The Academy Awards



Tonight is the 79th Academy Awards and though easy enough to sloth off as Hollywood glitz and fantasy, I remember the real excitement - Rob's, mine and the stars - fourteen years ago. I have never before or since experienced such glamour and luxury. Rob and I stayed at the Four Seasons Beverly Hills along with Morgan Freeman, Susan Sarandon, Tim Robbins, and Stephen Rea. I had my hair done at a salon on Rodeo Drive along with Elizabeth Taylor and Cathy Bates. (I don't often give in to name dropping but on this occasion, it's difficult not to.) We drove to the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion in a limousine with Morgan Freeman and his sister-in-law and walked into the building behind Jane Fonda. I had met Clint Eastwood, Richard Harris and Gene Hackman (touched him with Helen's borrowed jacket per her request) at a party a few nights earlier at the home of the president of Warner Bros. And at another party after the Governor's Ball, I sat in a booth, next to the one where Emma Thompson sat, and listened to her describe her excitement at winning a Oscar.

Rob says that this was the only time during his near forty years in the film industry that the making movies was truly glamourous. News crews came to our home and interviewed him. One even landed at his mother's doorstep in Sussex, New Brunswick. Radio stations called our hotel. And Rob, who calls himself shy and has always appeared immune to the hype of Hollywood and big names, was in his element. And looking back it was no small thing to be nominated for this coveted award.

Leslie said that it wasn't fair that I should be the one accompanying Rob. I rarely watched movies. I wouldn't know the labels of the designer fashion. Every year, she sat clued to the television watching the stars walk the red carpet. I seldom did. And this friend, who I miss, helped me find dresses, shoes, jewelery, to wear for the four ceremonies Rob and I attended. I felt like a princess and, for some vain reason felt especially honoured as the ceremony that year fell on my birthday.

This year I will spend my birthday in the south of France. I leave in a week and a half and will return in seven weeks. I am looking forward to the quiet amid the construction or deconstruction of our house, and to the hours on end of only my own company. At first, it will be difficult and then I will settle in and force myself to work.

Since Rob's mother died, I have been thinking of death or rather realize in a deeper sense that my time on this earth is limited. And since my mother has been visiting, I see too in a deeper sense that old age slows one down and if I want to do something and die a good death, I better get moving. I read somewhere that the greatest aging happens between sixty and seventy. (I imagine that there are exceptions.) And although Carolyn Heilbrun noted that women usually come to writing later in life, this isn't an excuse to linger any longer or let fear of being ostracized or ridiculed stop me from going where I want to go with my imagination, writing, even my life. (As I write this my monkey mind just came up with the refrain "Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party.") (And once again I am reminded of my Adrienne Rich quote: "there comes a time, perhaps this is one of them...) Somehow I have to find the courage to believe in myself and my writing and not worry about applause, recognition, or even of being read. Somehow I have to find the place in myself where I feel myself worth the bother of doing something solely for myself. I am hoping that I will find this place in France.

MOTHERS

Yesterday I felt helpless. My mother has been staying with me for three weeks and, for the most part, I've put my life on hold to be with her, to give her back some of the TLC she's given me. The loving part has been easy. I pay attention (my definition of love.) I serve her tea and coffee. I make meals. I do her laundry. I help her on her computer. I take her shopping - wherever and whenever she desires - and she has bought enough clothes to fill up a second suitcase. I follow her up stairs and come down before her when she is descending. She moves slowly but that's okay: I'm learning to leave lots of time when we have to be somewhere.

But last week, when she was staying with a sister and tried to manoeuvre the stairs with too much in her hands, she fell and bumped her head. Blood came gushing out. Thank heavens there is a doctor in this house and he tended to her wound. She appeared to be healing but three days later, in the morning, she called out to me. I could hear the helplessness in her voice. She had knocked her glasses off. I retrieved them. She asked me to get her teeth. I retrieved them, shuddering, and handed her the container with foamy liquid, saying I couldn't wash them for her. She said that's alright though she felt dizzy, nauseous.

I am not good around sick people. I am not good at telling another to take medication or assisting with personal hygiene. I shy away. I feel helpless so, in this instance, I called my sister. She said that we had to get mum to her doctor. I made an appointment and a hour later, this sister met me downtown at the doctor's office. He examined mum and said that she had a slight concussion from the fall, prescribed baby gravol for the nausea, and said that she couldn't fly Wednesday - her scheduled date of departure.

I felt overwhelmed and, I admit, frustrated; and unhappy with my frustration and me. I am a person who needs time alone - lots of time - and I do not do my own work well when there is someone around even when that person is as special as my mother. So one sister is taking mum to care for her this evening and will watch over her for two days, and another is taking her this weekend so I can get down to work and do the company books before I leave for France on March 6th.

But that's another story. And the saga of trying to move my son's car from a friend's carport that I promised to have done by tomorrow is yet another story of frustration. But what is one to do when one hires a tow truck to move the vehicle and the sad vehicle has sat too long and refuses to budge?

Oh dear, do I sound like a whiner and complainer? All of the above are small frustrations at self and others. Is it possible I wonder, on this sweet earth, to find serenity and time to create one's dreams?

HAPPY VALENTINE DAY



On Valentine Day morning, my love and I exchanged chocolates and cards. In the afternoon, I baked a chocolate cake, glazed it with dark chocolate and topped it with grapes and strawberries, cutting the three centre strawberries into the shape of hearts - pure whimsy - for a dinner party.

The hostess prepared mashed yams, topped with heart-shaped beets, and oven-roasted potatoes. Another guest served roast lamb, and yet another, a Greek salad. And so I sat, groaning with pleasure - though my love sat at the far end of the table - as each forkload entered my mouth. (This reminds me of my friend Susan who says the two best things in the world are food and sex and people do not talk about them enough or enjoy them enough.)

I am usually shy in the company of strangers and all at dinner, except my man and the host and hostess, were unknown to me; but, when the stranger beside me spoke about books and quoted Frances Mayes "I want to surprise my life," I told him about Leonard Wolf saying "Whenever you are saying or doing something that is too familiar to you, that does not let you surprise yourself, you should rethink your situation." The conversation flowed for the rest of the evening.

Usually, after several hours at such an event, I am anxious to leave but this was such a sweet evening, I lasted to beyond midnight. And the next day and today, I woke up thinking about ways to surprise myself - not what I should be doing but what I'd like to do, what would bring a smile to my face.

I have just read my daughter's blog - Confessions of a Young Woman - that describes a day grocery shopping in Toronto's ethnic areas. (She is such a delight, this child/woman of mine though, I know, she does not belong to me. Still a part of me is proud, joyous even, that I/we are responsible for her being here. She is such a sensualist, such a good writer, such a glutton when it comes to good food - more like her father than me in this area.) Rob and I had a thought that we might like to resettle in the heart of Toronto where there is so much colour and variety, so much art and theatre, so much that is accessible to older people. I am speaking of the future, of retiring...

It's strange for me to think of retiring from work when I feel as if I have worked too little at a regular job, one that demands exact hours and pays by cheque. And yet I don't believe that I have been idle. I have just not done work that pays well since I became a mother. Oh yes, I worked twelve years - on and off - at the store but it was never able to pay me a living wage. I am struggling at the moment (still) with what I want, need even, to make me like myself more. Would finding - if it is possible - a full time regular job that would give me some financial independence make me feel good? Or would saying to hell with it and concentrating on my novel bring me greater satisfaction- no matter that it would probably turn out to be a work of love without financial gain?

In the chapter "Your Only Wage will be the Truth" (in "The Treehouse") I am informed by Leonard via Naomi that one's relationship to one's creative work is most important: "The imperative is to keep doing it in the face of never being perfect. Or having a wide audience."

Leonard speaks from experience. His book "The Glass Mountain", that he believes is his best work, took over thirty years to find a publisher. He never doubted its value. I googled it: A review by Eric Burns in the NY Times says "Imitating the pattern and voice of classic fairytales, Mr. Wolf lends heavy psychological overtones to mysterious symbols as he weaves a layered and often compelling narrative that is as much about the tricks of storytelling as it is about love, guilt and redemption."

"The worst thing," Leonard believes, "is to come to the moment of death and discover that you've wasted your life."

The man attracts me. His daughter says that he was fascinated by human imperfection: "He spent the 1980s intrigued with the very darkest parts of human nature" and his resulting work appalled his mother and daughter. When Naomi questioned him, he said that his father had twelve siblings, six of whom were killed "in the ovens": "How can you pretend to be a humanist unless you are willing to look at everything the human soul is capable of? Milton knew that you had to sketch out Hell as well as Heaven to give the reader a true moral compass, to really engage his free will."

A paragraph down, Naomi reminds me of Marion Woodman, in speaking about her students who refuse to acknowledge their own dark side and in so doing, undermine their creativity: "Their denial of their imperfection, their potential for darkness as well as for light, would paradoxically, block the light they had to work with./ The same, of course, was true for me."

And me too...

I took a break from writing this blog and went into the "big" house. Rob said that he'd woken in the middle of night and hadn't been able to get back to sleep because he was worried... and he asked why is it always in the dark that worries, problems are magnified, appear most menacing, threatening, and when one wakes, one laughs at oneself?

I wandered into the kitchen and my mother was making herself porridge. I feel a little guilty spending so much time in my house this morning but she says she's happy enough to putter, to play on her computer for hours on end. This week we went to Seattle or rather Lynnwood and Bellingham so she could shop. My mother is passionate about shopping. She loves a bargain. I am not so keen though I did find a pair of jeans that fit me, finally, for 20 USD. Most of the time, I sat, outside the store, reading while my mum searched for a list of items.

Last night we went to my baby sister's for dinner and interestingly, Sarah Cheever's name came up in reference to her song "Botox." My sister's doctor husband who has just opened a new cosmetic dermatology clinic downtown that offers botox treatment, was angry at her song, said she was misinformed, and plans to write her. A few lyrics that probably disturbed him are "Get the botox out, baby, because we are going to kill history", "Are false faces more value than our wisdom". He noted that there are many medically sound reasons for using botox - i.e. migraines, muscle spasms, etc.; and furthermore, we have our teeth whitened to look better, why is botox any different? I did not know how to respond because, in many ways, he is right. I do my hair, wear makeup, have my teeth cleaned, and like the way I look better with these vanities. Wikipedia's article (link above) says that side affects occur when the drug is not administered properly: "At the extremely low doses used medicinally, botulinum toxin has a very low degree of toxicity."

***

enough for now... I have gone on much longer than I intended

My Mother is Visiting



I picked my mother up at the airport on Tuesday. She is a little fragile - walks with a cane - and is a little forgetful but, at 78 years, she is still passionate about life and loves to be spoiled. Before she came, she asked for some TLC and I'm doing my best to provide it. She brought her Christmas gift from her children - a new Toshiba laptop - and after a few problems getting online were solved, she's happy to spend her mornings reading her favourite news websites.

My family is a little crazy - perhaps it's our Irish blood - and we all love surprising each other so Mum did not tell my sisters that she was coming for a visit. On Thursday evening, we dropped in at my baby sister's house and while Rob and I talked to Bev, Mum snuck in and hid under a blanket on the sofa. Bev thought it was her eldest son at first and squealed when she took off the blanket; her three children were so happy to see their Nanny that they climbed all over her, hugging and kissing her.

After a short visit, Rob and Mum and I left for a show on Granville Island where my sister Madonna (Maggie or Donna) and her husband were joining us. They too loved the surprise of seeing Mum.

And so we all sat in the Backstage Lounge of the Arts Club theatre and were entertained by the talented Sarah Cheevers.



I adore Sarah. I've known her since she was a little girl, the older sister of Phil who was Brendan's buddy in kindergarten. After a time, the Cheever, Jamieson (Visit Jenn's website - another extraordinary young woman) and the Young families would get together for feasts and fun. And so I have watched this young woman grow up. Funny thing, as I sat this evening listening to her play and sing with the five other talented musicians in her band, I could still see the playful, goofy, loveable little girl, now a lot taller and more bewitching. She's as natural and lovely as she ever was. Rob - who has a great ear - says that if luck is with her, she will be discovered and be big in the music industry: she has the look, the talent.

***

I continue to read Naomi Wolf's "The Treehouse" and must admit that reading Chapter Six "Do Nothing Without Passion" made me pensive, a little sad, and feel like a failure. Though his daughter labels her father a scoundrel and womanizer, she says her parents' marriage - even with its rough times - is "now like a four-decade-long third date." Leonard does not believe that marriage has to erode passion: "It is not enough to feel the spark; it is your responsibility to tend it as well. The care and maintenance of your passion - in love, in work [a double whammy to me] should be... your highest priority."

So tell me, someone please, why have so many married couples relinquished their most precious gift, their passion? I see it everywhere. Couples sitting across from each other in restaurants not saying a word. Or couples slinging arrows - criticism, complaints, unreasonable requests - at the other in the company of others. The other night, I was sitting with my sister talking of my dream house in the south of France when my man told me to stop whining: I have a house in France. I didn't think to say that I'm not whining, I'm dreaming. The moment it left his mouth, I felt stung. It bit me in my most vulnerable spot - my lack of independence. And though I love this man fiercely, and I know this moment was a slip of the tongue, times like this erode passion.

Leonard refrained from scolding his mate. Naomi says that the rule in their house was that no one was allowed to "guilt-provoke." Her father quoted the "I Ching": "No Blame" noting that he would rather be happy than right.

I know that no one, even Leonard Wolf, is perfect and two people living together is not always sweet and we all carry our own baggage (sorry about the cliche) and often one does not understand why some innocent remark injures another. Where does one go from here? How do we transform thoughtlessness to lovingness?

Leonard would perhaps say by using your imagination. This is necessary not only to see your beloved in a romantic light, but yourself as well. "Men, dad believes, do well to remember that the minute Dulcinea is just a middle-aged housewife, Quixote is no longer Quixote."

One of my favourite lines in Wolf's chapter is "My father decided that my mother was going to be eternally beautiful, and he told her so, so my mother somehow grew older in this way."

to be continued...

Imagine Java Surrounded by White



For the past three days I've been painting the small bathroom and hallway of the main floor of our house. I thought I wanted colour. As I mentioned in my last post, I had a number of books and paint chips but the pictures of bathrooms I liked best were white. Boring, I thought at first. I want colour in my life... but, finally, I realized that colour in my life doesn't mean that I have to have it in this small room. I love the lightness, the look of white from floor to celing to door. Pristine.

And all the while I was painting I was thinking about the imagination and passion.

It all began pre-painting. I walked to the paint store - a good long walk - and this isn't like me. I am not good at exercising though I know I should be because I feel better for it. But the only way I can get myself moving is to have an ulterior motive, usually a destination. So I walked and better still, the sun was shining; but forty-five minutes later when I found myself outside the paint store, I realized I was ravenous. I checked my purse and I had money but no book. I can't eat alone without a book. So I went to Indigo. I didn't want a novel as I have one on the go so I checked the non-fiction section and found Naomi Wolf's "The Treehouse: Eccentric Wisdom from my Father on How to Live, Love, and See." I had liked Wolf's "Promiscuities" so I picked up the book and checked the back cover and Erica Jong - whose writing I admire - praised it: "This book is a hard-earned gift. It is also the most transformative of Naomi Wolf's books." I bought it not knowing what to expect.

From the first two sentences, Wolf captured me: "Leonard Wolf, my father, is a wild old visionary poet. He believes that the heart's creative wisdom has a more important message than anything else, and that our task in life is to realize that message." I felt as I did when I first discovered, in my teens, Simone de Beauvoir: this is the book I need to read at this moment in my life. I have felt so cloudy, poor, jobless, dull even.

When I took breaks from my painting, I read. By the time I finished the second chapter, in which Wolf speaks of her unusual childhood and how she and her brother were allowed, encouraged even, to play using their imaginations, I was excited. I was well into the third chapter, when I suddenly felt an inexplicable desire to write out my thoughts. I looked around for my journal but it must have been outside in my little house and I wanted to write then and there. I checked the back of Wolf's book and yes, the last few pages are blank and so I grabbed a pen and wrote. (I hesitated at first but this particular book practically begged me to be inventive.)

"The idea that I can do anything I want - even the "most strange" in Rilke's words - comes to mind as I sit reading Wolf's book. I love when life surprises me, when something serendipitous happens... like buying this book. Wolf's words fit in with other works I have been reading by Schiwy and Luke. All stress the importance of the imagination. I feel as if I have been given permission to use mine, to think my own thoughts, believe in myself, and not worry about the good opinion of others. I feel for the first time in a long time, a surge of excitement.

In chapter three, Wolf writes that her father "truly believes that creative vision can emerge only when you are willing to challenge and, if you have to - no matter how scary this may be - to reject every outside expectation about how you should behave." And she goes on to tell of Leonard's belief that life should be full of surprises and (best of all, in my mind) that one should be surprised by self: "Whenever you are saying or doing something that is too familiar to you, that does not let you surprise yourself, you should rethink your situation."

As she writes about her father's life - what brought him to his wisdom - she tells her own story, how during her university days she dismissed Leonard's poetry and philosophy, how somewhere en route she had stopped listening, stopped learning. "I realized that there was something in me that was no longer growing the way it was meant to." She felt herself lacking as a teacher. Now, in her forties, her father in his eighties, she asks him to teach her, as he once taught his students from a heart-centered perspective.

There is so much in this book it's difficult to capture all. Running along side her father and her histories and his lectures is the story of a derelict old house that she bought in Boston Corners. As she restores the building and grounds, she works on a treehouse for her daughter.

***

to be continued...

Many many years ago, Penelope - the friend I've known the longest, who now lives in the Yukon - and I would go to hear Ron Nigrini sing. We both have memories of "At the Brand New Tennessee Waltz/ You're literally waltzing on air/ At the Brand New Tennessee Waltz/ There's no telling who will be there". We were first year York University students and didn't have a lot of spare cash but somehow we found the money to follow Nigrini around for a bit. We both loved his voice and (me, at least) his long lanky body and boyish face.

Last night, Penelope and I asked our daughters to take our place at a concert Nigrini was playing at in a club in Toronto - a tribute to Gordon Lightfoot. I received a brief email from Gill saying that she had a wonderful evening and that Ron is still "a charmer."

***

This past week has been a pleasure. I've been nesting and playing - editing for others, reading others' work, catching up on my correspondence, creating some surprises, repairing a hole in the bathroom wall and trying to decide what colour to paint the room. (This may seem small but it's a lot of work. I've been taping paint chips to the wall, after visiting two paint stores, and have even went to the library for books on colour theory.)

I meant to come to my next blog with some sort of revelation regarding this new year but I have yet to sift through all the thoughts roaming my brain. Clarity would be a useful goal. And I'm still holding onto the Adrienne Rich quote that Marlene introduced me to, three or four years ago:

"But there comes a time - perhaps this is one of them - when we have to take ourselves more seriously or die: when we have to pull back from incantations, rhythms we've moved to thoughtlessly, and disenthrall ourselves, bestow ourselves to silence, or a severer listening, cleansed of oratory, formulas, choruses, laments, static crowding the wires...."

Instead of stumbling or introducing a hodge-podge of ideas here, I think I'll think some more.

A SUMMARY OF 2006

A NEW YEAR

What a strange entrance to the new year. I have been alone most often since its beginning - even on New Year's Eve though Anita and Bruce did drop in on their way to a party that I'd been invited to but could not bear to go to because Mother had died the day before and I felt too sober and somber to listen to the clinging of glasses and voices reuniting and laughing. They hugged me and left a beautiful turquoise shawl. Later that night, Helen dropped in and we sat and talked - I have no idea about what - and only noticed the old year passing by nearby boat horns and fireworks.

Every day, I have taked to Rob who, with his sister, was planning his mother's funeral and clearing her space. Sometimes, though not often, he forgot that she was gone. Sometimes they had to put aside their own grief to comfort others who had loved her.

A few days before the memorial service, I lost myself, felt I was in the wrong place, felt that I should be with the man I had lived with for so long, felt a sorry excuse for a partner. If for no other reason, I should be there to hold and comfort him though, as I write this, I wonder if I would have been any help. Is there anyone who can ease the loss of one's mother? Isn't grief intensely personal? Doesn't each of us have to live with it within ourselves? Still, my psyche showed no mercy and only when I spoke to a friend and Rob was I able to find some peace.

I also found solace in cleaning the house, our house, my house (a Jungian metaphor for self). It was as if I could get the house in order, I could unclutter myself.

The friend who looked after our house when Rob and I were away in France and Greece said that she kept looking around our rooms trying to figure out what was different about them, why she liked our space so much, and she came to the conclusion that everything in the house was useful: there was no extraneous stuff. I liked her explanation though think that a few subtractions and additions are necessary. For example, we need reading lights in the living room.

It is snowing outside. So beautiful. My mother will call me a liar. I told her yesterday morning that spring is on its way. By the afternoon, the wind was howling, a number of people, including my friend Helen, lost their electricity, and the Lions Gate Bridge was closed for several hours. For some reason, I like that not all is in our control, that nature can sabotage our easy living.

And I keep drifting back to the thought that I haven't summarized the past year and have thought nothing of this new year. I have made no resolutions, thought of no words to live by when the going gets tough. My thoughts have been consumed by Mother. Rob said that during the memorial service a train passed by and blew its whistle over and over as if acknowledging Mother's life and bidding her farewell. And it seemed appropriate because all her life, Zillah lived near the railway track.

Rob is now in Toronto visiting Michael and Mackenzie and Gillian. He returns tomorrow. Mackenzie once told me that her grandmother reads my blog and keeps them up to date (as much as I tell) about my life. Thank you, Lois.

THREE OF A KIND
THE "YOUNG" BABES



SWEET MEMORIES



Zillah May Young, Rob's mother, died yesterday morning. She had a heart attack on the 27th. Rob flew to New Brunswick on the 29th. Rob's phone call that morning woke me, stunned me. Why is it when we know that we will die, that our parents will most likely go first, why is it still such a shock? Rob tells me that it is harder than he ever imagined.

When he called, he said that he and his sister, Kathy, were taking down the Christmas tree in her condo: they couldn't stand its festiveness and so I took down our tree (after my friends, Penelope and Roy left for the Yukon. Thank heavens they were here to talk to after Rob called.)

I spent the day in a daze, wandering, doing odd jobs... and thinking of Zillah or Mother, as I have always called her. Rob has always said that she is a farm girl. Or did he say, country girl? She didn't leave New Brunswick until 1970 when she attended our wedding in Toronto. And yet for all her country ways, she was one of the most open-minded, liberal women I have ever met.

When Rob called to tell her that we were living together - remember this was the sixties - she said that she was happy he wasn't alone. I was afraid to tell my parents. When she found a bag of green weed in his drawer, she asked if she could try some. She'd always wondered about it.

When I first met her - Rob and I flew "home" for a holiday - she was working in a restaurant. She never put on airs, never apologized for who she was or what she did. Her home wasn't fancy but it was always neat and clean. I never saw her angry, never heard her raise her voice. She listened. She made fancy pies and Rob's favourite Maritime dish - salt cod in cream sauce over mashed potatoes - when we visited her. And when she came our way, she'd bring sealed packages of salt cod and fiddleheads.

Later, when we had children, she came for the birth of our last two to help me. (My mother came too and they timed their visits so I always had a mother to help for at least several weeks.) She was a quiet, unobtrusive guest. I never told her what to do. She took it upon herself to look after the older child/children, do the laundry, clean - all the little things that add up to a lot when one arrives home from the hospital with a new baby.

She was never a rich woman, far from it, and, as Rob told me this morning, she didn't really care about material possessions but she was always generous with us and our children. For years, she knit us socks for Christmas. How we loved them, always asked for more.

She was such a good woman I can't believe that I will never see her again, hear her voice on the phone.

This summer she flew to Vancouver for my niece, Sarah's wedding. She stayed in our house and I am thankful for this time. Again, she was an easy house guest. When I was consumed with the wedding cake, she helped herself to food, wandered and read. She'd willingly go with me when I went out for supplies. Sometimes, she would stop, ask me to wait while she caught her breath. It scared me a little. When she arrived, she looked so frail. Her skin was ashen. She had aged so much since I'd seen her last. But she was quick on the uptake, made jokes, laughed. Her mind was all there. One of my last memories of her is my nephew Thomas asking her to dance and she did. She did beautifully.

I feel sad that I won't be at her memorial service. And I could/would go but for Rob and he says he's fine as he has his sister there. Together they have made the funeral arrangements and are sorting through mother's stuff. When he is in her place, he says he forgets, thinks she will walk through the door.

All yesterday, I had the feeling that I wasn't quite present. I searched through our photo albums for images of her. She is most often holding a child.

She was active to the end, loved walking and bowling. She accepted everything, everyone - all of us who joined her family with all our weird quirks and inconsistencies. I never heard her bad-mouth anyone. Or complain. She more than anyone I know, seemed content with her lot. I hope this is so, must of been, she looked it.

When I think of her, I think "good woman, good example, one I wouldn't mind being more like."

When Gill was born, we thought of calling her Zillah. Mother insisted we not. Although soft-spoken, she had definite points of view.

How do I conclude? How does one conclude a life? It isn't possible. She is in her children, in my children.

You know how when someone dies, no one wants to say anything bad about the deceased? With Zillah, there is not even a glimpse of a negative thought. Do I have any regrets about my relationship with her? Only that I didn't tell her how much I admire her. But I can imagine that this would have been too difficult for her: she would have laughed and shrugged me off.

Farewell Mother. You are loved more than you will ever know.

Seattle

Rob, Brendan, Gill, and I drove down to Seattle yesterday. Gill and Bren are in the Ace Hotel - young and modern. Rob and I are in the Warwick - an older boutique hotel - that I booked through Hotwire. Except for meeting for dinner last night at Lola, we have all gone our separate ways. Soon I will sign out of the hotel and wander down to Pioneer Square to explore "Eliot Bay Books" - one of my favourite book stores.

And today is my big sister's birthday:

HAPPY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE

Christmas Eve was lovely - a good meal with Rob, Brendan, and Gill and then a walk by the water to view the decorated trees. Christmas Day was lovely too - a few special gifts and then a traditional feast with my sister Bev and her family. It could only have been better if Michael and Mackenzie had been with us.

Today, within the hour, the four of us are off to Seattle.

And it's my Mother's Birthday:

MY FATHER, THE POET
IS SO HANDSOME




(I'm the little one, in the insert, on the left. I've been told that I look like my father. My mother says that we alike:
we don't have a peaceful bone in our bodies. )

Happy Birthdays

I have an unusual family. One sister's birthday is the 23rd of December. My father's is the 24th. My mother's is the 26th. And my older sister's is the 27th. Instead of gifts, I'm emailing each a birthday poster.

I was on antibiotics for four days and every day I took a pill, I felt worse. Finally I returned to the medical clinic and was told that this proves my cough was not bacterial but is viral. And because I was wheezing and coughing to the point of vomiting, the doctor listened to my lungs, pronounced me asmatic, and gave me an inhaler and suggested I sleep with a vaporizer. I followed his instructions. Finally I am beginning to feel better. I hardly cough at all. Each day, I have a little more energy though I am still not up to speed.

People say oh it's good to be sick. It slows you down. Allows you to smell the flowers. But when I feel like hell, I mope. I hate being incapacitated. I can't even read a good book and so sit for hours in front of the television watching stupid mindless crap and feel my life slipping away.

I have been away from home so long and though a sickie, it feels good to be back, good to have Gill here, and felt good to have Brendan over the other night. We are missing Michael and Mackenzie. We're planning a simple feast for Christmas eve , a traditional turkey dinner for Christmas day. (My family love food.) We will give a few gifts but won't go overboard. I like this though worry a little that those I love will be disappointed. I need a little inspiration. It's so hard to find THINGS that express love, that bring delight, let alone fill a need. Is it even possible? I have always thought that it's not really the gift that counts but the thought that goes into the gift. At times this is true (i.e. the slide show for Rob's birthday) and at other times, it is the gift, the thing itself, that gives pleasure.

I wrote a story about gift-giving, as a university assignment, that Western Living nearly bought but didn't... I just found it in my filing cabinet. It's not great but not bad and is giving me ideas. (I'll type it out later into this blog spot.)

HOME SWEET HOME.

I'm so happy to be back except I'm sick. A cold and hacking cough I caught in France kept fading during my travels but never quite left me. After flying from Montreal, it is back with a vengence so I went to a medical clinic and am now on some serious antibiotic that has me weak - no energy - with an upset stomach. I often feel chilled to the bone and am taking hot baths in epsom salts. Sunday night I take my last pill. Hopefully then I can get on with my life and prepare for Christmas.

And Gill arrived home last night from Toronto. And my friend, Helen just dropped in for a visit. So good to sit around the table and talk but I WANT MY OLD ENERGY BACK. Soon, I hope

I am in Montreal with Angela, Helen's cousin. She lives in one of the most beautiful apartment/houses - her daughter and family live upstairs - that I have seen. Her taste is exquisite - paintings and books everywhere. Her table is set with crystal and gold-pattern plates, scrolled silverware and red floral napkins to match the Chinese red walls of the room. Yesterday we wandered downtown streets, visited an extraordinary art gallery (one painting with grapes dripping blood stole my breath), Ogilvy's department store, and Chapters... I am suprised to hear French spoken again - a more twangy French to be sure but French all the same.

Where am I? What am I doing as I wander from place to place? This trip has been an adventure. I have spent much time with family and friends observing, listening to them, in their homes while their everyday lives goes on - except for me. I now feel the need to be quietly at home digesting it all.

Christmas is coming and except for putting together a basket for Michael and Mackenzie, I have done little and feel no compulsion to run to stores and buy things just to have some thing to give. I would like to throw gift-giving out the window though I love giving gifts when I see something that would suit someone I love.

The last week was spent at political functions - quite unlike my usual choice of activity. My sister is a regional counsellor for the district of Peel, town of Brampton, and has just won a local election with a 87% majority. She loves community service and is good at it. Unlike me, she is a real people-person. loves to stand up in public and speak. She works hard and has helped to change the rapidly growing face of Peel, advocating for beautification (flower beds and treed avenues), youth centres, safety and neighbourhood-watch programs. Her baby, at the moment, is the resurrection of a cancer support house, a branch of Well Spring, that she hopes to see built in the coming year. Already a developer has given her a piece of land. A contractor has offered to build for nothing. A lawyer, accountant, oncologist have donated their services. She is astonished and thrilled by the generosity of others. She tells me that of all the things that she has accomplished in this life, this is most dear to her.
And I think she knows but can't quite grasp how much good she is responsible for.

And I suppose that this is the way it is for many people. "It's a wonderful life" though as I move from household to household, I see more struggle, tears of frustration and sorrow, than fun and laughter. C'est la vie.

My friend Kate sent me the following email:

"Hi everyone,

As most of you know, I write a blog for women
recovering from child birth for B5 Media called
Babylune

To celebrate the first year of blogging and Christmas,
I am buying my readers a Christmas present. I would
really appreciate it if you would help choose the gift
by reading a few posts. The description of how the
system works is here:

A Christmas Gift

All the best,
Kate Baggott
http://www.katebaggott.com"

If you have a few moments, please follow Kate's instructions: the more people who visit her website, the more she will be able to give to World Vision.

The snow is falling furiously this morning - beautiful but I wonder if I dare take the trip out into the country to my parents' house. I decide to wait for a while, pull out my journal and try and recapture the last few days. This is an extraordinary time, full of people, happenings, and conversations - so much so that my head is spinning.

I last wrote about Friday.

Saturday, I spent the morning with Gill, the afternoon with Gill and her roommate - running an errand - and we ended up hungry, on the Danforth, Greek town. The first restaurant we saw, we entered, and were greeted by a kindly older man who told us "Pan" is owned by his daughter and son-in-law. "She's here in the evening and is more fun than me." He ran and brought back a picture of his daughter. Throughout our lunch, he dropped by to chat and I was reminded of the friendliness of Greeks during Rob's birthday expedition. I told George (we are now using first names) that I have just returned from his homeland and he wants to hear more - where I visited, what I did... and at the end of the meal his son-in-law arrived. When I told him that his father-in-law is wonderful. He smiled and said, "You should meet his daughter." We finished our meals, ordered coffee,and the old man brought us a square of cake and three forks. Although the food and service were excellent, it was the man's attitude, his smile, his obvious pleasure that made the experience so pleasurable for us.

The next evening, Gill and I had a similar experience. After she finished work, we drove to the Italian area for dinner. It was snowing lightly. The stores and restaurants along College were decorated extravagantly with lights and glittering ornaments. We walked along the street arm in arm and found an upscale restaurant, done in taupes and beiges with long modern bar and elevated eating area. Gill ordered eggplant parmesan. I had a seafood linguine. The service and food were excellent. When the young woman waiting on us asked if we would like dessert, Gill said that she would love to try the creme brulee but was too full. Minutes later, the waitress returned and said the chef would like us to enjoy a brulee on the house. We accepted thinking we could manage a bite or two. We ate the whole thing.

I am sure that it is Gill's presence that turns heads, brings us gifts. Every time I see her walking toward me, beautifully groomed and dressed - no matter how casually -she always looks fancy - perhaps it's the scarf around her long neck - I think "Paris": my favourite city has changed her, left its mark. She is so much taller, thinner, more confidant than I was at her age, and I wish that I'd had her presence, her worldliness. And though I worry about her restlessness, sleeplessness, I do not worry that she won't find her passion.

She is extraordinary young woman: she likes to spend time with her mother. We can talk for hours. When we are sitting, she curls into me. When we are walking, she links arms with me. She is such a gift.


***

For the past few days, believe it or not, I've been spending much time at political functions, at my sister's request. She wants, at least, one sister to know her life.

More to come

There is magic in the air... it snowed tonight but let me go backwards a little. The last few days have been filled with treasures.

On Friday night, I met a friend - a dream woman - in a small Middle Eastern restaurant for a meal of tiny appetizers - eggplant, lamb and veal on skewers, mushrooms, peppers, yam fries, and red wine. All was shared - food and the highlights of our comings and goings since we last met in Vancouver in June and before that in France. She has a soft voice so I have to lean forward to catch her comments and questions - sometimes hard questions. Her directness forces me to think before I speak and be as open as she is. She also reminded me of where I was not so many months ago. And I realize too , with my answers, that something has shifted inside me. I love when this happens. I thought not so long ago that I had to take some action, make some changes or I would die (not literally) but I was frozen and couldn't decide what to do and so did nothing. I lambasted myself for being so indecisive, and then, because of this conversation, I see that certain issues have resolved themselves without any effort on my part. (Patience has never been my forte.)

We leave the restaurant and she asks if I would like some fun? Her daughter is playing at a lounge downtown - a benefit for the 6 Nations blockade at Caledonia. I agree. She drives down to Church Street and parks (near Ryerson - such a part of my distant past) and we walk: I am freezing. The weather is crazy. One moment it's hot and I shed the fake fur jacket my mother bought me and wear a light denim coat. This evening I am in denim. I slip my arm through hers and snuggle in, asking if she minds. She doesn't. She is so lovely and warm. At one point in the evening, she reminded me that she wanted me to help her choose a new wardrobe. She wants the outside to reflect the inside. This pleases me - not only her confidance in me but because, she is tall, elegant, beautiful and it would be so much fun to do. (Since this evening, I have been thinking about colours and textures, styles that would suit her. I have some ideas.)

We reach the lounge, small, packed. We stand until a space clears and then sit. The concert is already underway. A young man in overalls and a conductor's cap is playing a guitar and singing heady lyrics about love and loss while, behind him, a film of images and words - made by him - is projected. He reminds me of a young Bob Dylan with his sexy words, blunt comments while the next performer - or his lyrics - reminds me of Leonard Cohen though he is has a better voice and is an amazing guitarist. And the way he sways and moves around the stage - oh la la. I am reminded of my college days when I would, night after night, go to small coffee houses and bars and fall in love with musicians. Once, my friend Penelope and I fell in love with the same musician/man - Ron Nigrini. We attended every performance we could - probably as many as could afford. (Amazing. I just goggled him and he is still performing.)

At last, my friend's daughter, Lila Rose, is introduced. I have never met her. She is a beauty (not surprising). Her fair hair is in dreadlocks, tied back, unruly, springing out here and there like a crown or halo. Her arms are tattooed, and though I'm not keen on tattoos, hers are subtle - an upper arm bracelet of roses (I think) and something I cannot remember on the inside of her wrist. She wears a sleeveless silk short dress over jeans. She is enchanting. Her first song is performed without music though her voice is music, her words poetry. (She writes her own lyrics - and her first song/poem is a protest that fits well with the benefit's protest.) She performs two more songs and the evening is over. I loved every moment of it.

My friend dropped me off at Gill's who was waiting up, so worried about me that she threw her arms around me.

****

more to come