Daniela Ginta, Freelance Writer

Gratitude makes the journey better and so does kindness

Month: February 2012 Page 1 of 2

Conquering Mountains With Buckets of Laughter

By

On February 19, 2012

The boys and I head out to Cypress Mountain after a lazy morning with coconut pancakes, tea, and a good talk on the phone with my sister, always a treat on a weekend morning. The city is soaking wet but the mountains on the other shore are shrouded in clouds. As we drive towards them the fog clears up a bit and bits of sun trickle down on the window shield. We ascend, happy with the anticipation of a heavy snowfall and sideburns of dirty snow are growing on the sides of the road with every hairpin. We park, jump in snow pants, jackets and mitts and head up the trail. It’s not groomed, it’s the back country trail where people go hiking or snowshoeing. The risk of avalanche in the back country is moderate to high. Right. My prevailing thought is that I missed being in the snow. So much.

The boys jump in and out of mountains of snow. They laugh and tumble. And then they do it all over again. Mother polar bears must have the same satisfaction I had when they see their cubs all powdered up head to toe. The trees are heavy with snow, their branches tweak and the whole frosted forest speaks to us in the only language we’re interested of speaking at this hour. It snows heavily as we’re making the way up the trail. I stop to wait on the boys climbing through the trees with the intention of sledding down. An elderly gentleman on cross country skis stops to chat and tells me of another trail below the parking lot. He’s Norwegian, he says, over there most of the snow fun is free of charge. Like this one, he says. Tony sleds down fast and he parts with his sled just to see it disappear into a tree well. We contemplate coming back in the spring to get it but then we make a chain of arms and legs halfway down the well and retrieve the snow vehicle.

We follow the trail higher up until Sasha says his legs are tired. Fair enough. We stop for sandwiches and hot chocolate and then decide to turn back as it was getting dark and foggy. The boys sled down the trail shrieking and laughing. Sasha’s “awesooome” rolls down the path slower than the sled and it remains hanging in the snowy trees, the only thing we leave behind other than a deep snow angel Tony.

On our way back we stop by one of our favorite swimming pools. It’s almost empty. The lukewarm water feels nice and smooth. Outside it’s dark and the rain makes everything glittery wet. We get home late. I stop by the neighborhood grocery store to get some food for humans and Peruvian piglets. “It’s been a good day here in the store,” the clerk says as he hands me a bouquet of tulips. Yes it has. The trunk is full of wet clothes from a day of goodness, I know that much.

The Last Bowl

By

On February 18, 2012

Whipped cream was one of those things that I felt I could never have enough of. I have a sweet tooth of decent size and urgency, never drove out at midnight to get a bag of sweets or ate until I got sick. Mine pulls towards chocolate and straightforward confections containing some berry fruit and/or whipped cream. Nothing short of unspectacular but simplicity has been the color of the day for years.

My official post-race treat used to be a big bowl of whipped cream sweetened with a rivulet of maple syrup. Nothing short of decadence you’ll say, but for a singular food sin I felt I could go to town. Until a few days ago on my birthday when the whipped cream made me uncomfortable and troubled my body in a way that felt like betrayal. It did. I tried it again and having already half-said my goodbye, the confirmation only acted like the straw that broke the camel’s back. The cream camel is no more. Not an impediment, really but a natural progression towards grazing on a different pasture. Having minuscule limitations such as this reminds me of how blessed I am to have rock solid health and a body that can take a beating or two. My recently broken leg healed fast and I am now back to quite a few of my exercise routines. Letting go of a bowl of whipped cream seems too menial to even be mentioned when I am staring at such astounding landscape. As for classifying the above said menial food intolerance I will simply say that I am whipped-cream intolerant. The decadent streak is still there.

The last glass bottle that housed my last whipped cream concoction is now a flower vase, overflowing with tulips. Red tulips with streaks of gold that is.

A House Mouse Named River

By

On February 16, 2012

In Kamloops

I have a gerbil running around the house the way others have cats and dogs. She’s a gerbil and she’s been ours since May of last year because her former owners grew tired of having her for a pet. A lonely misunderstood pet. Gerbil whisperer I am not but I admit to always jumping to save yet another creature in distress, big or tiny.

A caged gerbil seemed salvageable material. Now, to clarify, I never had a taste for imprisonment of animals – I would abolish zoos without a second thought, and I mean zoos, not national parks or rehabilitation shelters – but felt too sorry for the poor mini-rat to not adopt her. So I said yes and the boys rejoiced. I replaced the cage with a fish tank, got some nice bedding and decided to leave out the gerbil doughnuts forever. There is such a thing, I am not making this up and yes, I know how wrong it is, I thought the same when I was handed the bag by the previous owners. We also changed her name from Chopper to River hoping to curb her biting habits. One could hope, right?

The boys and I taught her how to dig tunnels in the new bedding and she happily did that for a while. Then she started digging with a vengeance hoping to get out of the cage. For hours that is. Like I said, never agreed to imprisonment of animals and felt guilty to be the one inflicting it.

I know, she’s a bit of a rat, a glorified rat as I affectionately call her but still, a teeny creature with a will to live and be free, although one could argue that she has no clue about what that is having lived her whole life in one cage or another.

So one day, a month ago or so, she won the gerbil lottery.

She was free to run around the house. Another option would have been to free her into the woods but we thought of her future as owl snack and shuddered. For an hour she was free to roam. It became a whole afternoon soon after and once I realized she’s fit for that kind of life and clean enough for the recovering germophobe me, the decision was made.

She chewed on a few things she was not supposed to including Sasha’s soft red ball which we painted with my acrylic colors but could not erase the sorry look. She hid so well and for long enough that we had to move furniture to make sure she’s still alive. Aside from that I cannot fault her much. Her new home is behind the fridge, she comes when I call and hand her food, she drinks water from a tiny bowl painted with Chinese characters and lets me pet her while she eats. Seeking company is not what I would call typical gerbil behavior but that’s what she does. All in all, a jolly apparition unless you have a small rodent-phobia.

There, you now know the truth. We have a tame gerbil who knows her name and likes waffles, banana bread and is a sucker for kiwi. Literally.

Why The Big Picture Stinks

By

On February 13, 2012

I’m reaching the end of this particular rope here. It’s the garbage, you see. I am not a big consumer but somehow I am sucked into producing garbage. I am trying to buy food that does not come in a package, I am trying to buy only what I need and I aim for items that do not come with overwhelming packaging yet somehow the future garbage material finds its way into my home and my life. And ultimately the landfill via my raccoon-loved garbage container outside. Enough then.

Why do we need our stuff packaged like it’s some explosive device? Toys come all tied up to hard to open boxes made of non-recyclable plastic. Most of the food comes packaged and overpackaged. Styrofoam trays and takeout containers are still grinning at us as we stand perplexed trying to figure out whether to put the white foamy material in the recycling box or the garbage bin. Try to imagine this: What if for a month or so everyone in your neighborhood will throw their garbage out in the street instead of of the garbage bin in the backyard? How much would that be? An itty bitty mound of nothing or a considerable sized pile of things that should not be there in the first place. Because you see, garbage trucks come and take it away every week but it only makes it to the landfill. Out of sight is out of mind but it’s not out of our world.

I remember a birthday party that Tony was invited to when he was four. At least 15 kids were invited. The gifts were all wrapped, bows and all, piled on the grass at Jericho beach, waiting to be attended to. And the time came. The wrapping came undone, ripped by impatient tiny hands. Lots of wrapping. The owner of the little hands did not care at all about the fancy wrapping. Why should he? By the time the party ended a couple of garbage bags took the place of the gifts. Everything from gift wrapping to paper plates, plastic cups, forks and dead balloons went into the black bags. The child, merely four, had a gargantuan environmental footprint after just two hours of fun. If you’re trailing back a child’s footprint from the time he/she makes it into the world… Yeah, it’s a tough one.

Not to be a party pooper (though I can hear you say just that), but all I could think was that the kid got robbed after all. And mine with him. How many birthday parties went on that day in Vancouver? See? All of a sudden you wish you did not know how to do math. The big picture stinks all of a sudden, no pun intended. The black garbage bags looked more menacing than an army of hungry crows. Should we not rethink our strategy then? Keep an eye on your garbage output for a week if you don’t believe me. Very few things should go in the garbage bin, yet you might be surprised. Not that you’re lacking good intentions. If there’s no the accommodating triangle of chasing arrows with a number in it then it’s the landfill. Think coffee lids, your kid’s latest toy and its packaging, the good old VHS and audiotapes that you have finally decided to let go off, expired carseats – yes, they have an expiration date and most municipalities do not recycle them, rubber boots and umbrellas, the broken blow dryer and toaster oven, old phone, burnt old Christmas lights, damaged decorations and all the good-for-a-bit-but-useless-overall stuff that came in the kids’ goodie bags along the years… the list goes on and on with no end in sight. Awareness is a relentless beast, isn’t it?

This story has no ending. We’re very far in the game of convenience but I’m willing to give my throwaway habits a makeover. There’s a triangle of chasing arrows here too, I’d say. Stuff we buy –> stuff we use/not use + packaging  –> stuff we throw away. If I’d connect the first and last you’d say I’m being sarcastic. But for the majority of time I’d be just pointing at the obvious. I’m ready then. Care to join?

 

Being Who I Am. The Guts!

By

On February 11, 2012

Sasha walks to school with a fox fur wrapped around his neck if he feels like it. He likes that one, calls it Ferret. His outfits are often different and so are his ideas. He talks about going to Australia to see lizards and has a plethora of ideas that go from hanging out with Komodo dragons to living on a remote island like the Swiss family Robinson. That’s who he is and comfortable thank you very much.

Kids have that, they affirm themselves. If given enough room to grow and be themselves, they tell the world what they like, what they don’t, what they plan to grow up to be and they don’t think twice about wearing what they like, unless self-consciousness rears its ugly head and self-confidence pulls in much like a snail’s eye when you blow on it. So here I am asking you and asking myself too if we are who we really are. And if we are a certain kind, if we are ourselves, what’s wrong with that?

The other day my cast-less walking prompted some congratulatory remarks followed shortly by “Now you’ll be staying put for a while, and really why not be like the rest of us…” Not trying to act restless for the sake of it, truth is the six weeks of relative confinement have gnawed at my patience so I am more than eager to go out and move like I used to. Which is what I say to people if they ask. I want to do what makes me feel good and I missed. And then I get the “why can’t you be more like us” thing again. So I’ll say it straight up and I will do my best to raise my boys to say the same: I am who I am, and that could be different from what the next person is like. That’s how it should be.

If we’re different we can still learn from each other. Being the same, conforming so that one’s head does not raise the established baseline, that’s the beginning of blah. Nothing to learn, nothing to be inspired by, not to mention the lack of satisfaction born of not being who you really are. As long as I’m not hurting people with my actions or way of living, as long as I am myself because that’s fulfilling and makes me a better person, I’d say there’s nothing wrong being being myself. And there’s always room for improvement, it should be. I am a work in progress, inspired by others who dare to be themselves. Most will roll along with political correctness to not get in any trouble, others will adhere to what others want to hear of them. Like lukewarm water one could say. Not cold enough to quench your thirst but not hot either to leave a mark. I’d be inclined to say that we’re not meant to be lukewarm but become like that. I’d rather not. You?

Why Rain Can’t Get Me

By

On February 9, 2012

When I moved to Vancouver 13 years ago I was told I am moving to the most beautiful city in the world. I was excited even though I believe that beauty really is in the eye of the beholder. Still, Vancouver is spectacular. But I was also warned again and again that it gets wet here. On my way to the bus stop, on the bus and during the two and a half years of school many sighed and shook their heads chastising the rain again and again. Then my boys came along and I always took them for walks in the rain and I remember this particular day when Tony’s boots got filled to the brim with rainwater from a big puddle that he played in and I had to take them off and throw the water out and it was cold and wet and funny in a bedraggled chilly way. Rain never had a negative connotation for me. I have always been a rain lover. Aside from other idealistic views of life that I proudly own, I mean.Corny view? Do as you please with it, I am telling the truth.

Rain meant slosh and wet shoes and wet clothes too in elementary school. It meant yucky when I had to feed the chickens – city life with backyard chickens was how I grew up – or take my dog for a walk. Rain at my aunt’s farmhouse in the countryside meant “oh, you can’t imagine the muddiness and if you dare you won’t even get close to imagine what it’s like to feed pigs and ducks.” In university it meant wet-and-muddy-to-my-knees jeans that would not get dry until the next day because my dorm room did not have a dryer. Rain meant find a way to deal with it or else. Rain means wet everything and grey skies and puddles occasionally covered with enough muck and leaves that you miss them for solid ground and you step smack dab in the middle and hear the muckiness gurgle a mischievous gurgle as it seeps into your no longer dry shoes. Rain also means long days of great writing and realizing again and again that the green around me would not exist if no rain would fall. Rain means a good sleep with drops playing tag on my windows all night and the long slicky sound of tires waking me up in the morning. Rain means that I’m alive.

So you see, rain can’t get me. And you can tell me all you want that rain makes one’s mood slump and fall to the ground like a disgraced tired goose and I’ll stubbornly reply that I cannot change the way nature works. I can get myself rain boots, rain jackets or an umbrella if I need it, all luxuries for many around the world, come to think of it, I can step around puddles carefully and if I feel like it, I can make myself some soup, tea or coffee or hot chocolate and warm up. I can wait it out or go out and play. But still, I can’t change it. I can only change the way I look at it. And that is that I can’t be bothered. Rain can’t get me. Well, aside from wet I mean.

 

Moon Faces And Bright Mornings

By

On February 8, 2012

“The moon was so beautiful this morning at Jericho beach, you should’ve seen that…” The man, in his late sixties or so, had track pants on and a red rain jacket. I don’t know him but that is not important. We are the first customers in the neighborhood grocery store this morning.
“I saw the moon last night driving back from Squamish, it was very beautiful,” I tell him. He tells me about the old mining town in Squamish, and that his parents were Croatian, settled in BC way before he was born.
I wish I could’ve stayed and talk more because there is something so utterly fascinating about talking moon and simple joy with complete strangers but the morning rushes me on like a flood so I leave. Behind me I hear the man talking about the magnificent moon to the cashier. The cash register goes “ding” and the sound plops over the man’s words like a pillow.

Later on I go for a walk to the bank with my two newly appointed functional legs and I almost feel like stopping just about everyone passing by me just to tell them about my walking bliss. The sidewalk is oozing sunlight and I am wading through it up to my eyelids. Mornings like this remind me of simplicity and how uncomplicated gratefulness should be. The moon hides in the soft blue that’s spread all over like a blanket. After all it’s been up all night, no? Silly pun? Why, there’s some giggling joy in that too.

Page 1 of 2

Next

Powered by WordPress & Theme by Anders Norén