promised Land, whereas his cousin, who’d made the same trek but didn’t leave the Soviet-occupied sector at that crucial time, was exiled to a remote, inhospitable part of Russia.

Both men fathered six children. In the mid-80s, my dad and his cousin met in Canada, and shared their life stories. My dad cried when he told me of his cousin’s struggles for survival. My dad was so thankful he’d made it all the way to Kanada. Me too. Thanks to the hardy matriarch who insisted they couldn’t stop until they were safe, though they were sick, starving, exhausted, and entirely vulnerable.

In 1937, Bernhard Bergen, my mother’s uncle was exiled to Orenburg, an early outpost of the Gulag system of prison camps, located southeast of Moscow near what is now Kazakhstan. He was one of 1,245,000 people sentenced in the early 30’s during what has been called The Great Terror. 55,000 German Russians, like Bernhard, died. 20,000 were sent to prison camps in Siberia called Gulags.

There were three kinds of work camps: one was prison, another was hard labour, the third was “mere exile.” Bernhard was likely exiled, sent to a remote, inhospitable place and forced to exist while being engaged in infrastructure construction for the Soviet government. These exiles had to find food, and survived by planting and harvesting and preserving what they could. On June 20, 1937, Bernhard wrote that he got 4.5 kg of flour. “Had the 356th place in line,” he wrote. “Yesterday there were 1300 of us waiting.” The next day, he reported, spirits were high in the camp.

In February of that same year, Bernhard wrote about his children. “Today everything is particularly difficult and trying,” he wrote. “When will the day come that I get a letter from my children? Who can explain such silence?” He suffered separation from his children in a much different context than I do. He didn’t know where they were or what became of them.

I know where the boys are at all times, and that their father is taking good care of them. Last week Secundo had infections in both his ears. Steph and I communicated about the little guy every day. Primo’s favourite Floppy (a bunny on a leash) moves from house to house, we track them together. And, hey, I’m writing chick lit when I’m not crying, or making love.

Bernhard Bergen wrote this poem in the summer of 1937, in a Gulag in Orenburgsche Kreis, 1,478 km southeast of Moscow, very close to the border of modern-day Kazakhstan.

Rose,
You, rose, that I spy,
you remind me of good times
when I swam in the goodness of life
without all this heavy suffering.

Now that time is past.My rose blooms no more.
My days have become dreary.
I feel that heated thorn severely.

In truth, the time of blooming passes quickly –
you don’t worry,
you bloom full of goodness.
The time of thorns passes quickly too.

The rose guards its thorns wisely.
A person walking by has only to see the rose and pluck it.
Understandably, the thorn, of course,
pricks him right there on the path.

So, I’ve come upon
this path of real, naked truth.
Enthusiasm gone,
as all my hopes for this life.

Still, a quiet, true faith in roses
-- which do bloom in summer --
(though someone who hopes for
flowers in winter might lose faith)
keeps me alive.

So bloom, rose, and bloom again.
Through the change and chaos of this time.
You provide the inspiration for my songs,
you speak to me in struggle and suffering.

And bloom also for my children.
Guard your thorns, too.
Bloom, bloom, be beautiful
until everything, finally, calms down.

Bergen Rose is the name I planned to give Primo, if he was a girl.

Sun Today

2007-11-13T20:59:00.000-08:00

Sun today. And rain. That makes rainbows.

Hmm, kind of like life. Kind of amazing that we can handle it all. Sometimes it seems too much. That’s why I’m not doing extreme yoga right now: I’ve pulled back from the edge. I’m really happy in the valley these days, or on the top of small mountains, the kind we have in Victoria.

Secundo is home sick today. He had a fever last night, and some kind of bilious oral eruption. After he heaved a pile of bubbly bitter mess into my hand at midnight, he sat back and looked at it. “Puke,” I said. “Vomit. Spit up.” Ever the mother, always teaching.

Which is an epiphany for me. Last week I had lunch with a friend who started her current career trajectory at the age of 40. Before becoming a nurse, she was a lighthouse keeper, circumnavigated Vancouver Island in a kayak, was MEC’s first seamstress. Thirteen years after taking her first course at a community college, she’s teaching Nursing at UVic. “Why don’t you go back to university, get your Bachelor of Education, and teach kids,” she suggested. “Age and gender are not an issue in this career, experience counts for something when teaching,” she pointed out. “And best of all,” she paused, and laughed. “You love kids. You can’t fake that.”

For about thirty seconds I remained cold, the no’s came first: I can’t be confined to a classroom, they’d never hire me at this age, Teenagers, ugh. And then my toes got warm, and heat moved upward through my whole body: I do love kids. I mean, I respect them, individually. I remember being a kid. I’ve never really grown up – I’m working at it... I have many skills and passions to bring them -- French, music, yoga, writing. I loved school when I was a kid, excelled at it. I loved my teachers. Many of them impacted me in life changing ways. Wow. Even the thought of going back to university excites me.

So, I begin the process of application.

This doesn’t mean I don’t write the books that are currently being conceived. It means I do it all. At a pace that allows me to mother, and to be a human being. And, best of all, to work toward a career that will reward me with credentials, recognition, admittedly, full days, and also a salary that reflects the intelligent, dedicated, compassionate person I have become.

Love Heels: Synopsis

2007-11-11T11:09:00.000-08:00

In a classic wellies-to-wedges tale, Izzie Padma Smith leaves her rubber boots behind to follow her husband to the big city from Morgenstern Island where she was a successful lighthouse keeper and farmhand. When her marriage fails and Izzie is forced to redefine herself, she discovers the pleasure of wearing heels and finds Mr. Right!

Wisdom

2007-11-10T19:13:00.000-08:00

“Are we just puppets?” Primo asks at Swartz Bay. Not quite 7 am, we're headed to the Rockies, and he’s asking the deep questions. “Did someone make us?”

“What do you think?” I ask. He says he feels like a puppet.

“How about the hand?” I ask. “Are you the hand too?” He considers this.

Not every utterance is profound. “Die-a-rhee-a,” Secundo chants, as I wash my hands after a particular messy round. “Die-a-ree-ah!” Primo chimes in. And then the chorus: “Poo poo bum bum, die-a-ree-ah!” I roll my eyes.

Near Golden we encounter a colossal construction site beneath an enormous bridge. “Diggah, mama?” Secundo asks before he falls asleep for his midday nap.

“Poor guy,” Primo says, as his brother snoozes through 20 km of construction.

“Dumpa?” is the first word out of Secundo’s mouth when he wakes up. “Menna?” And his dreams come true as we observe dump trucks and concrete mixers in action.

Just for something to do near Revelstoke I explain conception to Primo. “There’s one egg,” I say, “and a million sperm. And the sperm race each other to see which one can get to the egg first. And when it touches the egg, the baby starts.”

Primo absorbs that info. He’s quiet for a while, and then he says trimuphantly, “So I won!”

I laugh at his perceptive assessment.

“And you won,” he adds. “And Secundo, and Andy, and Steph.”

With that perspective, we’re all winners, simply because we are. Something my mom’s been telling me for years.

Saturday Morning

2007-11-10T07:02:00.000-08:00

I wake just after 6. (I woke up early even before kids.) The kitten -- Little Black -- purrs and her whiskers tickle my face. I reach my hands out of the warmth of my blankets and touch her face. I slept alone last night. "Why don't you sleep in the boys' room," Andy suggested to me on the phone last night from Canmore where he's gone to climb ice. So I slept on the double bed we set up for them when it became clear that their bunk beds weren't working yet (we ended up on the floor in a pile on a futon every night). I had good dreams, warm dreams of Andy.

As it is the first official full day of my writing retreat I immediately went to ... the kitchen and emptied the dishwasher. Then I folded and sorted laundry and cast about for many other household tasks which seemed extremely pressing. The house is tidy, the floors so clean you can invite your mother-in-law to eat off them.

And here it is: 7 am, and I'm sitting at my desk. The sky is clear, a pale lime green at the horizon and clear, faded denim blue at the top. A few people are up, every now and then a car passes by on Cedar Hill Cross. Little Black swats my ass at the back of the chair as she dashes by. I turn to find her looking at me, whiskers bristling. As I reach for her she flips around and runs down the dark hallway, her white paws flashing. She's a black cat held by the scruff of her neck and dipped in white paint. She thunders about on her delicate feet. I'm glad she's not squished on the road.

Words from a cousin inspire me this morning. "I have no idea how I could cope to not be with my sons every day," she writes. "They become such a huge part of our soul. I so wish that you did not have to have any days or nights without your boys, but the fact that you are willing to do a 60/40 split with Steph right now just shows how much you love them and put them first in your life even though it hurts so deeply."

Tears, of course. And the coffee's ready. I sip, sit down to write. Feel hope rise with the sun. The kitten tilts her water bowl up and laps water from the far side. We all do things our own way. We can't really help it.

Thank you for following along. It makes a difference to receive your love, your words of encouragement, your support. It means, dear cousin in Calgary, that this morning I can sit my butt in this chair, watch the screen through my tears, and keep my fingers nimble as words spill out over the keyboard. It means that I can allow the story to come through me, through the density of my bones and blood. Despite the sadness in my soul, I feel joy and peace and the great equanimity that accepts everything as it is.

"You are doing your absolute best to cherish every moment and experience that you share with your children, and you are writing about these treasured moments which will be such a gift to look back on as they grow older."

OK, here I go.

It would have been a clean kill. A blow to the head with a cast iron frying pan. A little blood and brains with the scrambled eggs. Or maybe an overdose of ativan in his artichokes. Oh, shit, he hated artichokes. Had all these particular tastes. Had to put this with that, and these with those. That’s what you know about your lover after ten years. Every last little detail. How he spits out his toothpaste. Where he scratches first in the morning. All the pauses and twitches. The most vulnerable spots. The spots where it hurts the most when you push hard. Which is what you start looking for when one of you falls out of love without the other’s consent.

Friday night, sleepy time?

2007-11-09T18:20:00.000-08:00

We've entered the dark season. One of my favourite times of the year.

Andy laughs when I say that. "You love them all," he teases me.

Secundo doesn't know if it's time to get up or time to go to sleep. "Wate up?" he asked just before 6 this morning? And then, not quite 6 pm, he cocked his head at me and asked, "Sleepy time?"

"Just dark," I said."

We ate mashed potatoes and had pancakes for dessert. Secundo came up with the postres. Rooting around in the frig, he found the last egg and suggested, "Pan-tates."

After syrup Primo lay on the pink loveseat in the living room in his pj's and asked me to massage his feet. "More tickly, mama," he requested.

Then Steph came to pick them up for the weekend.

"Go home?" Secundo asked me when Steph arrived. I nodded. He ran to get his coat, placed it down on the floor in front of him, stuck his arms in the armholes, flipped it over his head, and voila, he was ready to go!

I kissed the boys good bye and fought tears for a few minutes. I always feel a pull into the quicksand of grief, failure, loss when they leave. But my brother Joe, with inimitable timing, called to remind me that this is the first day of my weekend of writing! I am writing a novel, did you know?

Then I sat down at the computer. And wrote the first line. Two, actually. Here they are.

If I had killed him when I wanted to, would I have any chance at true happiness? Say I’d done my time and was found to be rehabilitated, what would it take to put this behind me? Was I ever going to wake up in the morning to hear birds chirping and feel the sun of hope rise inside me?

OK, that was three. Hey, I'm a writer.

Stay tuned!

Into the Light

2007-10-29T22:12:00.000-07:00

Secundo’s been talking about lighthouses for a couple of months now. He tells a story of a little boat, lost at sea, in the dark. His eyes get big and round as moons, and his little mouth purses up like a gorgeous kiss and makes that cute “oooooo” shape when he says, “No moon, no ‘tars. All dark.” And then there’s the Light House. Which shines a light onto the dark water. And allows the boat to find its way home. All very meaningful to a two-year-old, no doubt.

So when Andy and I take off for the San Juan Islands this weekend, I’m pleasantly surprised to see lighthouses everywhere. On Friday we ride the ferry from Sidney to Anacortes and watch the harvest moon rise up out of the North Cascades. First a single mountain tip glows, then that fat old orange moon comes sailing up over snow-capped Baker, like a kid’s balloon. Somebody must be crying ‘cause they let go of the string. But where we are, it’s only awe and excitement: everybody runs for their cameras. Young and old alike gaze at nature’s beauty and feel the magic. How often do you exchange goofy grins with strangers on a boat?

Some moons are bigger than others. That was a big one. Maybe it didn’t help that I kept asking for more: more clarity, more consciousness. Problem was more confusion is what kept coming up. Challenges, things that aren’t easy to deal with. Andy asks if I expect him to support me. Yes (wouldn’t that be nice), and no (I’m growing up, finally!). Primo’s six year molars have at least another three months to go and they pain him until he cries most days. Secundo is sad every time he leaves me: more tears. And then there are my own tears and fears -- I have to keep the faith. Andy and I have a conversation about Angelina and Brad – what kind of parents are they? Andy figures the nanny does all the mothering in that family. I freak – my kids spend many of their days with caregivers and I’m being the best mother I can be. I consider packing it in – how will I become financially independent? (It’s in my best interest to do that as soon as possible, that’s advice from the BC Families in Transition Society (because I asked).)

Annie Lalla had a hard month too. That moon was drawing it out: pushing us to give it up. Ain’t nothing to hold onto. I want to be free. More than even that, I want my kids to be free.

“The storm abated,” writes Annie. “The sky, presently, is clear. The only thing I know is what I know NOW. Each NOW that presents itself is without any fear.”

On Saturday, on San Juan Island, I ran (westward I go free) and the story (my next novel, the one that’s going to become my meal ticket and turn me into a breadwinner) plopped itself right into my arms. The whole damn thing, just like that. And then Andy and I walked along the beach at Cattle Point while sea lions tore apart a small seal and seagulls caught the chunks that flew out of the water and Magic followed us over rocks and driftwood and tried to drink from the ocean. Then we went back to our cabin on Snug Harbour and made love. After that I read. We went out for dinner. On the drive home I cleaned my comb. And – hey -- I didn’t feel guilty. That’s a switch. That’s the switch.

“Mumma go away?” Secundo asked with his cheek against mine yesterday when we returned. “Stay Dada house.” Yes, darling. “Mumma here now. Go mumma’s house?” Yes, darling. He hasn’t started to ask why yet, but I answered it anyway. This is part of our life, I told them both then. Saying good bye and being apart will always be part of our life.

I hoofed it up the mountain this morning. OK, it’s only 800 feet high, but I can see the peak from my house and believe me, it’s as powerful as any mountain, specially how you can see the world from up there. I hadda go to Braefoot and drop off Primo’s lunch first and he kissed me good bye, right on the lips, without wiping it off. That’s when I know he means it. After that I ran and ran, and sat at the top for a while, and gave thanks.

Why do you do that, Andy asks? To plant seeds of gratitude. Why? He wants to know. Because sometimes there’s only the dark. No moon, no stars. Why no light, he asks? Why do you ask me these questions?

He pushes me, doesn’t let anything slide. Down the rabbit hole we go. At least he’s such good company down there. I’m interested, he said the first time he did it. At that my defensiveness quickly changed to ownership. Take for instance the rabbit hole at Cattle Point this weekend. I tell him I think Primo has challenges in his life that make it harder for him than some other kids. I see a happy, normal kid, Andy tells me. At the bottom of this hole, I see that I’ve been projecting my own “poor me complex” (which I’ve come by honestly, no doubt). And I want him to be free. I don’t want him to go through life with my baggage.

At the top of the mountain I feel all the love that’s in my heart. Thankful, I burst with it. My life is so good. Except for when it’s not. Hey, I can sing because I know how it feels to be free. And then, then I’m walking down the other side and another wave of grief slaps me sideways, and I fall down clutching my heart. Fuck, that hurts. And I’ve gotta act like it’s OK when I drop the boys off, when we say good bye -- again.

I’m looking for other people who are going through this. I don’t care if you live in Kalamazoo – I’d love to connect. It’s not easy.

It can be easy, says Andy, if you let it be. Oh, damn it, maybe I don’t want to let go of the pain. I stopped going to Bikram yoga because every frickin’ time I did the camel a whole lot of grief came pouring out of my heart and I’d spend the last half an hour of yoga licking the mingled tears and sweat off my skin. How much sadness is in me? I think I’ve accelerated the grieving process with all that hot yoga. I do know that it’s time to stop crying, at least in front of the children.

So I go climbing at the gym now, call people dude, and crank until I can’t even bend my fingers, much less hold onto anything. Now that’s letting go.

I will do anything – run, sit, pray, fuck, write, laugh – rather than go to that place of darkness. A friend of my friends in Canmore took a swan dive off Ha Ling on purpose. And she had a good life, so they all said, two kids among all the other stuff. Hey, I feel for Britney Spears. I am sad and it’s OK. I move us along. This is how it is now: it is good. That’s how God does it.

I’m not the only one. Andy’s grandfather reminded him of this after Andy found his wife in bed with another man. I know Steph is often lonely when the kids are with me. And I’ve had the majority of them so far. (70/30, now it’s 60/40). My friend and her partner have his kids with them 50% of the time. Sometimes when they leave she says he walks around with that sad look on his face. “But I don’t want it to be this glass half full thing when they’re not with us,” she says. I so agree. This is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. And that’s probably because I think it’s hard. If I thought it was easy, would it be?

Yesterday Secundo fell asleep at 5:30. Any two-year-old who doesn’t nap will crash at supper. Nothing cuter than the big eyes going down to half mast, the plump cheeks falling into the mashed potatoes. We put him into his bed in the light of the lighthouse lamp we found at Friday Harbour. When Primo dropped the Mousetrap game in their room, his little bro stirred, so Primo sang him back to sleep in a warbling Vienna boy’s soprana with an open throat. “That puts him to sleep, Mom,” he said. No doubt.

Secundo woke up at 5:30 this morning. Me and the boys got out of bed and turned the lighthouse on and read books. Then we went to Tim Horton’s for breakfast, filled up the car with gas, and explored Willows Beach – all before 8 a.m. I hold nothing back. I give everything to them. There are no blocks that keep us apart.

So, little men. I set you free. Free from the chains that still hold me. See that lighthouse shining across the water. Clear sailing. I’ll be right here beside you, even when we’re not together. And remember that I believe every person can be -- should be -- free. Starting with me. And I actively work to make it so.

I wish I knew how it would feel to be free

I wish that I knew how it would feel to be free
I wish that I could break all the chains holding me
I wish I could say all the things that I should say
Say them loud, say them clear
For the whole wide world to hear

I wish I could share all the love that’s in my heart
And move all the blocks that keep us apart
And I wish you could know how it feels to be me
And to see and agree that every man should be free

I wish I could fly like a bird in the sky
How sweet it would be if I found I could fly
Well I’d soar to the sun and go down at the sea
And I’d sing cause I know how it feels to be free

I wish I knew how it would feel to be free
I wish I could break all the chains holding me
And I wish I could say all the things that I wanna say
Say them loud, say them clear for the whole wide world to hear
Say them loud, say them clear for the whole wide world to hear

Lighthouse Family

Defeat

2007-10-23T22:23:00.000-07:00

Defeat

Three days in a row now I have pulled the Defeat card in my Tarot readings. I asked for inspiration, and each time defeat came up. What’s up with that?

When I see the word it resonates.

I am trying to believe in myself, that I can establish a career doing the things I love (writing, yoga instruction, facilitation of heart-centred conversations), but these days it feels like I’m trying to swim in molasses. Nothing seems to be getting anywhere.

Andy and I are working to set up housekeeping. He created a comfortable work station for me, purchased a new computer. And he’s urging me to get an ergonomically designed chair so my shoulder won’t seize up.

I am more comfortable in my life than ever before. It doesn’t hurt to do the work I’m doing. But stuff seems to get in the way. Today it was several conversations and Primo’s sore mouth. The not-quite-six-year-old is teething, those back molars are giving him considerable grief. Tarj Mann, the school principal, phoned me just before Primo was supposed to get on the bus for Kids Klub. I ran over there with Magic and found the boy playing rather happily in the playground. It was a glorious sunny day, warm, absolutely delicious. He was in his shirt sleeves. I walked him home in the mid day sun. He asked me if he could watch a movie when he got home. Hmmm, I thought, where is this going?

When we got home I administered some children’s Advil and had a chat with him. He said he’d been at Kids Klub too long the day before. As I thought. It’s a new child care arrangement for him. He’s with 5- and 6-year-olds in a school down the road. The staff are lively and young, but not exactly nurturing. There’s no couch or even an easy chair to relax in. I asked the staff if he could lie down if he felt tired. They say they have a sick blanket and pillow and they want to get a big red couch from IKEA soon. They put the order in and are waiting.

So, I tell Primo he can let the staff know if he needs some TLC and sign a waiver saying they’re allowed to administer Advil when the pain gets too bad. Then I leave him there, my heart aching, and promise to pick him up at 3 pm in time for soccer. Then I head home to a big discussion with Andy. We’re trying to prise apart the details of my separation agreement, legal requirements, and my financial situation so that we can add Andy in a smart way. I made a couple of calls, to a Family Justice Counsellor and the BC Families in Transition Organization. I got answers. We tried to fit them together into some picture that made sense.

Neither of us has ever paid attention to these kinds of details before, having lived 40-some-odd years of life flying by the seat of our pants. Now we’re trying to fly using instruments and maybe even a licence. I wonder if we’ll ever get off the ground. Andy believes we will.

Maybe my reluctance to believe this, my resistance to changing from winging it with magic, is what the defeat is about. I don’t want to give up my practices of spinning, communing with star people, and praying to an unknown deity. I’ve had a lot of success with these in my past.

However, as Simon says, these old structures might just be keeping me neurotic and getting in the way of actually doing what I want to be doing with my life. Which is writing books, teaching yoga, and generating money doing these things.

So, what’s my option? What’s the secret to good writing? “Eight hours and a comfortable chair,” advises David Quammen. Perfect – Andy’s got the chair covered, and I sat on it for 20 minutes today!

I bet if I do a Tarot reading now, it’ll look entirely different.

See -- Wheel of Fortune: The path of destiny. Karma on a grand scale. An unexpected turn of good fortune. A link in the chain of events. Success, luck, and happiness.
Excuse me, I’ve got to get back to work

Faith on a Rainy Morning

2007-10-18T09:58:00.000-07:00

9 am, a rainy morning. Primo’s at school, Secundo’s with Becky, there were smiles today when we said goodbye. I’ve got a few hours until Kindergarten pick up time. My first response to this rainy day was tears. An on-line tarot reading presented me with the Five of Swords -- defeat!!?– what’s up with that?

A Shambala Sun article mentioned that one of the biggest challenges of our time is focus. I struggle to maintain mine. I sit on the edge of the futon that’s spread out behind me in my office (my ex-mother-in-law is visiting, she’s moving from house to house with the boys). She’s struggling to reconcile herself to our new life arrangements. A few tears fall. I let them out, then breathe. Just a few conscious breaths uring which time I ask for more consciousness. My to do list forms itself in my head: I’m ready to go to work.

At my computer I have a look at a link Steph sent me: an article in the Globe and Mail talks about Cate Cochran’s new book, Reconcilable Differences: Marriages End. Families Don't. “It shows that many people who divorce go to extraordinary lengths to recalibrate their relationships. The effort is to create security for their children.” The article says this requires a great effort by all involved and does ensure that we finally grow up.

That’s exactly what we’re doing: last night Andy and Steph went climbing at Crag-X. “I had fun,” Andy said, and it’s not just because he’s a slut for climbing. “We really bonded. I'm getting to like him.”

I’m grateful for all that. Yesterday Andy also suggested to Steph that one of the prerequisites of any new woman in his life be that she’s cool with me and our new relationship. He nodded at that.

There is only success in my life. “Oh my God,” I said this morning when I slipped back into bed to wake up Andy and felt the heat of his body on my skin. “That’s what you were saying last night, babe,” he says, and kisses me. Oh my God.

At the edge of the futon I sit, bow my head, allow myself to focus: my new work, my new life, my new love – this is all I have to do. I breathe out: thank you, thank you, thank you.

The rain falls. I am life. It flows through me. It is me. All I have to do is trust. What do they say about faith? Faith is a bird that feels dawn breaking and sings while it is still dark.

The street is black and shiny with rain, and the brake lights of cars stopping at our corner turn the puddles crimson, just like the flames of that Japanese maple tree across the street. Little kitten Leroy Snuggles sleeps curled up on the futon behind me. I’m sitting here in this gloomy morning, singing as I write.

More Beautiful Than Angelina Jolie

2007-10-16T09:47:00.000-07:00

Raven Lodge sits on the boundary of Strathcona Provincial Park, Vancouver Island’s rugged mountain wilderness. Andy and I lace up our boots and head into Paradise Meadows with Magic, our old black Lab. It’s a nice name for a piece of boggy subalpine sparkling in the sunshine, the undergrowth bright with October red and gold.

I skip along the boardwalk that skirts the bog and disappears into the trees. After a few kilometers of sniffing that yummy mountain scent we stop for a snack, make friends with dogs and fellow hikers, and enjoy the sparkle at Helen McKenzie Lake. It’s our first foray into the mountains since Andy left the Rockies this autumn to move to Victoria to live with me and my two young sons. He’s pumped about exploring this new range of mountains. A spire of ice beckons him in the distance. He’s psyched to discover new rock and ice climbing and hiking possibilities.

As the sun starts heading into the west we’re excited about returning to the truck. Fourteen-year-old Magic’s tired, her head’s hanging low and she’s plodding along. I’m satisfied and inspired by the day and looking forward to the parking lot -- it’s always good to head home, right?

But as we reach Andy’s cherry red Tacoma we discover that my car keys (my Subaru is parked in our driveway in Victoria) are in Andy’s pocket and Andy’s keys are locked inside the truck. We can see them through the driver’s window. I look at him: “Oops!” I say. His reply is unprintable.

He feels stupid. I did the same thing a few months ago, so I know it can happen.

Anyway, it’s beautiful at Raven Lodge. Sun still warms our faces, not bad for mid October. Plenty of people coming off the path flash us smiles. BCAA promises to be here in an hour. A friendly couple with two kids sticks around to make sure we’re OK. A couple months ago they stopped to administer first aid to someone and the husband, a doctor, got a broken arm for his trouble. But they’re still willing to help. We exchange stories of how we met our significant others. And laugh a bunch. Another guy leaves the warmth of his car to gift us with apples. Three young men with heavy packs return to their car to find it dead. They get a boost from our new friends too.

A woman from Roycroft and her kids come over to give us water and shoot the breeze. “We forget to bring our snacks along on the hike,” they commiserate. We’re laughing and trading stories in a second. When we meet like this, it’s amazing how quickly we get to the heart of the matter. People share their most important tales with us. This girl’s boyfriend had heart surgery to repair his aorta. He got tired on the walk. That woman’s son had a bad heart when he was born but he’s OK now. This other woman’s friend is the head of cardiology at a major hospital in the east. The heart connects us: we find points of intersection in our lives that we are eager to share.

Angelina Jolie has nothing on this young woman who holds her boyfriend’s hand the whole time. Her smile is as wide as the movie star’s, and as lovely. Up there at Paradise Meadows, as the sky goes slate gray and the day grows cold, I see the beauty in everybody. We wouldn’t have been here to see it, without this silly mistake. Interesting.

The hour turns into two. The sun sets in a blaze of autumn glory behind that inspiring spire, is it Jutland or Regan? The friendly couple’s daughters are sleepy and they have to go home. The other family smiles apologetically and they head to their Toyota. We smile and wave at our new friends as they leave.

Now I notice that my fingertips are numb. I snuggle up with Magic whose body warms my legs. It’s getting dark and Andy is getting impatient. He feels responsible, and begins to think up solutions in case roadside assistance doesn’t show up. We hold hands and start walking down the road, more for something to do than because that will help. 100 metres along we hear a diesel engine labouring up the hill. That’s gotta be our ticket home. It is!

The guy from Alpine Towing has three handy little tools that have the Tacoma unlocked in seconds. Andy’s glad he didn’t kick the back window in. I’m thrilled to climb into the front seat and crank the heat. But I’m also thrilled that we had this chance to sit atop Mount Washington and soak the October sun into our hearts in the company of some really cool people from the Comox Valley.

This isn't Easy for Andy

2007-09-28T17:52:00.000-07:00

“This isn’t easy for me,” Andy tells me. He’s just read Whaleback Wedding, Steph’s latest entry on the Uncoupled Blog.

It’s hard for him to read the intimate details of my life with Steph. And not even from me, censored to protect him, but raw and unedited, from Steph.

I think it’s easier for Andy to hear about the tough times, the difficulties, the bad years, then the good times, the sex, and the commitment I had with another man.

Andy says: “You know that I’ve been in love with other women.”

“You mean I’m not your first?”

He laughs. “Nope. I’ve had sex other women and I’ve had fun with other women too.”

I pretend shock. “But not as much fun as with me.”

He keeps going. “I was married – in a church and everything.”

I nod.

“But you don’t have to read about it. I don’t tell you all about it.”

“Do you want to?”

He pauses. “Not really. And I understand that you, as a writer, need to talk about it. To share it with the world.”

“I want to hear whatever you want to tell me about your life,” I tell him. “I want to hear your stories about mountaineering, ice climbing, and walking the dogs. I want to hear about your exes, your relationships, your wedding. Those are all parts of you that I want to know.”

He smiles, and looks at me. I look at him.

It doesn’t really matter who came before me, because here we are right now. All that matters is what Andy learned from the women who came before me, and what that learning brings into our relationship.

And then we stop talking. And start enjoying the exciting and, yes, skilled, lovemaking which comes, let’s face it, thanks to our previous partners. What we’ve learned, discarded, kept, and grown culminates, let’s also face it, in this particular version of us – remarkable, top drawer, very, very fine.

The next morning Andy, Steph, and I meet for breakfast at Floyds on Quadra. I order the Roy McFarlin (like Roy, I always order the same thing: two eggs, potatoes, a piece of toast, coffee). Steph has Listen to Me When I’m Talkin’ to You, Son” (add sausages to mine, and substitute tea), and Andy has the Kilamanjaro (he would) which is a mountain of French toast topped with dollops of whipped cream that look suspiciously like clouds (Steph says, “Can you say 200 and five pounds?”). We laugh. It’s all pretty chilly, actually.

We discuss the boys, the parenting schedule, child care providers, and other details that must be dealt with. Then we do a personal check in. I report on how I’m doing with letting go of the children when they’re with Steph, my piece to struggle with. Steph is sitting every morning and inviting his demons in for tea. Andy admits it’s challenging for him when he reads the Uncoupled blog. “You guys are still very involved with each other, and in trying to figure out your new relationship. Most people would have no relationship with their ex,” he says. “In fact, they’d likely be pissed off and wouldn’t be defending him.” He looks pointedly at me.

It’s true. I appreciate how tricky it is for Andy to accept that the biological parents of children will have a relationship, and it’s up to us all to define that relationship. And that it’s trickier still for Andy that I am in the habit of still looking out for Steph.

I am flooded with love for Andy. Right there in Floyd’s. I honour Andy for his openness. The wide open door of his heart and the open embrace of his arms and his mind that is so adept and flexible. I’m frankly amazed that I found this man – actually he found me a dozen years ago – who can handle me and my whole thing. That he doesn’t only handle it, but he actually directs a lot of it. He’s into it. It's not his first rodeo -- he knows what he wants from me too. It’s pretty cool falling in love at 40-something: there’s still a lot of juice, plus there’s some wisdom gained from all those damn mistakes.

I fell in love with him in like 100 emails. “He’s my ex, you’re my sex,” I wrote to Andy one night in the dark when we were getting reacquainted. I pressed send with god in my fingertips, my pulse at 120. And then I sent him my phone number and as soon as he called, I said I love you. That was exciting too. I know what I have.

And I know that he loves me, just as bad. “I want to hear you say it,” he tells me. “You love me,” I tell him. He nods. “You love me,” I say it again. He laughs. “You love me!” “I do, baby.”

Andy gets that this is about growing up. About, as my friend Jeff says, how mature adult love is the ability to see past the flaws and once again perceive perfection. About living a life that serves as a suitable model for the innocent and sponge-like boys in our care.

As my 44th birthday approaches, I am thrilled to be feeling the original me that has always been here, that doesn’t age, and also that evolutionary self that keeps learning and getting, as the ad says, not older but better.

Steph and I are defining the “ex” thing in a healthy way, pioneering it. And Andy and I are creating our own thing now, just as creatively.

Growing Up

2007-09-24T15:07:00.000-07:00

I received some books in the mail the other day, a nice surprise. It turns out they weren’t intended for me – and that makes me appreciate them even more.

Especially the one called Finding Meaning in the Second Half of Life (How to Finally, Really Grow Up), by James Hollis.

That title struck a chord because, well, I turn 44 this week, and just the other day I went to see a spiritual teacher (upon the advice of my therapist, Kira MacDuffee) who had exactly two words for me: GROW UP.

Ana-Karyn Garcia, an artist and psychologist who founded the Bioenergetics Institute in Ottawa, the Ana-Karyn Foundation, and Club Yoga, and who teaches innovative tools that link the body, mind, and spirit is the person who didn’t mince her words.

“So, what can I do for you?” the Latin woman in a white turban and robe asked me when I sat down in front of her in Kira’s cute little cottage on the Gorge in Victoria.

I started crying immediately. “It’s my two kids,” I blubbered. “I have this 30-70 split with their dad that’s becoming 60-40, and moving to 50-50 in the next few years.”

“And?” She raised an eyebrow beneath that imposing turban.

“I’ve accepted that it’s good to be uncoupled. Their dad and I are creating an awesome relationship after being unhappy for some years. I’ve got a new man in my life who loves me and loves the boys. It’s all good. But I can’t stand being away from my children,” I cried, not bothering to wipe away my tears. “It’s just not right to be separated from them, not even for a day!”

“Oh,” she raised a hand to her forehead and pretended to swoon. “All this drama. Weeping and carrying on. When there is nothing to cry about.”

“They’re my children,” I insisted, quite certain that she doesn’t have any. “It’s not right for them to be away from me. They’re mine!”

“Yours,” she laughed. Then she became stern. “They are not yours!”

That stopped me in my tracks. Not mine? I was nauseated for nine months twice. I excreted what felt like two bowling balls from my vagina. I became sleep deprived, post partum depressed, and left the work force for them. Not to mention that I gave up the life I lived for 38 years to figure out how to incorporate these two new humans who came to me. And now that I have finally found my groove, I don’t intend to give up on being the best damn caregiver I can be. Which means, in my opinion, just being there with them.

I looked at her, a bit pissed.

“Not yours,” she repeated.

“Oh” I burst into fresh tears. “You mean like that poem that starts like
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
-- ” (Kahlil Gibran didn’t have kids either).

It’s nice and inspirational on one level. In reality, well, my stomach drops at the thought of my kids away from me HALF THE TIME!

“You are caught up in this drama,” said, more gently now. “Wasting your time with all this crying. Getting in the way of yourself and what you are meant to be doing with your life. You have an opportunity here. Everything is aligned for you. Take it. Don’t mess it up.”

Oh.

“Get on with this 50 and 50. You’ve been living like a teenager long enough. Grow up!”

“It seems evident that not everyone should be a parent,” writes James Hollis in that book Jeff sent me by mistake. “Perhaps at best only half of us are mature enough to undertake the role of caring for a child, a task which legitimately asks considerable sacrifice of our lives. Such sacrifice is well compensated because the parent-child experience can be so rewarding, and can powerfully charge our own developmental agenda through relationship with the intimate other. Still, for many, productive parenting is a task of which they are incapable, for they are unable to differentiate their own sense of self from the child’s. Until they can be wholly responsible for their own journeys, and not project it onto the child, such parents are not grown-ups either.”

My challenge now, as Hollis puts it, is to differentiate my own sense of self from my children’s.

Hmm, I’ll have to work on that. I hate it when they’re not with me. I notice that my mind goes into scarcity mode regarding time with the boys. I start obsessing: I’ll see them for half a day on Monday and all day Tuesday and Wednesday, but not again until Friday and then Steph’ll have them on the weekend... I move forward and back in time, searching, adding, subtracting. More, I always want more. And, given my needs to take care of my self, to generate income, to write, and to also build my relationship with Andy (and have fun!), it seems to end up that there’s never enough.

Good thing I had an eating disorder when I was younger. This is just like that.

In those days, all I could think about was food -- peanut butter on buttered toast, or ice cream and granola. I spent all my time formulating when I could have that food, and what I would have to do to earn that food. It feels like the same thing. It’s an obsession, and it’s based on a fear that there isn’t enough, that I can’t get enough of the boys, or that they won’t get enough of me.

So, what helped me with the food thing?

I stopped defining myself by my body image. I learned to love and respect myself. I believed that I deserved to eat enough. And I began to trust that there was always going to be more by actually eating enough every time I ate.

Is any of that applicable for me right now?

I do identify and define myself as a mother, frequently above all other expressions of myself -- writer, friend, daughter, sex kitten, et cetera. At a three-day contemplation retreat where I asked myself, “Who am I?” I didn’t get much farther than mother. I recognize that I place a higher value or importance on my children than I do on anything else. I know that being with them gives me great pleasure, it defines me, and it fulfills me deeply.

Do I love and respect myself? Well, that’s a work-in-progress. I put a lot of pressure on myself to be perfect when I’m with them. I have to constantly remind myself that I’m doing the best I can. That I am a great mother because I am doing my best. And that great mothers make mistakes. That mistakes are just part of life – after all, that’s what I want to teach them!

Do I believe that I deserve to eat enough? Well, I’m not talking about rice and beans anymore. I’m talking about writing and being me. All of me, just not mother.

“What usually has the strongest psychic effect on the child is the life which the parents … have not lived,” wrote Carl Jung.

Hollis says what Jung means by that “is that where the parent has stopped growing, is intimidated by fear, is unable to risk, then that model, that constriction, that denial of soul will be internalized by the child.” Feeding my soul is as imperative as feeding my body once was. That’s what I do when I’m not with my children.

Do I eat enough every time I eat? Oh, oh yes. When I am with my children. I am with them. I don’t think about writing, checking emails, or meditating. I watch them. I experience them. I incorporate them into my life. I observe them as mindfully as I try to observe my breath in meditation, or my body in yoga. I get my fill. Yesterday Primo rode his bike without training wheels. This morning Secundo spoke a four-word sentence: “Go Mama house ‘morrow?” He said it very clearly, and he pronounced house like howf. And then we saw three deer and Primo said, “This is deer world.” And he told me he’d never watched deer for so long before.

Do I trust that there’s enough, that there’s always more? I choose to believe that. Instead of cutting up time into the chunks of when I’m with them and when I’m not, and constantly coming up with too little, I believe that all their experiences are valuable and precious. Not just the ones they have with me. And I do the same for myself.

And I bloody well rejoice when they are with me.

“I want my mommy!” said Bill.
And the baby owls closed their owl eyes and wished their Owl Mother would come.
AND SHE CAME.
Soft and silent, she swooped through the trees to Sarah and Percy and Bill.
“Mommy!” they cried, and they flapped and they danced,
and they bounced up and down on their branch.
“WHAT’S ALL THE FUSS?” their Owl Mother asked.
“You knew I’d come back.”

Secundo always laughs when I ask,“ What’s all the fuss?”

And there’s such relief and happiness in our voices when I say, “You knew I’d come back.”

Letting Go

2007-09-18T07:48:00.000-07:00

I’m officially not a single mom anymore. Andy’s here. He’s moving his stuff in even as I write. Six months after we met -- again -- (we first got to know each other in 1995, but at that point in his life, he didn’t want kids and I couldn’t shut the damn alarm off on my biological clock) he has given up his life in the Rockies where he lived for 14 years, sold his house, left his friends behind, and today there are boxes piled in every corner of my little house.

Not only has he brought his stuff, he’s brought his big heart, his broad shoulders, and his wide open arms. What more could a woman ask for?

“I'm embracing us with open arms, no reservations or expectations. A very real feeling.” He wrote this to me one night six months ago, when we realized – with surprise and delight – that the escalation of romantic emails had led to love.

As of last Thursday, he’s here: in my life, in my heart, in my house. And not only does he love me, but he also loves my kids. What else a woman could ask for?

“I never wanted kids,” he told me early on. “And I can’t believe how much I like yours. I would have missed out on so much if my life had just continued on the way it was going. These boys are a real gift to me.”

Face it, girlfriends, with that, he was in. That’s the ultimate test!

Or maybe, the ultimate trial is what happens when the rubber hits the road. Like one morning in Canmore when we were on holidays and Secundo woke up early – not unusual, but this time I was grumpy. Andy took one look at me and got out of bed. “Let me do it,” he said gently. “Oh, no,” I said. “I’ll adjust my attitude in a minute … or two.” (The only thing worse than being grumpy with the world’s cutest two-year-old, is feeling guilty about it …)

Andy got my attention. He touched my forearm and looked into my eyes.

“What?” I said, a little irritable. It was after all, not much more than 6 in the am.

“This is a partnership, remember?”

“Oh,” I replied. “Yeah.”

“So, get back into bed and I’ll go hang out with the boy.”

All righty, then, more points.

In fact, I give him full points for integrating into our family unit -- not only has he figured out how to get a diaper onto a twitching toddler (insert on head first, imitate Elmo, tickle, then attach around butt with left hand while holding shiny object in front of the child with the right), and implemented the habit of drinking warm milk before bedtime, but today he once again asserted his weight in our partnership by asking me to stay home while he picked the boys up from their caregivers and delivered them to their dad’s house.

Secundo was sick and needed cuddling. I wasn’t there to do it. When Andy told me about it, my guilt bloomed profusely. (Are you noticing a theme?) But before I could shed the tears that welled up, Andy said, “It’s important for you to let me learn how to comfort him, and for him to learn that I can comfort him too.”

There’s a lot going on here. We’re all working hard. The little one who at two is adapting and adjusting to being away from his mom for three days every week. I who am letting go of the boys into their father’s care on those days and into Andy’s arms too. Andy who is opening his heart to all of us – including my ex. And their father who is accepting another man into his sons’ lives.

At five Primo has naturally moved on from momma. When we pick him up from his caregiver he races right past me into Andy’s arms. But a two-year-old is still all about his momma. I don’t want to let go of being the most important one in his life. There’s this feeling of pain in my chest, and nausea, that comes with that surrender.

But maybe it’s not about me. Maybe it’s more important that I think of him. What are his needs, given that it’s a fact of our life that he spends three days away from me?

He needs to learn to be secure and confident when he’s away from me. He needs to be comforted by the others in his life. He needs to be secure and confident in both his homes. Most importantly he needs me to be secure and confident, to be OK when he’s with me and when he’s not.

That’s my job right now. To let go of my children long before I imagined I would. Long before they push me away because I’m embarrassing them. Long, long before they’re heading off to Europe to go traveling or to university to study archaeology or Braille.

I have to let them go. I have to live with my grief without letting it taint my relationship with Andy. I have to allow them to have a full life with their father where I don’t get to see everything they do, and miss out on some of their milestones like when Primo lost his first tooth, or hear all the funny things they say (like That spider is going to grow up to be a tarantula, or Are we just puppets, or the two-year-old version of Dammit!).

So, I do. And I also build my relationship with Andy and launch our new life. And make damn well sure I write. I am not going to waste this chance, not going to dis this gift from the gods.

I am very thankful that Andy’s here. With Magic. “I like dogs now,” says Primo. And the Underwood Number 5 and the German bullet that lodged in his Dutch grandfather’s shoulder, and his mushroom lamp (yes, you heard that right), and his big heart, his broad shoulders, and his wide, open arms.

“It's crazy you’re in my head so much,” he wrote to me back when we were still talking via email. “It's scary and wonderful at the same time.”

“What’s scary about me?” I asked him

“Nothing,” he wrote back. “That's why.”

When I read that, my heart opened up in that way that made me believe what they say about the unconditional and limitless nature of love.

And with that newly opened heart, I love Andy. I love the boys. And I love myself. In fact, I can’t see that there’s ever been a more important time to love myself. To forgive myself for the grumpy mornings. For the times I make mistakes, when I trip and fall. To treat myself with the same gentleness and respect that I give to the boys.

Now, it’s time to go have dinner with Andy. To eat food without a wriggling toddler spilling cheese on my lap, or a lippy five-year-old insulting the cauliflower. To have wine instead of whine. To discuss matters of great import (or small) without someone asking how pillows are made.

To go and listen to my lover, and learn something new about him today.

To feel the grief in one of the chambers of my vast heart and to also feel the happiness and the gratitude and the love.

The week before school starts

2007-09-10T14:09:00.000-07:00

Primo started Kindergarten today. Last week we went camping on the Juan de Fuca Strait at a beautiful place called French Beach, me and my two sons, boys who will be men one day.

We left the city on Tuesday at noon after running around all morning. Doing errands with two boys in tow takes twice (thrice?) as long, especially when one of them is two. But eventually, and with patience and humour, we bought tent pegs and propane, filled the car with gas, purchased stamps and mailed my letters, and we were off!

“Is it a long way?” Primo asked as we started. “An hour,” I replied. “What’s that?” So I counted to 60 minutes by fives using five fingers for each increment. He settled back. “That is not a long time.” Secundo had already closed his eyes and turned his forehead into the side of his carseat. I put on some tunes and the road trip began.

I took my first road trip with the boys last summer when my marriage was on the rocks. I didn’t know what else to do. Home life was hard, but I understand the road. We drove to Jasper along the gorgeous and wild north Thompson River. We’d ride when Secundo napped, and stop in the middle of the day to eat and cuddle and nurse and play. I met my cousin at the campground in Jasper and she marveled at my audacity to do it alone. I had been living with such chaos in my personal life since Secundo was born. Being on the road and in nature, living outside the box, going with our creative flow, this seemed natural and healthy. The boys responded to my confidence, and to the inner peace I found on the road.

This trip had nothing of that desperation to it, and all of the enjoyment. We wound our way along the coast and found the French Beach campground by early afternoon. Primo nailed the perfect site. Number 11, it turns out, has a path that leads right down to the beach. Where we went as soon as I had the tent set up and the boys had slugs in our immediate vicinity counted.

The beach is covered in rocks. Harsh as that sounds, it is actually the essence of feminine: each rock is smooth, finely sanded, unique and beautiful. Primo went to water’s edge to play in the surf. Secundo climbed driftwood. And I lay down on the warm rocks. After the packing and driving and setting up, I needed a rest. Then the sun came out and melted the fog and I came alive. Scents of ocean, sand, fir, iodine. The beautiful coast emerged, and a warm, mellow September sun enveloped us. Eventually I sat up, watched the boys. It is one of my highest parenting value – one that Andy and I share with their father -- to have the boys enjoy and explore nature, and to play on their own. I make sure that we get out regularly, and I’m talking daily. Sometimes it’s a big trip, like this, other times we visit local beaches or our neighbourhood nature preserve, Swan Lake, where we have a favourite rope swing in a willow tree beside a winding stream.

They will learn all that the world requires of them in time. Reading, writing, and the more sophisticated skills will develop as they begin to practice them. But to start, I am grounding them in the experience of their bodies on this earth. And in the joy of life that comes from being free in this way. Primo dances with the surf. Secundo tumbles off a log. I watch and smile. Stand on my head. Lick rocks.

Hunger drives us back to our campsite. Together we pour water into the pot, light the stove, cook the pasta, add the cheese, stir, and serve. Primo makes loud noises of delight and hugs me in appreciation of the fine meal. Secundo happily scarfs his meal. I’m thankful for the calories. Then there is a slug hunt as I wash up and we head back to the beach. This becomes our routine for the next three days.

One day we drive further up the coast to Botanical Beach which is renowned for its tidepools. We explore, Silas trundling over the beach on his sturdy feet. But Primo has other priorities. He has seen the surf crashing at the farthest reaches of the rock, and he leads us there, along narrow ledges where the ocean seethes, over long fingers of rock where the ocean licks, and out to the point where waves pound onto the rock shelf, spray up like geysers, and wash over the rock like waterfalls.

“Wah-tah-fah,” Secundo says it too. “Tide poo-ah.” He speaks deliberately, slowly. He learns new words every day. I can now have a conversation with him. When he fusses we tease him. “Are you two?” “No!” he shouts. “No.” And then he laughs too.

Finally Primo admits he’s cold and we turn back. It’s a long walk back to the car, including a kilometer hike up a hill. The five-year-old says he can’t do it, and I grab his hand and, with Silas in the backpack, we hoof it up the hill like the little engine that could. “I think I can,” I chant. “I think I can. I think I can.” This is actually another of my strong beliefs, one that I teach to my children: we have the power to create, to form, shape, and make. We must face our feelings, feel them, and often overcome them to achieve what we want and need to achieve.

Back at number 11 we slip into our domestic routine. No slug can hide from boys’ eyes. And I learn how to remove slug slime from little fingers (a dry washcloth and lots of rubbing). The boys play with sticks – what more do they need? We bang pots and sing as we walk to the drain. Pooing and peeing are both more challenging (I forgot to bring Secundo’s little potty) and easier (he runs around half naked most of the time and I clean up after him like a dog). The highlight of our trip was discovering a van that had a picture of Scooby Doo painted on it. As its drivers looked for a campsite, we watched it circle the campground, its engine loud, passing by us again and again. Where would Scooby settle for the night? Frankly, I love the child’s world, the child’s perspective. It is fresh, purely creative, and so alive. My spiritual practice is to be present with them.

We went to sleep with the sun and woke with it. Nature’s rhythms matched ours. I found it so easy. Of course, I did not have any distractions, nor did I expect to have any time to myself or for my own pursuits. Even yoga became a game. They hung on my back when I was in down dog, or to tried to push me over in headstand. I was all about the boys, which is pretty much how I parent when I’m on my own. We became a unit, and worked like a team. We did everything together. I loved it.

Upon our return home we maintained the unity, put away the camping supplies, dried the tent, washed dishes. Played with the sticks they dragged back with them. And morphed back into our home life, sunburned, salty, and full of nature’s power.

Today Primo started school. Sat crosslegged on the carpet when Mrs. Birch instructed “Criss cross apple sauce.” I know that school will teach Rio many important skills. And it’s my job to ensure that Rio has the exposure to nature that he needs as an earthling, to develop all the other parts of his beautiful and divine self.

no offense, ma'am, but

2007-09-03T10:54:00.000-07:00

The other day we got home late after looking at the stars out at the Observatory. Silas was past sleepy, well into grumpy. Rio was limp, less than half awake. We drank warm milk and the boys fell asleep as soon as their teeth were brushed. I put away the milk and loaded our cups into the dishwasher. At ten pm I checked my phone. Two messages. I’ll listen, I thought, then go to bed.

Two hours later I was saying good bye to a very unusual police officer who gave me even more hope that the world my sons are growing up in is on track.

Here’s what happened.

The phone messages were unnerving and a bit creepy. A young man used my name and spoke nonsense in a singsong voice. The creepy part came when he invited me for coffee and said I should bring that little “Simon” with me. He also left a number and asked me to call him. I called Andy and I called the police. The dispatcher had me trace the call and she promised to send an officer to my house.

As I waited for the cop, I felt a deep first chakra fear that turned the contents of my bowels into liquid. Feeling threatened in my own house like that, I also hooked into my mother bear instincts. I knew that I could kill to protect my children.

Andy traced the number the caller left to a gay bar on Johnson Street. Dialed the number and talked to the young man who answered the phone. Could be the prank caller was a bored drag queen looking for a little thrill while the night was still young.

When the cop came I’d already calmed down. I ushered him into the house and offered him the pink chair in the living room. He was a young man. He sat down heavily in the chair, rubbed his eyes, yawned, and looked around. “This is a nice room,” he said.

“Yeah, I love this old house,” I replied. “It’s a gem.” After some chit chat we listened to the messages together. I was a little surprised to hear the cop laugh at the first message, off-the-cuff sentences that rhymed but that didn’t make any sense.

I laughed too, then, my fears abating. “He’s pretty good,” the cop said when it was done. “He can make it rhyme like that. I can’t do that.”

I smiled. Played the second message. Creepy, but more theatrical than pathological. Not entirely nice, but not dangerous. Designed to get a reaction.

The cop made a report. Took down our names, birthdates. When he’d finished writing the boys’ names and birthdates he paused for a minute, then looked at me. “No offense to you, ma’am,” he said. “But your boys and I have cool names.”

His name is Damian and he appreciates his parents for not calling him Sarah or Ryan. No offense to them, either.

“Well, I think we come with names,” I said. “As parents we just have to figure them out.”

He processed that.

“You got kids?” I asked.

“Not yet,” he said. “I’m only 26. But we will, one day.”

“When you’re ready,” I said. “You gotta be ready because it changes your life.”

He nodded.

“Yeah,” I forged on. “Be prepared. Because, speaking as a woman, it changes your life a lot. More than you think. So, just be supportive.” I wanted to tell him everything I know. Everything I’ve learned in the last six years. But I distilled it. “Just be right there and follow along,” I said. “Expect things to change and go with it.”

He nodded some more.

“It’s a lot of fun too,” I say. “Never a dull moment.”

“No doubt,” he said. “Here’s the file number. Call if he bothers you again.”

I thanked him and ushered him to the door.

We said good night.

“Just live your normal life,” he said, as he stepped out of the house and pulled the screen door shut behind him. Then he turned to look at me through the screen. Smiled reassuringly. “And love the earth,” he added.

“OK,” I said, and watched him get into his car and drive away. “Good advice.”

They’re obviously turning out a new breed of cops these days. Ones with cool names and open hearts.

Laughing at Bats

2007-08-29T23:57:00.000-07:00

This evening Secundo and I watched the sun go down at Willows Beach while Primo hunkered down by a tide pool and counted snails. I swept my eyes across the water, saw it go from pewter gray to purple, and in between that crazy shade of pink sunset blue that disappeared in seconds. Ahh. We packed up our nets and bucket, and two sandy, blackberry stained boys and I headed across the beach.

“Mama tar,” Secundo said, pointing from the breakwater. “Go home.” He’s making two word sentences now. We piled into my Subaru, grabbed handfuls of cashews, and drove to our little yellow house on Cedar Hill Cross.

At our new table – Andy brought one truckload of stuff with him this week! -- we drank warm milk with caramel flavour, then brushed teeth and washed sticky hands. I saw that the soles of their little feet were dirty as they climbed into bed. Who cares, I thought, it’s summer.

I read Secundo a book about earth movers while Primo made hand shadows on the wall. “This is a hermit crab, Mom,” he said. “And look at this, it’s Scooby Doo!”

Then it was bedtime. “Turn out all the lights,” Primo said in a voice that slurred. He sighed blissfully when the room went dark. “My stars are glowing.” And so they were, on the ceiling above his head, a crescent moon too.

Secundo took a little longer. At 10 pm he said “Poo” and we went to the bathroom. He deposited some in the potty then wandered around saying “Honey,” in his little Vienna boy’s choir soprano voice. “Honey. You know what? Honey.” He’s so damn cute I could just cry. And usually I do.

They came back to me today. After two nights and three days with their father. When I cuddled Secundo to sleep I didn’t recognize the smell on his head. An unfamiliar shampoo, or maybe his caregiver’s perfume. God, it’s hard to let them go.

Yesterday I went climbing with Andy and Shannon. Pulling myself up a rock face, balancing and pivoting 10 metres above ground, using my toes, my fingertips to hang on – this is a new passion for me. Andy loves climbing and he thrives on instruction, so he makes a great teacher. He promised to have us climb until we were exhausted. But after only three climbs, my energy flagged.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Secundo. My two-year-old. Not with me. Two nights away every week. Soon to be three. It stops my heart beating, and I gasp for breath when I think of it.

“I can’t have fun,” I said to Andy while I was belaying Shannon. “I feel so guilty when I’m not with them.”

I saw a shadow cross his face.

I pulled Shannon’s rope taut and watched her struggle on the rock. “I’m going to put my toe on that? It’s not going to hold me. And that little chip? It’s not possible to hang on to only that.” Fear. The unknown. Difficulty.

“Try it,” Andy said. “You can do it.”

“I can’t!”

“You might be surprised.”

She did it. Dug in her toe and hauled herself up with her fingernails. She was so proud of herself.

That’s what I do every day that my kids aren’t with me. July was particularly bad. The feeling of missing them was torture. I cried a lot.

“But it’s all so good,” Zana said. “It’s all so much better now.”

Yes, it is. Yes. Yes. Oh, yessss. And I will not tell you it doesn’t hurt. It just feels wrong when they’re not with me. Sorry.

Andy and I had dinner at 8 pm last night. Just the two of us. White Truck chardonnay. Halibut in a maple syrup tamari lime sauce. Steamed veggies. Fresh brown bread with butter. Yum. Then we made a fire. Made love. More yum.

But before the fireworks, I shut down, couldn’t keep my mind off the boys. I knew they were safe with their father. Well taken care of. Absolutely fine. And still, my mind went there. Is Secundo away from me too much -- he’s only two? Do they have enough of me? Do I have enough of them? This isn’t OK. How do I live with this?

I know it’s not easy for Andy when I go into this funk. He loves the boys. He shares the pleasure and delight that he takes in them. “I never wanted kids,” he tells me. “And I’m so happy that I’m not missing out on this!” He says it’s beautiful to fall in love with them as he falls in love with me. He is patient and sympathetic, and he wants me to move on, to be happy, to have fun.

Me too. And I am. But this is going to take the time it takes.

My friend Judi says it’s impossible for me to let go. A mother can’t. It’s simply not possible. All I can do is trust that all is well. And find a tiny hold on the rock where I can place my fingertips and pull myself up.

So, that’s what I do. Give Andy one last kiss before he drives his Tacoma back to Canmore where he will put the finishing touches on his house so the new owners can take possession of it in a week. Then he’ll move here to be with us. Forever.

As soon as my work is done, I cycle off to fetch Secundo. “Mama!” he runs to me, his two-year-old feet are getting more and more adept each day.

Ahh. Bliss. It feels so right when he’s with me. When we are together, it doesn’t matter that we were apart. He is fine. Glowing, bursting with life. Tonight at the beach he watched bats fly for the first time in his life, and he laughed. Threw his head back and danced his hands in imitation of their erratic flapping flight. Then let loose with that glorious, gurgling chuckle that makes anyone in a three-metre radius laugh along with him.

I did. So did his bro.

This is my lovely life and I am swimming in every beautiful wave of it.

Wants and Needs

2007-08-28T12:44:00.000-07:00

What a baby wants is what it needs. Attachment parenting proponent William Sears says this. Milk (food), touch, and being held are the obvious early needs. As the baby becomes a child, this becomes trickier. Obviously we’re not going to give our kids everything they want. So, how do we determine their needs?

Well, that’s a good question. One that I answered by looking at my own wants and needs. Could I separate the two? This contemplation – over years – led me to respect my own wants, and this has allowed me to open my heart – to myself, my children, and others in my life.

What about night time parenting – do our children need us at night? I struggled with this in the early days of parenting when Primo woke many times in the night to nurse and to be comforted. To answer the question I turned to my own life. I had company in my bed at night. I love to stretch out a foot and feel the warm sleeping body next to me.

Mammal babies sleep in a heap. It’s how we start life, cozily curled up inside the mother, lulled by a heartbeat. I love the idea of maintaining this sensuous connection.

What I didn’t like was being the only one to respond in the night.

I set myself up for failure when I began to do all the night time parenting. I had the breasts, after all, and he had to function during the day. We did sleep in a family bed for a while. This worked better for me, as I could easily roll over to attend to the baby, and cuddle with the other child. I learned to enjoy the pride of family. But in the end, this sleeping and parenting arrangement contributed to a further breakdown of my relationship with the kids’ father.

What I learned is that night time parenting requires teamwork and discipline – just like day time parenting. It’s a process of graduated steps that happen naturally when the child – and parents – are ready and paying attention.

Something interesting happened last night. I woke up to hear Secundo crying. It was midnight. I went to him. He had climbed off his little bed and found his brother who was sleeping in a nest on the floor. He tried to curl up with Primo but he was confused, only half awake, and crying. I pulled him back up onto his bed. We had a cozy cuddle and he fell asleep.

Around 5 am I awoke to the sounds of the two-year-old crying again. I was alone in bed. Andy had gone to Secundo. I listened. There was a lot of crying and I intended to help Andy if the crying didn’t stop. It did. Then it started again. Stopped and started.

Should I rescue Andy? Five months into parenting my two kids – is he ready for this? And Secundo – is he ready? He’s not with me every night (he spends two nights a week with his father), so when he’s in my house, I give him as much of me as he needs. I couldn’t sleep with all these thoughts.

Finally I walked through the dark kitchen and living room to the boys’ bedroom. I whispered quietly, “Do you need my help?” “No, thanks,” Andy answered. “Let me do this, please.” I respected Andy’s wish. I surrendered. Let go of my primal need to respond to my child.

Maybe it’s me who needs him, I thought. And more importantly, Andy is ready to take responsibility. He needs this opportunity to practice. And Secundo needs to learn that Andy can comfort him. This is a partnership, Andy often reminds me. That’s the way it works in a family.

Half an hour passed. Finally there was that thick, dark silence that comes with sleep.

When Andy came back to bed he gathered me in his arms. “Thanks for that,” he said. “It was hard, but we did it.”

Over toast and coffee at breakfast Andy recounted the tale of night time parenting. When he went to Secundo in the night, the boy only wanted me. “She’s not here,” Andy said. That was not the right answer. Secundo wailed. “No, no, Mummy’s asleep,” Andy corrected when Secundo finally took a breath. “We don’t want to wake her.” Secundo took some shaggy breaths, and leaned into Andy. Then started up again.

Andy picked him up and carried him into the living room. “Look,” said Andy. “It’s dark. Sleepy time.”

“Nigh-nigh,” said Secundo. “No, no.”

“It’s OK,” Andy said. “You’re OK.”

“Mummy,” Secundo pleaded.

“I’m right here with you,” Andy reassured him.

Finally Secundo relaxed. Stopped crying. And leaned his head against Andy’s chest. “Should we get a sleeping bag for you?” Andy suggested. “Just like your brother.”

“Yeah,” Secundo liked that idea. “

They lay down together. “Mumma?” Secundo asked again.

“I’m here,” Andy said.

“Mummy?” Secundo held onto Andy’s finger. Relaxed. “Daddy,” he said and finally succumbed to sleep.

Andy didn’t dare move until the boy was deep in. Then he extricated his stiff shoulder from under the slumbering body and headed back to our bed. Dazed, dozy, blissful.

That’s how the attachment grows. That’s how the bond develops. I step aside and let Andy do some of the hard work. It’s ironic that what I used to dread – the night time parenting – is now a joy and a privilege that we share and appreciate. That time of the day is so tender.

In the end, a mammal’s needs in the night are so easy to meet: comfort, touch, reassurance. A mother can provide this. Siblings too. Father. Dada Andy. And when the boy’s ready he’ll sleep through the night -- look at his brother. Primo didn’t wake through any of that. I didn’t believe it would ever happen.

Now I have faith. And I’m not in any hurry. I’m so enjoying this lovely time of our life.

Every Little Thing

2007-08-27T14:54:00.000-07:00

Today in the change room, after 90 minutes of Bikram, a sister yogini came up to me and said, quietly. “I don’t mean to pry, but I saw that you were upset earlier, and I hope everything turns out all right for you.” I smiled at her. “Thanks,” I said. “Thanks a lot.” She walked out without a backward look. But it helped.

In the busy of world of business-y Bikram yoga, in the change room full of women surreptitiously checking each other’s between-the-legs hairstyles and comparing the thin-ness of the other girl’s butt floss (or maybe that’s just me?), I love finding (and making) the connections. Wendy, a friendly teacher whose philosophy I appreciate, pressed on my sweaty back during rabbit pose today. “Let it go,” she said into the mike around her ear. “Let go. Release. Whatever it is, it’s OK. Just let it go. There it goes.”

My intention for today’s class was this: I want to learn what it is I need to let go of so that I can write. I’m talking write. Blog. Articles. Novels. Publish. Sell. Succeed. What came up was that I have to let go of worrying about my kids when they’re not with me. I have to let go of feeling guilty when they’re not with me. I have to BELIEVE THAT THIS IS ALL WORKING OUT PERFECTLY! I have to trust that the two of them – two and five years old – have enough mummy, though they have me 70% of the time and it’s dropping to 60% next month.

God, just writing that on the page chokes me up. During class I was bawling. Quietly, mind you. But the tears were flowing, though I could hardly tell the difference between them and the sweat. Toxins – mental, emotional, and physical – released in those salty body fluids.

As I cried, I pictured their faces. That’s how I pull the weeds from my mental garden, as my friend Raj Pal Singh recommends. I saw Primo’s smiling face, all pink and healthy, highlighted by his long white-blonde hair that curls as it touches the back of his neck. And Secundo, still baby chubby, he is sturdy and so yummy I could eat him up. He is a happy lad, at home in the world, confident, secure, with an infectious chuckle. I know they’re both good. They have me. They have their dad. And they have Andy, my new partner, who is developing a beautiful bond with them.

So, what am I crying about?

Maybe it’s just an old pattern. It’s a habit, worrying about stuff. I’ve lived with anxiety for a lot of years. Probably since I graduated from Grade 13 and didn’t know what the hell to do next. Am I safe in the world? A lot of things eat rabbits, you know. And I’m a rabbit from way back.

As I lay in sivasana after tucking my head between my knees and lengthening my spine, I realized that I’ve made it through seven days without being terrified. That’s a record. After twenty-five years of anxiety, a week without worry is strange. No wonder I was worrying about the boys. My mind was struggling to get back into a known pattern.

Life without anxiety is very smooth. It’s peaceful. Calm. Quite nice. Maybe even a little boring? The trick is to learn to feel comfortable with feeling at ease. That sounds strange, but it’s part of neuroplasticity – creating new neural pathways. The new healthy pattern is going to feel weirder than the old crappy one that you want to discard – at first. After a while, the new pattern becomes the norm.

So I shed a few (pounds of) tears. But I didn’t wallow in the pain. I practiced visualizing happy, healthy boys in the context of my new life with Andy. Putting the children first, that’s the secret to successful uncoupling. When mama’s happy, so are the boys. I pictured the boys with their dad, they need him and he needs time with them to build and maintain their relationship. I know they are fine. So am I. Better than ever.

Everything is turning out all right, thanks, I want to tell my friendly yoga sister. But she’s already pulled on her panties and gone home. So I do the same and I head out into the sunshine too. And home to write.

Today

2007-08-17T17:41:00.000-07:00

Friday, August 17. 2007.

A day for a memory books. I don’t know why. Some days are just like that.

We’re up early, 6:16 am and the boys are alert. I’m groggy, stumble as I flip the switch to the kettle. In a matter of minutes I’ll have tea.

We pick up where we left off yesterday, with books from the library. Silas pores intently over his book on earth movers. “Digga, mama!” he says triumphantly, pointing with that all-knowing index finger. Rio is paging through a Space Brats book. It’s years beyond his reading ability, but a sign of times to come. I’m reading “a poignant novel of love in the tradition of Danielle Steel.” The author seems to write about two books a year, and she sells a lot of them. Can’t hurt to figure out her secret.

The day takes off. Race car. Meteor. The TGV. With boys, that’s how it is. We head to the swimming pool for an early morning dip. Silas slows down to glazed eyed contentment in the hot tub while Rio floats across it like an astronaut. Then it’s cavorting and noodling about in the water until hunger forces us from the pool. In the change room they munch on peanut butter and jam sandwiches while I blow dry my hair, and then theirs.

Home to a Magic School Bus video. More PB and J, and then we head out again. This time we make for the Goose on my bike with chariot. Silas sits in a bike seat in front of me and his helmet bumps against my chest as I cycle. We chat together up there and Rio complains that he has no one to keep him company. Just before we get to Quadra we spy two diggers. Oh joy, oh bliss.

The blackberries are ripe and we get off the bike to graze, munch, and laugh. Silas squishes berries between his toes and Rio hounds me until my container is full. Then he sits down to devour it.

On the way home we stop at the rope swing, a length of rope attached to a willow tree branch which overhangs a little stream that meanders beneath a picturesque bridge in the Swan Lake Nature Sanctuary. We’ve spent many happy hours there getting muddy and screaming, “Who’s that trip-trapping over my bridge?” Rio grabs the rope and lets his lithe body crisscross the stream. He is light as air and full of sunshine.

The ride home is mellow. I’m tired. Doing everything with an extra 70 pounds attached is a good work out. My endorphins respond daily. One of the two diggers is still hard at work, filling a dumptruck with top soil. We pause to watch. Now our day is complete.

In the door and I prepare more snacks. The little meals are never ending at our house. Rio eats all the chicken breast and Silas and I share a salad and salty peanuts in the shell. I offer him nuts, but he prefers to crack the peanuts open with his teeth and fish them out himself.

Rio is the deep thinker. On our holiday to Canmore he asked questions like, “Did someone make us?” and “Are we just puppets?” Two-year-old Silas, on the other hand, is still soaking up the world around him. His favourite things are digga’s, polee-tah’s, and menna (concrete mixers).

Twenty minutes into Mr. Dress Up their dad comes to pick them up for a weekend of camping on Hornby Island. He shares his fries with them and then we have to say good bye. I belt Silas into his car seat and he grabs the back of my head, pushes it toward his face, closes his eyes, and kisses me passionately on the lips. Three times. Rio pecks me politely and swipes the back of his hand across his mouth when I pull my head back.

They’re good boys and I love them. And now I have a weekend to myself. Yee ha!!

I add ylang ylang to the hot water in my bathtub and sink into a full blown vision of the novel I’ve been writing in my head for the last seven years – que sorpresa. I’ve already written three versions and vowed I won’t start the next one until I know how the story ends. (I paid good money to have them try to teach me that at Ryerson.) No more fumbling about in the subconscious of my creative mind. I’m actually tired of getting lost. I have a hankering to know where I’m going.

I’m ready to shine a light on this thing. And sell a million copies – a la Syrell Rogovin Leahy. Maybe I should change my name too: how about Limon Ylang Grant? Or Penelope Pure Vida?

We’ll see. I’ll have to discuss that with my agent.

In any case, it looks like it’s time to start writing.

Yee-fuckin’-ha!!

The Stable Bow

2007-07-24T08:51:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was one of those tough days.

A day when reality was all about frustration, sadness, confusion, overwhelm … and whining.

Mama was all of the above.

Well, so was Primo, but with a day’s hindsight, it’s clear that Primo was my mirror.

A day later, I see that Primo was empathizing with me. Feeling my feelings, and not being entirely comfortable with them either.

That’s not to say that he doesn’t have his own feelings. He does. But kids (and I don’t know what the cut off age is here) have no filters, so when they encounter feelings, they feel them. That includes other people’s feelings, especially people they’re connected to.

Earlier this year I contemplated moving out of this house. I wanted a fresh start, didn’t want to live with the memories of life with their dad. I found an apartment and put down a deposit. But when I went back to look at it with my friend Peggy, we saw the threadbare carpet that they had promised to replace and the broken bits that the previous tenant said they’d never fix, and smelled cigarette smoke from a suite downstairs. I questioned my decision.

Was moving out of our house really the best thing for the children, or was I running away from my problems?

Primo always came to sleep with me in those dark days. The night that I discovered the unsuitability of the apartment, he dreamed this: we were lost and came upon two doors. We went through the first door and it was a trap! We managed to escape and when we got through the other door, we were home safe in our beds.

When he told me his dream early the next morning, I knew the answer: we would stay at home in our beds and deal with ghosts in the attic and skeletons in the closet and whatever other scary old patterns might arise.

And yesterday I was sad. I mourn my life as a full-time stay-at-home mom. I grieve the “loss” of my children. I am sad that they don’t live with me all the time. Anguish overwhelms me so that I often can’t work or focus when I’m not with them. It’s worse when the depression levels me even when I’m with them.

I ache to be with them when I’m not. I fear losing connection with them. I fear missing out on their milestones. I don't want to miss important information. Will they still learn my values, share my beliefs? What about when they want their mama? This is their time of life to have me.

They’re good company. I’m used to being with them. They make me laugh and love and sing. They leave a hole when they’re gone.

From my five and a half years with kids I know that there’s always going to be another chance. They are so real, full of life and love. They learn -- and teach -- every moment.

Life with kids, even if it’s not 24/7, is crazy. There’s always plenty of opportunity for learning and growth, for patience, and pleasure. Yesterday started in tears and ended in laughter. As our bedtime snack ended, Secundo’s clean up attempt inspired a Jackson Pollack-type design in milk and soggy rice crispies beneath the kitchen table. “But I just mopped that floor!” Andy exclaimed. And then he laughed.

There’s always ample opportunity to laugh. And laughter, as they say, is the best medicine. My day full of tears ended like this: on a bathroom floor slick with bath splashes, I turned to sit Secundo on the toilet and skidded on the wet floor. We never made it to the toilet. I wiped out with Secundo on top of me, in the middle of another expressionist painting, this one done in poo.

The laughter felt good, an antidote to the pain in my coccyx and the suffering of the day.

I am their mama. I love them when they’re with me and I love them when they’re with their dad. It’s not an easy balance. But it’s our life.

On Children
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let our bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.

Kahlil Gibran

Let Destiny find its way.

2007-07-19T22:03:00.000-07:00

Kat: I’ve said before that Andy and I met in 1995. It was autumn, I was moving into my own place, a basement suite on Wolf Street in Banff. As usual for those days, I had no furniture. I walked into Yogi’s Second Hand Store looking for a bed.

Andy remembers that meeting: “The first time she came in the store my mouth dropped and my cock went rigid. She was stunning. I was too chicken to make any kind of talk, rare for me since things like this would normally be easy. Her beauty was mesmerizing; it stopped me dead in my tracks.”

Kat: Here’s how I remember it: The guy working at Yogi’s was really friendly. He seemed to go out of his way to help me out, promising to keep an eye out for what I was looking for, which was a bed. And he kind of stayed behind the counter most of the time I was in the store…

Andy writes more about that: “So we started a conversation about what now my mind can’t remember, but she was there for a while. Before she left it was arranged that I would come to her place and make a log bed for her to sleep on. She left. I sat there dumbfounded and in love. Yeah, weird, for sure. Maybe it was lust, probably was, but back then I didn’t really know the difference between the two.”

Kat: I walked out of there feeling good. Friendly guy, a person I could trust. Nice to have a man looking out for me. I was pretty guarded back then, but I did count on his help with the bed. Little did I know that he was already imagining sleeping in it with me. Guys!

Andy tells more of the story: We became good friends but to this day it is still a blur. I remember spending time with her, always laughing but not really getting into anything too deep. By deep I mean really opening up to each other in telling our feelings, thoughts about life and relationships.

Kat: Yeah, we had fun. Nothing serious. We painted my place and he always fooled around and laughed. Once he painted over my back with a roller – I think I was wearing only a sports bra, or something like that. I didn’t want to get paint on my clothes, and I knew intuitively that I was safe with Andy. I think we were siblings – maybe twins – in another life. We just get each other. And we’re unbelievably compatible. Our values match on a very deep level.

Andy: Then one day she came in and told me that she started dating this guy and that we would have to cool it down.

Kat: I met Steph. In those exact days I was on the hunt for the father of my kids. Andy never wanted kids. He tells me we talked about that. I don’t remember the conversation, but it must have registered. At that point in my life, kids – well, kid -- were the bottom line: I was ready to meet the man who would bring them to me.

Andy: It hurt so badly, but I didn’t show it. I stood tall and took it like a man. Ha, more like a fool. What does that mean I took it like a man? It means I didn’t show any emotion. Now I think that it is a fool who doesn’t show emotion, not a man. A man is someone who allows his feelings to show whether it is sad, happiness, excitement, or weakness.

Kat: After I told Andy about Steph, we spent one more evening together. I owed him a massage, and I remember that experience. I honoured Andy that night for being a good man, for being my friend, and I was sorry that he wasn’t the one. But it wasn’t our time.

Andy: I went out to Vermillion Lake. Magic and I just sat in the weeds and thought! I'm sorry. It's too bad. I was really happy for her. But I'd be lying if I didn't tell you I wished it were me. Destiny? What is it?

Kat: Yeah, destiny. Good question. It’s a beautiful mystery. I don’t want all the answers.

Andy: Here’s what I wrote to her then:
When I return from seeing you
I sometimes feel so confused.
When times get rough
I fall back on my senses.
I can't help but feel so in love with you.
It's hard to play cool
but when you've fallen in love
it's tough to keep it in tune.
It's strange the way things turn.
One moment you feel so strong
then the next moment you feel so weak.
Don't give up because time will tell.
I must learn not to push a good thing,
take it as it comes.
Let Destiny find its way.
You see her walk,
you see her talk,
you see her smile,
the only thing you think of
is to make
and keep her
always so happy.
For when she's happy you're happy.

I've got to stand tall,
keep my senses in focus.
Don't let time beat you ... Don't give up.
Time will tell.
There's a time and place for love.

Nowhere in life is it written when or where
but try to grasp that moment when it's there.
For if you don't you will never feel her love.

The thing that can be so special
is when you both can feel so in love
and feel as one.
You look across a crowded room
and she gives you a smile.
That only you two know
that a love so strong is there.
It's nested between your hearts and souls.
Only the two of you can feel

Kat: And here’s what he wrote to me now ...

When I return to Canmore after seeing you and the boys
I feel so strong and happy.
When times get rough,
I fall back on my senses and know how much I am loved.

I can’t help but feel so in love with you.
It’s hard to play cool, but really who cares.
I’m just me with you.

I find that we are always in tune -- now and back then.

It’s strange the way things turned out.
One moment you think about life one way and the next the other way.
There are moments you feel strong and moments you feel weak.

I never gave up hope.
I did not push and I waited and our destiny found its way.
I see you walk.
I hear you talk.
I see you smile.
And, I will always make you happy.
For when you are happy I am happy.

I stand tall.
My senses are always on.
I never gave up hope, and time was on our side.
What is time?
Love was found!

Nowhere in life is it written when or where you will meet.
But, I grasped that moment when I found it.
Now, I know what love is. It is Kathleen.
We have found that love and feel as one.

I look across a crowded room
And she gives me a smile.
That smile tells me that I am hers and she is mine.
It is nested between our hearts and souls.

Not only do we feel it,
but also the world sees it too.
----------------30---------------

Prayers I Didn't Send

2007-07-17T07:59:00.000-07:00

The plant is an ivy
of some kind.

Even I
hardly a scientist
can identify it.

It grows at the side of
the dusty road in tropical
coastal rainforest Cahuita:

a hardy little plant,
a tenacious climber.

It's not climbing yet:

one rooted leaf
releases another shoot,
and the new leaf pushes up out of the dirt
in a pot on my kitchen window ledge.

It is a cutting from a plant
I gave Andy 11 years ago.
He took good care of it,
and now we stand,
and watch it grow,
his arms around me,
my body pressed into his.

Cordated leaves unfurl,
open into pretty green hearts
as alive and fresh as
the perfect children
who live with us --

two boys
gorgeous little men to be
who come to me with their boo-boos.
Not that finger,
this one!
I kiss it better;
what power I possess,
their mother.

Ha!

I drop to my knees,
give thanks.

“Romantic love pales in comparison,”
I wrote to Andy in the beginning,
“to the love of a child.”

Their love is given
pure and free and whole,
as big as their open hearts.

The forgiveness in their love
is what Christ taught.
70 times 7,
and that’s only today --

there is always another opportunity
to try it again,

always another chance
to get it right
next time.

Day by day
their faces open,
their eyes widen,
their hearts reveal

secrets of the universe
undreamed of
and hoped for.

“Maybe we just haven't found the right person yet,”
he wrote back. “I like to think one can have a significant
other that would feel the love just the same.”

“The child comes to us,” I responded.
“And it’s our job to accept him, as is.
Can romantic love do that too?”

“I never gave up hope,” he reminds me.
“I did not push and I waited
and our destiny found its way.”

Here,
in this home,
in this life
the little plant,
the young boys,
the two of us
find space to be
ourselves.

I turn around, face him:
“I love you," I say.
“You are the answer to prayers I didn't send,
you make dreams come true that I haven't dreamed yet.”

"Shh," he presses a finger to my lips.
He points to the plant.
Steadily, it grows,
another leaf, and then another,
the pulse of life recorded
in its progress.
Love in the very definition
of this emergence.

“But to be forgiven, you must first believe in sin.”
Jewel

How I Used to Feel

2007-07-15T13:39:00.000-07:00

Today I remember how it used to feel.

Becoming a mother was not easy for me. Giving birth, that was not the difficult part. No, redefining myself as mama, giving up what has to be surrendered to take care of needy mammal human babies, that has been the challenge!

Primo is 5 and a half, Secundo will be two this week.

My life now is different than it was when I started on my journey of motherhood. I no longer live with my boys’ dad, and for the next few months I’m still mostly a single mother when the boys are with me, which is 70% of the time (for now). Their dad and I uncoupled and adjusted rather quickly to being parents rather than spouses, and I have a new man in my life who knocks my socks off. He loves me, he loves the boys, and he’s moving here to be with us in September.

I am so much happier. I have time to myself, clear spaces where I do not have to focus on the children and can allow my mind to dwell in the deep places my soul wants to explore.

I am their mother when they are with me, and also when they are with their dad.

Mostly I enjoy this, and flow from being the mother on duty to being the mother at a distance. But sometimes guilt gets in the way and when I’m alone I sob and grieve. I know I am not alone; other mothers in my situation do the same. It’s normal. It’s getting easier. I’m letting it take the time it needs to take.

Last night Silas woke just as I was going to sleep. Do you know that feeling? “Sleep deprivation is a recognized form of torture,” my friend Mandi always says. Melting into sleep, hovering over the abyss of dreams and unconscious, I was awakened by a cry. Heart racing, mouth dry, I stumbled out of my bed to fetch the boy and carried Secundo back with me. Hoping he’d fall asleep easily beside me. But he didn’t.

He cried and cried and cried. “Wa wa,” he called, and he drank when I brought him a cup. Still he didn’t settle. “Bump bump,” he begged, and patted his own bum, indicating he wanted me to pat him to sleep. But that didn’t work either. “Doh!” he ordered when I asked if he was hungry. So we went into the kitchen, but he didn’t want food. He just wanted to be up. He looked out the window and said “Doh, car!” as the traffic light went green, and “’Top!” as the light went red. I see.

So, back to bed we went. Tears. Weeping, wailing, and gnashing of teeth – and not just him! I got angry. Remembered the five years of torture where I was the one who woke at night and got up early and attended to the children all day and did the night time stuff too. Often without a break. (There were reasons the marriage didn’t work…)

Two hours later we were finally asleep. And four hours after that, we were awake again – this time for the day.

Oh, it reminded me of my previous lifetime. How angry I was – at their dad, but it showed up as frustration with the kids. I know a lot of people have trouble parenting because their marriages are not healthy. I know many moms who lose it because they just don’t get the space and support they need.

The nuclear family sucks as a model for raising kids. It works for some, but not for many. In other times and other cultures, many more than two people raise the kids. Grandparents play a valuable role in spelling the parents and supporting the household. Extended family, community, and a network of like-minded people all contribute. All this is necessary, and frequently missing in our affluent, comfortable, easy society.

We all spent the morning being sleep deprived. I am out ahead enough to appreciate that I’m no longer depressed, I’ve caught up on lots of my sleep, and my bubble is usually in the middle, like the carpenter’s level that indicates when things are in balance.

But I did worry about Secundo’s behaviour. When their dad recently observed Secundo performing a tantrum, he was taken aback. “I’ve never seen that.”

Oh, really? What’s up with that? Is it something I’m doing wrong? (The guilty mother’s universal question.)

“They’re going to have very different lives,” my mom said when I called her this morning. “They live in two different worlds. They’ll have differences in behaviour because of that.”

Makes sense. Though there is no other separation in our family, she gets it.

And then she called back to say: “In my experiences, children were always much more free with our mothers. It’s not that we were scared of our dads (although in some cases, this was true), but we were differently behaved around them. With our mothers, we were ourselves. And didn’t hold back.”

I’ve noticed this. Look, I’m 43 and I still call my mommy when I have a problem. You should have seen me wailing away in the initial adjustment period of uncoupling.

I hold the space for my children to express themselves. I honour their feelings. What I want most for my kids is for them to be themselves. I don’t let them get away with disrespectful behaviour – that would be spoiling them -- but I don’t shut it down at the source.

Mothers and fathers play different roles in kids’ lives. When we are healthy versions of our selves, we can parent wholly. Co-parenting has an extra layer of challenges related to the disconnect between households; their dad and I work hard to be strategic and to communicate. Information flows between us. We do not have rigid boundaries.

Though I feel like molasses and fog today, I am not anxious. When they spend Monday night with their dad, I will sleep. I will have space to do yoga, meditate, write. Their dad will take good care of them. In September I’ll no longer be a single mom and the boys will have another loving caregiver in their lives.

We’re redefining family to suit our needs, and to reflect our family values, and it’s working for us.

2007-07-06T20:27:00.000-07:00

He watches the plant.

This is what he shows me:
a green tip pokes through black earth
reaches for light.

At its vertex, a drop of water
perches;
a jewel in its elemental setting.

As we stand together
at the window
we can see
the green shoot

grow,
curl,
unfurl,
open.

This is how he is fascinated by me,
this is how he observes me --

with curiosity
and diligence

and beautiful attention.

He is not looking for flaws,
he sees perfection.

This is love.

The Kiss

2007-06-20T06:30:00.000-07:00

Andy meets me at the Calgary airport. He tosses my bags into the back of his cherry red pickup and we head to Canmore where he lives. I lived in these mountains for 20 years. And today my two kids are with their dad in Victoria, and I’ve got three days to hang out with my lover in the mountain town I left two years ago.

Andy and I are good already after only three months (and that time we spent as friends 11 years ago) together. This getaway weekend is just what we need to nourish our nascent relationship. Andy puts on some tunes and we sing along with Frank Sinatra as the city recedes and we head west.

As the prairie succumbs to the big rock, I remember the decade I spent with the father of my kids in these same mountains. This particular piece of life – in a life full of meaning – was a potent chunk of life.

I finally learned how to stop running. I practiced commitment. Though we didn’t marry, I pledged to stay with it, no matter what. Which was good because we had children and if you don’t think that isn’t going to take you to the places that scare you, you’re not paying attention! We opened to the entry of two new humans who shared our DNA, we surrendered to the process of life as something not entirely (ha!) controllable, and we became aware of karmic imprints and entrenched neural patterning.

I see a familiar crest of hill, or something as equally innocuous, and -- why do I cry? Loss? Grief for what was -- all those hopes and dreams that didn’t come true? Or maybe it’s gratitude for the fantastic stuff that’s starting now? The overwhelming sense of trust I feel for the intangible yet impossibly powerful process of life? The opening and ripening of potential. The flipside of karma.

Tears slide so slippery and pretty over the crest of my cheek as we come down off Scott Hill and the mountains engulf us.

I turn my face to the right and look at the shapes of earth I remember from countless drives to the city and back home again. The cows and horses in the grassy fields are a reminder of how Rio learned to say “Moo Moo” and “Neigh Neigh” for their names. A train snakes its way through the valley, a Res dog lopes, head down, the aspens are so brand new, there's still snow in the heights. I see this place and that place that I know like the back of my hand, the silhouetted shape of a tuft of trees at the top of a rise.

I’m quiet as I cry, no hiccupping sobs, just measured breath and a lovely release of emotion as we move happily forward.

Andy blinks right and pulls off the highway, onto a side road. Where are we? Is this another way to get to Canmore? A back route I didn’t know about? I’m happy to leave the driving to him. I sit back.

He pulls over to the left shoulder of the side road, stops, shifts into first, and turns the engine off. He undoes his seatbelt. I watch him as he leans toward me. He removes my sunglasses and takes my face in his hands. Our eyes lock. In yoga this is called Trataka, a practice of gazing to develop concentration. When practiced eyes to eyes, it can bring two people into union, and teaches us that all human beings are one, we are not separate.

What exactly does that yoga babble mean? Well, we humans all share the human experience. Her pain is the same as mine, his happiness is mine too. My wanting is the same as the wanting of every other human soul. Who doesn’t ache to love, and to be loved? To be needed and to make meaning of our lives?

Andy’s hands are warm on my skin, his thumbs rest on my cheekbones, touch traces of my tears. He is quiet. There’s this elastic moment where the past meets the present and morphs into the future, and an entire mountain range of new possibilities thrusts up out of the earth.

We both track that, shake our heads in amazement, then smile to recognize where we are, what we have. Our love is new and already so strong, a hardy, practical force coloured with the rainbow of romance, imbued with confidence, and shot through with enough lust to make my heart beat faster as he pulls my face toward his.

Ah, he pulled off the highway to kiss me. He imagined this a few minutes ago, and here we are, in that gorgeous, thick, unwritten moment before the kiss. I feel longing and fulfillment. Desire and confidence. Welcome and excitement. A potent surge of energy erupts in the base of my body and gushes up through my sex, painting all of me with ecstatic bliss.

Dammit, get over here and kiss me already! Press your mouth to mine and in that meeting of our bodies we explore and communicate and share and release and rage and sing and laugh and ache and dance. In this union there is a promise of life so fine, the reward for good work, and the assurance of always more.

By the end of it we’re laughing and gasping, reaching for each other, pulling and grabbing. We want to get even closer, trying to prove that we are one.

Then we come apart, laugh, shake our heads, laugh again. He puts his seatbelt on, starts the truck, and drives onto the highway. We head toward his home, to a weekend together. Into our new life, whatever that may be, and wherever it will take us.

This kiss neither promised nor gave security, it was rather a dedication of themselves in comradeship to the danger and pain of living. And living is another word for creation; they knew that for one short moment they clung to each other; creation by body and mind and soul for a future of humanity whose nature cannot even be guessed at.
Elizabeth Goudge: Green Dolphin Street

Magic

2007-06-12T16:19:00.001-07:00

A current of excitement zaps me as Andy shoves aside some boxes in his attic and uncovers the old Underwood Number 5. Goosebumps jump up off my skin, the experience registers at the top of my inner Magic-o-Meter.

Who can trace the trajectory of the heart? What is the alchemy that creates reality from dreams? And which of our dreams are the ones that are meant to come true?

A thought memory of Andy – a hurtling neural riddle of convoluted connection -- flashed across the video screen of my brain for a microsecond in February this year. At the same moment, two thousand kilometers away, a mutual friend mentioned my name to Andy. He decided to contact me.

Wow.

The old typewriter sits in the loft of Andy’s garage, parked on the floor amidst boxes of stuff – there’s the Boston Bruins # 5 jersey he played in when he was a kid, a collection of pewter dragons and knights, pots and pans that belonged to his best friend who died climbing Mount Temple, and at least a hundred empty paint tins intended for recycling rather than the landfill.

Underwood Number 5, circa 1931. It is a lovely little upright machine. I kneel in front of it, sniff metal. The red and black ribbon that I remember from a previous lifetime curls around two spools. There is dust on the keys, the R is slightly depressed, and one silver metal hammer sticks up out of the gleaming sickle of silver keys. Memories crowd the door of my heart.

“That’s the last key you pressed,” Andy whispers. “What was the last word you wrote on this typewriter?”

In 1995 I lived in a small basement suite on Wolf Street in Banff. 32 years old, I was on my own. Still in the closet as a writer. Single, I wanted a baby. Was aware that I needed a man to facilitate that.

In a private ritual by a glacier lake I cast a spell. “I’m ready for the child,” I called out. (I suppose I could have whispered.) “And I know that means I’ll need to find its father.”

Boom. Mess with magic and you will manifest. Try it.

Men streamed into Evelyn’s Coffee Bar where I worked. They brought me roses, stories, and jokes, and offered me excursions and advice. One man brought me this Underwood typewriter when he uncovered my secret life as a writer.

Not all who approached were accepted, but I made a point of thanking the Universe for each one. In poetry I wrote on the Underwood Number 5, with this red and black ribbon.

I also dashed off grocery lists, and hammered thoughts into words on the old Underwood. I banged out my prayers. Transcribed my guilt into gold. And tapped out my wishes.

I looked ahead and trusted. I knew what I wanted, I just didn’t know when. Or how. I left that up to magic.

Three men made the final cut (wishes come true in triples, watch for this): one man I let go, the second became the father of my children, the third is Andy, my lover now, here beside me in the attic.

I lean into him. Exhale slowly. Shaken.

He didn’t want children. He had his reasons. We were friends for a season and then we went our separate ways.

The delicate nature of our reconnection – thoughts and mental images whizzing across the airwaves, delicate currents of heart connection, the impeccable perfection of timing – undoes me. On one hand it is so powerful, on the other, it feels like we could easily have missed all this. If any of the decisions made in the past had been different -- even only one – we might not be here, in love and marveling at the mysteries of the universe.

I inhale. Smile. Lean forward and breathe across the keys. Andy reaches over and releases the R.

I begin to write.

Boom.

Be afraid; it is not easy

2007-06-05T10:36:00.001-07:00

"Your children need your intact soul more than they need anything else from you."
Tina Pearson

This morning the ocean laps at the white sand of Willows Beach; I am content, satisfied, as full of salt and nutrients, wanting nothing but to shift my heavy waters in a tidal dance, to sink down and swell up in concert with all that other liquid life.

Colours morph, blue green goes gray, and a bulldozed bank of clouds at horizon blends new shades out of platinum water, blue sky, and sun sparkle. Constant change is the one thing we can count on.

I give thanks. Nothing is too small to escape the scrutiny of my gratitude. Scrape the barrel of your life and you will fill your belly with appreciation.

The children are with their dad this morning. I am alone at the beach, fully aware of the delicate and minute unfoldings of my vast and limitless soul. In a mountain town my lover prepares to start a new life with me, with us, at this water's edge.

In this new version of my life, my role of mother is redefined. In the beginning there was what I was given, what I didn't know. Then I opened my heart and I learned who I am not, only to have to face who I am now.

“Do I hear regret in your words?” Sometimes we need a teacher to point out our failings – Anne Douglas knows me. “What I see is that you absolutely couldn't have done this process any other way... because you didn't. The wounds, the disconnect, the betrayal, all arose within your brilliant Awareness for you to see through it ... and you DID!!! How excellent!”

My preconceptions and patterns were blasted out of the water of my karma, brought to light, and I am free to be me. As I uncurl from the fetal position, the intense pain of rebirth eases; I reconnect with friends, reopen to the world.

What else can I say, but find those opportunities life offers for transformation. Be afraid; it is not easy. The magic of neuroplasticity is potent, and it does require concentration, a certain stilling of the senses. Practice, practice, practice, pioneer, and I assure you, it is worth the work.

It feels brand new, like the first time. And this time there is no grouchy God to take away the apple. No. This gorgeous, holy body feels such pleasure, every cell, every curve of lovely skin, every chuckle, hiccup, burp, and fart is an expression of the divine.

Set your mark upon the path of the infinite. Go, take off your clothes and enjoy Eden.

And please, baby, tell me how it is for you.

the time we spend
as we pass this way,
we might not ever
be here again.
so hold on tight
to what you find
tom cochrane