Happy

Through a mutual friend, I met someone a few months ago, who since then, has become a good friend. We could be sitting in my living room chatting, walking somewhere and he'll turn to me smile and say he's happy. I'll look at him, smile and say I'm glad he's happy and at the same time marvel at his ability to be in the moment, to feel happiness. And it's not that, I don't feel happiness, I do. I think it's more of a matter of recognizing and acknowledging happiness when it's felt and I don't do it as much as I should and perhaps, deep down, it might be something I'm hesitant to proclaim.

When I was 13 my family moved out west from suburban Pickering Ontario to Brandon, Manitoba. It was summer. The landscape harsh, desolate; both the land and the sky seemed never ending, and with it, it brought a feeling of isolation. We moved into a beautiful old character home on the corner of Victoria avenue and 4th street which still stands to this day. It had stained glass in the entranceway and original dark wood railings and trim. I credit this house for my love of architecture and character homes. Still, with an old house there's a lot of up-keep, repairs. There had been a leak onto some wiring, dangerous. My mom and I were standing in the kitchen. My mom upset turned to me and exclaimed, "You don't think anything bad can ever happen to this family?" I didn't respond. I just gazed up at her and in my mind wondered, can anything bad happen to us? Should it?  That moment popped into my head this week. Am I hesitant to express happiness out of suspicion, am I waiting for the other shoe to drop?

Undoubtedly, the move was difficult for my mother too and I can also blame catholicism but let's not go there, not quite yet.

I started a new teaching position last week. And of course, I've had friends ask me how it's going. Frankly, it's going quite well: the people are great, the children wonderful and the school set-up, classroom management style seem to jive with me. But why am I hesitant to say, yes, things are going well, I'm quite happy with the change? I am hesitant because somehow I don't want to jinx it. That, I've come to understand, is a silly notion. Could something stressful arise at work? Yes. Could things change? Yes. But everything changes, feeling arise, come and leave, things shift but a shift or change isn't a punishment, nothing is being taken away, it's simply the constant flux we live in.

At this moment, I know I'm lucky and dare I say, happy.

Time creeps ...

There is a line from a short story, The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman that reminds me of the passage of time: But here I can creep smoothly on the floor, and my shoulder just fits in that long smooch around the wall, so I cannot lose my way.
 

A couple of years ago, I took a course in Contemplative End of Life and much like the course name we contemplated death, our own deaths, the deaths of loved ones and how we could help others cope with dying and death. I found it an intense experience, not simply because of what it required of you, the cold hard truth: everything has its beginning and ultimately, its end but the realities of death: how to prepare a body, how to use essential oils to rid the body of odour and if called upon to,  I can remove a pace maker from the chest in preparation for burial.

We were expected to do a practicum, work with the dying but I wasn't ready. I needed some distance, some time.

Time crawls on its hands and knees

This past May I received an email asking if I would be willing to be a part of a team with two women who had taken the same course, and work with a family whose Father/Husband was dying of cancer. Something inside of me said I was ready. I was a little fearful. But I held on to the feeling the timing was right.

And speaking of time, I'm going to start at the inevitable end: Nic, musician, lover, husband, friend and Father passed away last Thursday at Kensington Hospice. His Wake was this past Monday. Yesterday morning, I was walking down bloor street on my way to the house to clean - an act I did many a time since May, an act that gained me entry, allowed me to be quietly present for this family to build trust and familiarity. 

Inga, a close family friend of Banuta, Nic's wife, who would clean with me, asked me about mourning and grief. I thought about it for a moment: throughout this entire experience, besides the support of the other volunteers,  I fumbled my way through, only my intuition guiding my way. 

I thought of my grandfather who passed away when I was 28 and how the grief creeps up, takes me unawares, a deep sorrow, as raw as if it was yesterday. 

I told her time. There is no statutory limit on mourning. You carry it with you. 

Time creeps, grief creeps

New York

New York. Why did I let a year turn into two than three, than four since my last visit? There's really no excuse. I was starting to feel like stuck so I emailed a friend to see if his futon was free and booked my ticket on Amtrack. (Please note: I suffered a specific gut wrenching Canadian guilt for not purchasing my ticket via VIA rail right from the moment the first VIA rail agent said, “You purchased your ticket through AMtrack?” A total of three exclaimed that very sentiment. A railway, that once was the backbone of this country, VIA and its wonderful, cheerful staff – I let you down).

 Yes, I took the train and yes, it was an all day trip. Why? I had the time and there is something about train travel, the history and yes, the time that is the antithesis of our speedy and immediate culture that begs us to read a book, think, write, daydream as we look out the window and when the train chugs across the Niagara gorge, fields or through small American towns, when the weather is sunny and four hours later white flurries brush the landscape, there is a visual, scenic reminder that you are indeed moving. I am crossing over.

NYC Serenade. I arrive at Times Square subway station and jump off to hear the Ragtime music. The trumpet player moves around the platform, unconcerned he’s left his trumpet case on the other end of the platform overflowing with crumpled bills. I’m headed to the periphery of Harlem – 110th street and the northern edge of Central Park.

Union Square is bustling. The Hari Krishnas are chanting and drumming. I’m asked if I’m a New Yorker, I’m told by someone else I’m an International all within a span of 5 minutes. The energy is frenetic. Down the street on Broadway, I meet a man in Grace Church after attending a free lunchtime Bach concert. He ushers me to a plaque, a memorial to Edith Corse Evans who died in 1912 on the Titanic and was a parishioner of Grace church. He goes on to say, she saw a psychic when she was in London who told her she would die by water. When they were dropping the lifeboats, she refused hoping to avoid a watery grave. Trust me, you won't find this version in Wikipedia.

Ah, New York.