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.