This is the Important Thing

I am not a quick thinker. Certainly I am not great at thinking on the fly; I’m much better at more slowly organising my thoughts in writing. I write lists. I sometimes revisit conversations I’ve had in person, via a follow up text or email, in order to make sure I truly communicated what I intended to. I write reminders to myself. (On the backs on old envelopes, as my maternal grandfather did.) Perhaps it's no surprise that I called my short story collect Notes Towards Recovery. 

There are hearts everywhere, when I look for them. I found this rock in a friend's garden when I was weeding with her Mum and her eldest daughter on a gloriously perfect summer afternoon. 

After a prolonged acrimonious divorce, when I decided to bow out of the legal fight, I wrote myself a letter. It is deeply sad - difficult and painful to read. (I haven’t read it it years; just knowing it’s there is sometimes all the reminder I need.) In it, I detailed some of the most abusive incidents of my marriage, and reminded myself that I was alive - was extraordinarily lucky to have survived, both physically and mentally. By comparison, nothing else mattered. It felt as if I was starting over, with nothing, as I turned 40. (I did not have nothing. I had, and have, an amazing family and equally amazing life long friends. I am blessed indeed.) 

A scrapbook page I made in response to the prompt "risk." The journaling reads: I have scuba dived with sharks, parasailed in the Alps, survived a monsoon in India, and a category five hurricane in Cayman . . . but the most courageous risk I've ever taken was to admit failure, leave a bad marriage, move back to Canada, and start all over again at age forty. If I'd had any idea how difficult it would be, I might not have been brave enough to let go.

A much happier memo to myself is the wedding manifesto I composed before starting to plan my wedding with Doug. (I’m sure I nicked parts from other people - I’m sorry I can’t credit them. Thank you, whoever you are, for your ideas and for so generously sharing them online.)

My Wedding Manifesto

  

x

I am marrying the man I love and with whom I intend to spend the rest of my life.  

This is the important thing.

It would be lovely to celebrate our marriage with a gloriously sunny day but the weather is beyond anyone’s control.  If it rains, it rains - I will not let precipitation diminish my enjoyment of the day.

I will pause often during the day to appreciate my family and friends, the view, the music, the details, the food and to listen to Tom singing me down the aisle, Paul conducting the ceremony, the hymns, the speeches.  I will remember to capture the memories that can’t be photographed.

I will enjoy the evening as it unfolds, embracing the company of the friends & family who choose to stay on and celebrate with us, however many or few that may be.

This is an important day in my life, but so too are days and years to follow.  Doug and I are an older couple, we won’t go into debt for the reception or honeymoon.  We don’t need a theme or matching colour scheme or any extras the glossy mags and websites try to sell.  

This is a classy and sophisticated garden party.  Timeless, elegant, fun.

(My sister has full veto power over any and all of the above.)

x

  

It was a wonderful day! I have happy, happy memories. 

This is the important thing. I return to those five words when I find myself spiralling down a path of guilt, fear, sorrow, or hopelessness. What matters? What truly matters? And note that it is “the thing” - singular. Yes climate change, yes systemic racism, yes truth and reconciliation, yes homelessness, yes to all the things I need to help fix, and do better, and change about myself. But right now, this second, what is the singular most important thing, over which I have any control? 

A good friend reminds me that Doug’s basic needs are being met: he is fed, clothed, toileted, washed, cared for. I know the people who work at his care home; he is also being spoken to, listened to, loved.

When he was well, and we lived in England, we often agreed that we liked long distance walking and narrow boating in part because we were forced to slow down, and that helped us to notice a great many details we might otherwise have missed. I am finding comfort in that thought as we navigate this next stage of Covid, the all too brief summer season, Doug’s continued decline in health. 

Slow down. Take. Deep breath. Appreciate the details. A sunrise, a sunset, a heart-shaped rock, a waterlily. 

 

Holes in the World

I have a love-hate relationship wth pathetic fallacy, both in fiction and in real life. (Hmmmm . . . . I am assuming I’m not the only person who anthropomorphises literary terms?) Sometimes the technique works well - I love the building storm mirroring increasing tension in Helen Dunmore’s Talking to the Dead, and I have written a novel about a woman discovering what really matters in her life, which I’ve set against the backdrop of a category five hurricane (write what you know, write what you know . . .). Sometimes, however, it’s easy to feel that the weather is just too on the nose. 

Last week I said goodbye to two members of our Breakfast Club. On Saturday, in brilliant sunshine, Dennis was laid to rest. The Covid rules were relaxed with hours to spare, so his service could be held in a church with family and friends, then we were able to gather at his graveside for the committal service, then in a lakeside garden to break bread and share favourite memories. Six months after his death, this funeral was truly a celebration of a life well lived; the warm summer day was perfect. There was a single Monarch butterfly flitting amongst us. In a novel, it would have been too much. 

On Wednesday, in a cold, heavy rain, Jim was sent off with a full Catholic Mass. His illness was sudden, unexpected; he leaves behind his wife, who is living with Dementia. I pretended the rain was disguising my tears. 

And then, on Friday evening, Rose, another of our friends who was living with Dementia, passed over to the spirit world.

So much loss.

The week was not improved by visiting politicians I strongly dislike and do not support. One had been poorly briefed about the new care home building project he was there to announce; he pointed out the “beautiful view” the residents will have of the lake (the current home is actually right beside the lake, with an even prettier view.) He seemed oddly focussed on looks: “We’re going to build the most beautiful long term care home this town has ever seen,” he said. Well . . . thanks. How about the staff? How about the funding? How about the level of care? How about all the promises made a year ago which have not yet been fulfilled? How about making that $3/ hour pay rise for PSWs permanent? 

I know how hard working they are, the PSWs at my husband’s care home. I know what hours they put in, how often they work over time, how much they love the residents, the many, many things they do far above and beyond their job descriptions, how little support they receive from some quarters.

People are free to raise money however they choose, of course (so long as it’s not illegal). People are free to spend their money however they choose. I know this. Even so, my heart broke to read of people “spending” $1,000 for a burger and pop and the chance to hobnob with said politicians. I hope everyone who donated $1,000 to the re-election campaign also wrote a $1,000 cheque to our local food bank, or community kitchen. How many meals would $1,000 buy? How many people could be fed with $1,000 worth of groceries? (How little will $1,000 truly buy in terms of re-election TV or radio ads, glossy posters, team retreats, office supplies, whatever else the money is spent on?)

Jim was a friend I rang when I needed to rant. In turn, I was a friend he rang when he needed to cry. We also laughed a lot together, but, most of all, we were both good listeners.

“Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell.”  -Edna St. Vincent Millay