IT'S MY BIRTHDAY
AND I'LL CRY
IF I WANT TO

Usually on my birthday, I feel happy content frivolous. I tell myself that nothing negative can touch me. The important thing is that I let myself be, feel what I feel, don't chastise myself for anything.

And if you know me, you know that I'm a pretty harsh judge of myself. Everything has to be examined for an ulterior motive.

"You're not going to fool yourself - let alone anyone else - that you're a good person, kind, and generous," that horrible demeaning voice whispers in my ear.

And the child within me says that it isn't fair, that really she is good and kind, and yes, she did trick her young friend once, told her that a quarter was a nickel and then talked her into giving it to her. (See the guilt written all over the face of the child, lower left - that was the day.) And over fifty years later, she still feels guilty.

How in the world could such a little girl feel so bad about such a small crime? She who tried so hard to please, to be good because she won her mother's affection by being well-behaved - or so her little brain thought

But somewhere around the age of forty, my definition of good changed. That was the time where I felt my life such a sham that I had to do something extraordinary or kill myself - and so I came to France with three children. And during that year, I discovered that writing was my true love. Through writing, I began to like the person who was once a guilty, careful, little girl.

Susan was my main support during that year. She wrote me, after one evening where I made a complete fool of myself, that the courage to be a fool is what she wants... this is what happiness is all about. Another time, she said that she had never met a person like me. How that filled me with happiness.

Again, I think of the line about not worrying about the good opinion of others.

I met a poet once who said that when she was young, she felt that anything that happened in her presence was hers to tell. As she grew older, she had become kinder.

One aspect of writing non-fiction is that it usually involves betrayal - an often discussed topic among writers. It's fine to expose oneself to ridicule but how dare one expose others, especially loved ones, to the same fate? But isn't everything deciphered, interpreted through the writer's heart and brain? And shouldn't everyone who is human realize this and not be offended when she reads about herself in another's story?

I have always admired Mordecai Richler for his blatant telling of the misadventures of others. Even his closest friends are not spared. Some call him cruel or worse, a user. But I call him a damn good writer.

And so it is my fifty-eighth birthday and I ask the heavens for more courage and endurance when I sit my self down to write because it is here I feel most free and excited.

But I love also the frivolous moments like one the other day when I went to Toulouse with Bedding and Hero and bought myself a pair of hot pink dancing shoes (that Bedding hated.) And with part of Gill's gift, I bought a hot pink scarf and silk stockings. I shall wear them this evening.



Early this morning I opened Gill's card and CD, filled with such admiration and love, I cried. And then I opened a number of emailed birthday messages and cried some more. It's my birthday.



And continuing in my self-indulgent mood, here's the beginning and middle of a poem that I found by accident in a drawer this morning - so perfect. (Sunset Draws Sophia Down by Joan Logghe)

"It was the most beautiful spring,
the spring she couldn't decide
if she were happiest or saddest....

Some days she woke up a teenager
others, a grandmother.
She struggled between passion and despair
sadness that comes down
straight from the ancestors."

I AM SINFUL
I AM OVER INDULGENT

Okay, I exaggerate a little though I feel like a glutton. This past weekend has been a time of feasting. On Friday night - in honour of Makiko's mother, Hero (or so Susan has shortened Heriko) - Susan and David prepared a roast leg of lamb dinner. On Sunday morning, we all went to Bedding's for a breakfast of museli, yogurt, eggs, toast, served with homemade preserves and steaming coffee. On Sunday evening, I made a beautiful salad (similar to the ones Ursula made several summers ago) with endives around the edge, filled with lettuce, red and green peppers, red onions, cucumber and tomatoes, followed by fresh pasta with a hearty vegetarian sauce. (Why is eating and drinking abundantly deadly? Why is gluttony linked with pride, sloth, wrath, envy, lust, and greed? Aren't all of these is some context good for a person?)





And so I entertained for the first time in our grand new space. Susan thought it a crime that I was going to remove the "beautiful" old door between the kitchen and dining area and removing the "beautiful" old stone sink (ugly and useless as far as I am concerned) was practically a sacrilege; but when she came for dinner, she announced that she likes the new room with light from both sides and thinks the new brass faucet "a beauty". David appeared more reluctant to give his approval: he asked who was to get the "beautiful door". I responded "the most deserving."

I really truly love this other family of mine. I feel my world would be less rich without them. Last night Susan asked what I would like to do for my birthday. I said I didn't know but that it is always a special day for me. She then said "Fountainebleu" and I was filled with delight. I have always wanted to go there to see the art gallery and specifically one painting... but it is more complex than that... I cannot tell you why... suffice it to say, that being there would make my day extraordinary. (And then I worry. It would cost money to go and we don't have any at the moment. We're living on credit. Do I want to add more to our debt? Why do such opportunities arise when one is least able to afford them?)

And I really don't know if Susan was serious but even if it doesn't happen, I am pleased that she remembered this old desire of mine.

I have woken several mornings feeling so anxious that I want to cry but the strange thing is, I'm not sure what in my life is causing the anxiety.

A New Space



The builder's work is done and mine begins. Not magically but through a lot of hard work and a lot of patience on my end, the kitchen is linked with the dining room and we have one large room with light coming from both sides. The heavens know if the ceiling will fall. The builder said the old beam is solid. The architect said beware. But I love the space and only wish that the cleanup was easier. Rob spent his last few weeks here last fall, clearing the rooms for the demolition. I will spend the same time cleaning the dust off and putting all back in its space. I only hope it is done for my birthday next week.

I am tired. And unhappy only in the sense that I have not been writing for a few days. Ruth, an extraordinary musician just dropped in. This evening she is playing Don Giovanni in Castres. She says she would like to be one of those women who can work at what she loves and feel sane in the rest of her life. Is sane the right word? Balanced may be better. She wants serenity in the same way I want serenity. (We both need a muse.) She says that she can only do one thing at once. And though she loves her music, when she is concentrating on it, the rest of her life goes to hell. I feel much the same. Write and write only. Clean and clean only. Who are those writers who say that they are religious, that they sit and write 500 or 1000 words and then stop in mid-sentence and pickup where they left off the next day? I hate them. I told Ruth that we should just accept the way we are.

For several nights, I've slept at a friend's house - Bedding for those of you who know her. Her place is lovely, perfect, clean, warm. I woke several mornings ago and looked out the window. The largest snow drops I've ever seen were falling. It's freezing here. Today, I learned how to use our wood furnace. Rob and I replaced our old one last fall and this one is so much better though still it demands attention.

A DREAM BECOMES A REALITY



I had this dream long ago of creating one large room from the kitchen and dining room in our French house in which the light would warm the enlarged area from both sides, the fire in the dining area would heat the kitchen, and the space created would be large enough to dance in. I smile when I remember Marlene, Ursula, and I dancing from one small room to the next before dinner. The space has been created though the new sink has not been installed. This is a more difficult task than I imagined as the wall is a foot deep. Still the Dane that offered to do the work said it would take two men a week to complete the job. The problem is that they do not show up everyday and so I have been living without a kitchen and worse still, in a house full of dust. My eyes become redder and redder not from tears of frustration (though I have been on the edge more than once) but because I am allergic to dust. This has not won the sympathy of the Dane because, after the first day, he vanished, leaving only his workmen.

As I have had no kitchen, I dine in the evening with the Reids but last night, I felt I had worn out my welcome. This, I know, could just be me but I have decided, after tonight, I will eat in the local restaurant.

Three workers have just show up. Thank the heavens, I might be free of them soon... though I shall not get my hopes up.

Last night at Susan's we celebrated her eldest son's birthday with tall glasses of champagne and cake before a dinner of spicy lentil stew. Eating the sweet before the savoury felt rather decadent and child-like.



It is tradition in Susan's family to make a crown of laurels for the birthday person but when Miki saw her father's crown, she wanted one too. (Justin, Makiko, and Miki have just arrived from Japan. Makiko's mother arrives Wednesday - all the more reason to leave the family alone for a while.)



One good result from waiting for the workers every day is that it keeps me at home and so I have finished the bookkeeping for our company and done more than a little writing... some journal, some novel. And though I was going to copy some thoughts from my journal, I am distracted by the noise below and will continue at a later date.

"How Green is My Valley"

I am still recovering. Traveling for ten hours - first leg of the journey from Vancouver to London - in a confined space where one pays over a grand for the privilege is exhausting. All the airlines that I have traveled within the past few years - Air Canada, Air France, British Air, and KLM - have condensed the space between rows so even I who do not quite reach 5'2" feel cramped, especially when the person beside me is large and even more so when the person in front of me reclines his or her seat.

I arrived at Heathrow exhausted, went through a second security check, and then caught the short flight to Paris Charles de Gaulle where the seats on this shorthaul were leather, spacious, with ample leg room. (If only I could have had this plane for the first part of my journey.)

I thought I was smart reserving a room in an airport hotel - I am a little timid of Paris since I was robbed a year ago - but even though the hotel was luxurious (ordered through Hotwire) I was not able to sleep. In the morning, I lugged my suitcases down to the train for the journey into the city where I had to change to the Metro (several flights of stairs) and then catch the TGV to Toulouse.

Groan, groan, grumble, grumble.

Was it worth it?

Yes.



I'd forgotten, though it has only been three months, just how lusciously green the valley surrounding my town is. This picture, with its white spots - soft raindrops - was caught as I walked down the hill to the little store where the woman who runs it is always the same - without a smile, she lifts her head from her laptop and utters the standard greeting "Bonjour Madam."



Though I've spend many hours trying to catch up on my sleep (Rob says this is impossible) and cleaning and clearing our house for the renovation that is supposed to begin Monday, I have spend my evenings with the Reids. David, in the photograph is proudly showing me his sleek new MacBook. Susan and David, who have both recovered from their fall operations, always make me feel welcome. Susan was disappointed that I wasn't staying with them (she misunderstood my request to stay for a week when the house is rented) and has invited me to share all their evening meals. (Gill you would be jealous of the salads and artichokes, peppers, leeks, lamb and duck I've been consuming with our friends.) The produce here, even during the winter into spring months, is so fresh and good...

So here I am once again and though the house is not toasty warm - it's even damn uncomfortable a lot of the time - I have nearly recovered from the travel and am beginning to jot down ideas and write. (I told Marlene that I was afraid I wasn't going to get down to it but I want to stop being a scaredy-cat or is it a lazy-bum and simply write... cause I have friends who love and encourage me to pick up my damn pen because they know that I am never content unless I am making love... with words.) (Only words, dear Rob. But damn it all anyway, they can be pretty damn potent.)

"There is no fence or hedge around time that has gone. You can go back and have what you like if you remember it well enough." -- from Richard Llewellyn's How Green Was My Valley.

"I'm late. I'm late..."

I didn't forget my middle child's birthday on March 3rd. Rob and I sent him, via FedEx, his guitar in a new hard case with a new set of strings so he could continue to play his music, sing his songs. He is a good musician and often - when he and Mackenzie were living with us - we would watch him from a window as he sat on the lawn, strumming this guitar and singing quietly.



Michael is "special" as he describes himself in a poem he wrote when he was around ten or eleven. Last night Rob and I watched the "Young Home Movie" that includes scenes from Michael's first birthday to his sixth. He was so sweet with his big glasses. Watching him on the television screen, along with his brother and sister, brought back so many memories. At one year, he wasn't walking. At three, he was break-dancing. By five, he had developed a love of magic (remembered by the really bad magician we hired for one of his parties.) He loved performing. Rob often recalls his devil sticks and how Michael played with them in the main square in Sienna and was filmed by a number of tourists. Perhaps it was in Italy that he developed a taste for fine cuisine.

By the time, he was into the two-digit numbers, he had perfected his father's caesar salad recipe and dreamed of making it, for one million bucks a bowl, for the rich and famous.

In his mid teens, he fell in love with our fancy computer, demanded his own, and taught himself computer animation so well that his art teachers in high school and later at Cap College, applauded his talent.

After college, he left the country, went to Europe and back-packed around for a while. When his parents ran out of money, he found a bar in England where he could work, travel, work, travel.

When he returned home, he found a job, moved into an artist's building, and started painting again - another love of his from high school. After meeting Mackenzie, he decided to hit the road again. They bought an old station wagon and drove to Montreal where they settled for a year before returning home.

They have since returned to Cobourg, Ontario, Mackenzie's home town.

Michael became angry with me not so long ago. He said that I was always pushing him to return to his art - in whatever form - and not loving him for who he is and what he is doing. He is both right and wrong. He has always brought his own unique vision and vivid imagination to his artistic endeavours - noticed by those more capable of judging than his mother - and I felt that he was letting himself down not pursuing his former passions. I thought perhaps he lacked self-confidence and needed encouragement.

Now I see that perhaps it is me who is passionate about "the arts" and that one can be creative in other ways, in other kinds of work. When it comes right down to it I know in my heart that it doesn't matter what he is doing, I love him for who he is - an extraordinary young man, with a big tender heart who has always loved animal; and wherever he's employed, works hard.

When I think of Michael, I think of the Steve Miller Band and the lyrics to "The Joker":
'Cause I'm a
picker, I'm a grinner
I'm a lover and a sinner
I play my music in the
sun
I'm a joker, I'm a smoker
I'm a midnight toker
I sure don't want
to hurt no one'

"Others are impressed with your inner beauty." I just read Gill's latest blog and smile. She is so colourful, so full of life, and, at the moment, I feel black and white as I sit at my computer screen inputting figures until my vision blurs. I'm trying to do a year's bookkeeping in five days and it isn't easy. For the past two years I've had a friend do this work but this year, we can't afford it. Rob hasn't worked for five months and I haven't worked since June of last year - though that's a lie. We both have been working but not at work that pays.

I sigh as I tell myself that I should be doing the accounts all year so I don't have to do a marathon before tax time. But I didn't and know next year, I'll sigh again and think the same thing. And what right have I to complain I ask myself. On Tuesday of next week I'll be on my way to Paris, my favourite city in all the world. And I'm staying at a fancy hotel at the airport because Hotwire gave me an extraordinary deal and then I'm catching a train down south to our house.

We have a house in France, I whisper to myself and smile. We have a house in France. Sometimes that's all I have to tell myself to feel good.

I do feel good. This morning I had a tender moment. I lay in bed and watched Rob sleep. And now I find myself humming: "And even though we ain't got money/ I'm so in love with ya honey/ Everything bring a chain of love/ And in the morning when I rise/ Bring a tear of joy to my eyes/ And tell me everything's gonna be all right..."

Everything is going to be alright. I will finish the books. I will leave for a seven week writing marathon in the quiet of the French countryside. I will meet with friends occasionally and drink some lush and thankfully cheap red wine of the region. I will hopefully oversee some work on our house - my reason for going - and will return- "all being well" as my father says - to my love and then worry about money and finding work.

I am so blessed.

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. )