Daniela Ginta, Freelance Writer

Gratitude makes the journey better and so does kindness

Month: July 2012

Skipping, Smooth Side Down. And Sauvignon Blanc. Chilled

By

On July 28, 2012

The day is shiny and plump. The boys and I drive to Point Roberts. The beach there is one of a kind. Lips of round rocks pucker up on the shore with each wave and if you’re patient and staring you see seeds of dolphins planted in the garden of water spread in front of your eyes.
I sit down in the sun with a book and think of lizards. They invented basking, they must have. The boys find a fort and gather weapons for a war to happen soon. They talk, run, jump. Stop. I take photos. They crouch down.

I take photos of them and yellow flowers and think of how deliciously wild they all are. You have too many weapons, Sasha. But I need the bow, I found it. OK, then each arrow counts as a weapon. No. Yes. No! Mooom! He can’t have that. Yes I can.
Have five weapons each I suggest while hanging onto the words in my book like a spider does to its web as it flies away. No, not enough. OK, seven then. Mooom! Then stop asking for my input. Back to my book.
Moooom! Sasha hits with all his might, we can’t have a war like that.
Clearly. Well, don’t hit hard then.
And back again. No, no, no dagger allowed. Oh, bugger. No reading then. Words scamper off the page like rabbits. Boys should come with volume knobs. They’d still be loud and wild on camera though. I pick up the very machine and click away.
I stop and look. Lie down, listen to sounds and the humming of boys. They play, jump, they run. Laugh. That’s a nice war indeed.

Could I have your camera for a bit? I had noticed the man, the woman and their umbrella since we sat down here. You should have a photo of the three of you he says. Yeah, it’s the kind of picture I like. Smile. Smile? Sasha takes his time to warm up to strangers. They both do.

Glass of wine? Sauvignon blanc, chilled and smooth. The breeze invites to irreverence. Donna and Bill and I. We laugh, talk parenting, fishing dogfish off of old wharfs, the dangers of raising children thinking they are good at everything. Yeah, what’s a participant ribbon anyway? Wrong, the three of us agree. They know about children, they have two grown ones. They speak with love but with good measure. I learn. The boys ask for a sip. Nah, not this year. How come you do? That question again. You’ll get there, don’t hurry. Donna laughs, she’s heard that before.

Here’s a good skipping rock, Bill says. He calls on Tony to skip together. He explains the swaying of the wrist and how to hold the rock the right way. Smooth side down he says while his thumb is feeling the upper rougher side. Skip. Four times. Tony does two on his second try. His smile skips all the way to me. Sasha paints on rocks with ocean water. Sprinkle sand on top, done!

We sip, talk schools and how they miss the beat at times, the genius of Isaac Asimov and the miracle of the printed word. Why so great, Tony asks? Oh, but you know, the wonder of knowledge that’s where it all starts. Ideas.

Skip some more. Donna tries her luck too and her enjoyment of this place is charming. Sasha brings me seaweed in a cup. For you, mom. I snack on it, it freaks them out still, but they’ve seen it enough times to get used to it. Salty and chewy, I like it. Tony’s rock skipped three times. Bill finds a good rock. Use it proudly. Tony walks and skips royally. It makes a boy taller, this skipping thing. You gotta hold the rock just so… He knows. Sasha finds a crab shell, rocks. He stuffs his pants and then holds onto them amused. They fall down otherwise, mom, I have too many rocks.

Donna and Bill put the umbrella away. Time to go. It’s almost eight. We will see each other again, we will. There’s so much to talk about. The sun has curled up in our car the whole afternoon and it bursts out when we open the doors. We drive home listening to “How to train your dragon.” Chuckle. Mom, isn’t Toothless funny? Yeah… I wish for toothless days that would leave my boys’ laughter crisp and whole. At home I make French toast with fruit and chocolate milk. Mouths full, laughing over spilled milk. Irreverence. Tickling has been proclaimed a sin tonight. Skip then. Sigh. Hug and good night.

Dwarfed

By

On July 21, 2012

Say you get in the car on a Wednesday morning and head up highway 1 with mighty big plans to get to Kamloops. A long drive with two boys in the back but who’s to say you cannot make it. It takes you almost an hour to get on the highway from the city, the roads are swarming with cars. Big city gridlocks. You’re flying through farmland as you bid goodbye to the mainland. Lush green hills roll on the side of the road. The boys read in the back, they’ve seen this part of the road before. As you head past Hope greenness abounds and you head up towards the canyon sheltered by the bluest sky you’ve ever seen. Stop for gas and organic cherries. Sold on a plate, rather unpractical you think as you head back to the car balancing them like an unskilled waitress. Half an hour later you chuckle as you pick the cherries from in between the front seats with your right hand. Turns can do that to a plate of cherries but you knew that…

By now the boys are clinging to the windows. The Fraser River Canyon is displaying its beauty. Raging turbid green water piling high into white crests surrounded by walls of yellow rock. The sun came alive and died on these walls many times and it shows. The train on the other side looks like a thread. Two hundred cars or so, they looks so small you’d think you can pick them up and roll them up on your wrist for a nice keepsake.

As you approach Ashcroft, there’s warnings of crosswinds. Why you ask? Because as you get out of the car you have to hold onto the door so it won’t fly off. The boys get off for that kind of break and you assume they can figure as much as to not pee against the wind. Gusts of hot air sweep the barren hills but leave behind some sun-bleached bushes for the next day of fun. You pass by ghost houses and barns in Ashcroft. One day, you tell the boys, I’ll bring you here to the posh tea house. Why not now, they ask. Because here, you explain, they use forks and knives to eat pies, they sip the tea and they talk to a whisper. Oh, they say, later then. Thought so.

Cache Creek is where the desert paints itself shamelessly all over the tall hills. There’s ranches with lazy cows and beautiful brown and white splotchy horses. You love driving and feel the car almost sailing on the melting black ribbon of black road. You pass a crowd of bikers, they seem to take their time cruising along but who can blame them.

Thompson River shines on one side, another train. How much longer, mom? Not much, you say, almost there. That’s what you keep saying, mom. That’s how I buy some time, you reply. You know they’ll forgive and forget, kids bounce that way. Pass Savona, a junk metal graveyard on the right side. Can we stop there, mom? No can do, plus it’s tractor and huge plows old parts, there can be no hauling that home.

Kamloops. You made it! Hot summer day. The boys look around, eat some and walk around. Many houses here are tiny. Dolls houses you think. You’ve been exasperated by all the big houses that have been overtaking the small ones for years now in your neighborhood, what a shame. But the ones here survive. Small space living is in fact living at large. Little do they know, you think… You head over to Riverside Park, the boys splash at the water park, you read and there’s a band getting ready for the nightly Music in the Park.

You head over to Paul Lake for camping. Set up the tent, get the fire going and listen to the boys’ chatter. They find raspberries and are now carving the marshmallows sticks. The park ranger comes by, you chat about life on the lake, small houses and making the best of every day. It makes sense, she’d know, she’s been here for 15 years or so. Night slithers around the trees and you’re getting ready for sleep. Come morning you’re but a tiny seed in a giant sun pumpkin. Watermelon for breakfast, red sweet and sticky juice all the way to your elbows, then head down to the lake for a good swim. The sun-kissed water is warm and smooth. The boys play with a tiny eel and walk around through the shallow water followed by a school of fish. They find a dead one. Take it, put it in a bucket, add some lake water and some sand and you’re now having someone in the passenger seat.

Back in town, stroll and come noon or so you head towards highway 1 west. Savona, Cache Creek and this time you’re heading down highway 97 south through Lillooet. That’s an important hub, you know that for a fact. It’s called a scenic drive so you’re ready, eyes peeled and soul open. It’s a must. Drive through humbling valleys, huge walls of crumbling stone that would make a Tyrannosaurus look puny. Now you understand how they once were. The boys go wow and so do you. And again. And again. You feel grateful, there’s no other way to put it.

The coast mountains grow around you and your heart is beating faster as you’re approaching The Lake. It’s your favorite lake, Pavilion Lake. Turquoise water over white sand. You jump in, dive, splash, swim on your back with your eyes climbing over the tallest rock walls that guard the lake. Close your eyes, float, dive and look at the white sand. The boys swim to you and back, they’re laughing and screaming at the same time. There’s no better way to say it as it is.

Fly to Lillooet. Winding road, souls gasping… Lillooet with the rock shop. It is one of a kind, you’ve been there before, spent a good two hours chatting with the guy who knows all there is to know about rocks and local legends. Store is closed, hearts sank. But no, you say, he’s somewhere close. Just as you explain this, the guy shows up. You’re lucky, he says, the store was closed for the day. But come in, and you do, the boys are quiet. You’ve told them about the store that holds rocks, Indian arrows from the seventeenth century, skulls of big horns with blades stuck in. Stories and questions rolling out like rocks off a mountain. You guess it right, you take a nice rock home. Choose a piece of jade too. Rub it on your cheek every now and then. It’ll become part of you as you will become part of it. Two hours later, your head is full of stories, and the boys have spent their money on rocks that shine, sparkle and each of you is given a piece of petrified walrus task. You’re speechless and you know why. It’s that special. Promise you’ll be back because you know you will.

Follow the winding road through snow-capped mountains to Vancouver. Near Pemberton is where you camped once and fed a white horse some horsetail, Whistler is where you’re not keen on going because of the crowds, and Squamish is where you take the boys visit the mineral museum and for a good walk on that spit of sand where you first stepped with two feet when your leg cast came off.

Reach Vancouver with a gorgeous sunset wrapped around your shoulders, warm and orange. The boys are dozing off though Pavarotti’s “Nessun dorma” is filling the car to the brim. You get to Vancouver, carve yourself a spot in the big city traffic and inch your way home. The fish made it too but it stinks. It really does, it’s been a hot day. Park, unload the car, let the thoughts twirl through your head and eat the rest of the watermelon. It’s sweet and sticky, like the rest of the things you’ve come across during this trip. Wait, the piece of jade from Lillooet… you thought you lost it but it’s there. Green. Touch it to your face. You’re part rock now. Feels like it.

Say you do all this. You’d love it. I did. The boys did too.

 

 

Paws For Souls Passing By

By

On July 16, 2012

Piglet sidled up to Pooh from behind. “Pooh!” he whispered. “Yes, Piglet?” “Nothing,” said Piglet, taking Pooh’s paw. “I just wanted to be sure of you.” ~A.A. Milne

One of the deepest regrets of my life so far is that I never fully understood and appreciated my mom’s “paw,” right there for me to take and hold onto. She was there and I was sure of her, without being able to name or single out that feeling, it was there, the warm, loving paw… Never withheld for any reason, my mom’s love was something I had and though I loved her back, I have that tingle of “should’ve” gnawing at my soul.

I have a few people in my life I sidle up to and take their paws, just wanting to be sure of them. I am blessed that way you see. I take their paw not because I doubt them or their presence in any way, but to feel them, again and again. The reassurance feeling. My sister is one of those people. I had my moments of feeling afraid of grabbing her paw, afraid of letting my vulnerabilities, my dreams, my fears, my insecurities, my crazy happenings, out of the box for fear that she might not understand, for fear that she would judge me. She did not. They are out now, all those things that I was afraid to share. My sister’s paw stayed, warm and safe. I held on.

The people whose paws I grab every now and then, they know who they are and they know how appreciated they are. They also know that mine is theirs to grab. I’m still learning how to do it right. As much as I’m learning how not to judge and simply let them hold onto. I’m a relationship minimalist you see – more in another post… I keep the ones that enrich me or I can enrich. I will cultivate the ones that have the warm paw. I will respect the ones that float away because the paw ain’t fit for the hold or the other way around. It’s fair.

When I grow up I want to be like my mom. Have my boys take my paw to be sure of me and hopefully never live with the regret of not appreciating it enough. I want people I love and care about to have that too. I want them to be sure of me. Paws down. Never hold back.

Whose paw do you take and who can take yours?

If You See The Tide Come In

By

On July 7, 2012

In all fairness, Sasha wanted to go to the river. But I said let’s go to the secret place. So we did. Walk on the path, curtains of salmonberries plopped over and around. We pick and eat. Mom, this is mystic yummy land. It is. Sasha in front, Tony second. I chase them. Sasha carries a pole with him. Black metal pole, a former curtain rod from the old house that never got to be.

The secret place awaits. Reeds, leaves, mud. Mud. You can’t understand mud until you get here. Which you can’t because I won’t tell where. We take our sandals off, I almost leave my bag with books and phone behind but swing it off the branch as we head for the mud fields. Better take it with. Open fields of mud. You sink to your knees, it snakes through your toes and the squelching is to die for. Literally. Stick around and you’ll see.

We follow the rivulet then walk to this water hole, run to the next, follow the steps of herons leading to nowhere in the land of nobody. The murky liquid in the water holes is warm. “Mom, it’s so warm… come see…” I think elephants and hippos. Cooling off with mud armor growing on us. A bald eagle swoops over, close, very close, and lands on the tiny island in the middle of sprawled waters. “Did he come for us, mom?” No, it’s fish he’s after. The eagle watches us from afar. Like he knows something we don’t. He does. Like all eagles, he looks smug. Proud.

Tide’s coming in, look! Look! Tongues of water lick the endless mud fields. Coming from all directions, foamy water advances and I’ve never seen it this close. Mud rats we are but now it’s mud show. Majestic. The eagle watches as the water closes in around him. A feathered daredevil but how could he not be one.

We plan for a mud fight in the morrow. The boys relish the thought. Water slides in. Tony builds mud bombs. “This is how you do it…Guys, come watch.: We gather round as he picks a handful of mud… you dip it in the river of death (it is that blackened from the silt we stirred). He adds some moss, some clay from where our feet sank. I watch the feet marks. Holes. Deep. Sasha’s, Tony’s, mine… they fill with foamy water. It takes a couple of seconds for the first to fill. Then the next. Water rolls in, eerie sight. Quiet. Fast. I stare. It moves so fast. “Mom, you’re not looking, the bomb…” I look, but the water… “Guys, let’s go back.” The mud bomb ready for lunch. “Mom, wait…” No waiting. This way. No, the other way. Water covered driftlogs and rivulets, it’s getting all swampy. Reeds as far as we can see and above them, the woods. We run and sink. Sasha’s tiny legs sink. Tony runs through a former wading rivulet that is now deep. Down to his thighs, he breaks free and throws me a look that screams and freaks out. He doesn’t though. Almost all that muddy field is now covered in water, it moves quick. I don’t like it. Which way, which way? The reeds. We cut through the reeds. They are taller than me and they spew dust. My lungs swallow it but who has time for it. The boys follow, trustful, single line through the reeds. I think, I think and try to make my words come out calm and straight. How? How?

We go sideways thinking we’ll reach the path we know. “An opening, mom, I see it…” It’s nothing, just downed yellowed reeds. We’re barefoot and scared. We see nothing. I down more reeds and the boys follow faithfully. “Mom, we trust you… Sasha, mom knows…” Was planning to see a play tonight. We stop. We hear swooshing through the reeds. Water seeps towards us. “Mom, are we gonna die?” No, oh, come on, of course not.

“Will you make to the play tonight?” Of course, guys, we’re almost out. No, I can’t see the play happening. We’re not out. We’re not, I can’t find my bearings. New strategy. We will head straight towards the woods, at least that’s high and towards where we should be. More reeds, swimming, feet hurt. I think of Sasha’s soft feet. He’s not complaining. Tony had his crocs with, smart man. They fight to keep up, my brave boys.

We laugh when we get to the woods. But stop. The bramble is mean. Old blackberry branches like booby traps on the ground. Sasha whimpers. We move fast. Think, move, move. Not that way. “Mom, I see the path. No, it’s not.” Listen guys, the water stream. The trickle of water is close. We’re saved. No. It’s another stream that ends in a marshy grin full of old bramble teeth. They hurt our legs and feet. “Mom, what now?” What now? My mind is a revolving door swinging crazily fast throwing thoughts out but they hit the ground and die. We can’t walk through bramble. It’s thick, we’re wearing shorts and Sasha and I are barefoot. I pick him up, his pole gets in the way. It has a feather stuck at one end, an eagle feather. I tell Sasha to leave it behind, it gets in the way. He agrees but Tony offers to carry it. The boys make promises to each other, they tell each other good brotherly things. We’re stuck. I remember Tony’s socks and put them on Sasha’s scratched feet. My legs have bloody streaks on them, my feet are full of spikes but we keep going. We walk eastward and find a less tangly patch of forest. We make our way up towards the hill. We reach a crumbly wall of dirt. Roots stick out, we hang onto them. We scream with joy. Laugh loud, my cheeks hurt. Relieved. No matter where we end up, water can’t get us and brambles can’t build skin tents on our arms. We laugh our way up. I pull Sasha up and … we roll onto the most proper green gold field and a perfectly dressed gentleman ready to swing. He looks like a cutout from a magazine. We’re covered in mud, scratched and bloody here and there and barefoot. Tony holds the black pole but we lost the feather. Ha!

The tide came in, you see. We’re not sure where we are. The guy stares. Maybe this is part of the game? No, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t live in Vancouver. The grass is rich and soothing to our hurt feet. I never liked fields like this for environmental reasons but now, now I appreciate the hurtless surface. My feet kiss the grass. Smooth. I pick Sasha up and we walk to the four gentlemen who have never seen this before. They look so clean. I explain quickly. The tide, shoes are floating somewhere most likely, we want to get home. He tells us to follow the path and eventually we’ll reach the entrance to this posh members-only club. Right. We thank, they watch… Good thing I’m a writer, I tell them laughing as we head towards the path. Adrenaline rush over. We celebrate. Tony walks side by side. He turned 10 yesterday. Happy birthday indeed! He’s tall and determined. Sasha is on my back and that makes my feet sink deeper in the grass. Soft, cold. Tomorrow I shall go look for my sandals. I like my Keen sandals. But all that water, there’s no way… but it says on them waterproof. Cheeky, I know. Maybe I’ll find Sasha’s sandals and that bag of grapes too.

Half an hour later we’re all cleaned up and I am heading out for the play. It’s opening night.

Soulbender

By

On July 6, 2012

Slivers of sun are piercing the leaves and there’s nowhere else I’d like to be right now. Warm bright greenness drips on our heads as we make our way through the woods. Late morning. The boys riding their bikes, chasing each other, competing. Muddy boy bikes, riding upright and fast. They ride the path and the world is left behind. No better place, no better time. Celebrating. This. Knowing it will never come back. Green T-shirt, blue T-shirt, shorts… Wait, that’s not what it’s about. Sasha’s round forearms holding on, Tony’s swerves and soulful peeking at me, the giggles. Wait, that’s not all either… there’s the dark moments from a couple of days ago when motherhood stomped its feet and left. Left me standing in the middle of the road not knowing how a child can parent children. You’re mean… I’m not but I am stubborn, I am overwhelmed at times and I am forgetful… Forgetful of my promises to keep them unharmed from egos.

They crouch over the sides of an old wooden bridge looking for backswimmers. Reaching the water edge, walking on the slippery log that is both life and death and the world in between. No camera today. Regret? No, no time for that… I have my heart with, that’ll do. They point, laugh, spit. Spit again and laugh. Backswimmers slide back and forth. They bend the water. Cradles for the bug’s feet, neverending fascination for my boys. They’re waterbenders, I tell them. Round eyes, wonder. But how, mom? How do they do it? Pushing just enough so that the water won’t break. Bending it just so, it’ll bounce right up when the backswimmer slides to the other side. Mothering should be like that. But how? Bending the surface of their soul just enough, no pushing through, no hurting. No piercing. No mistake. What if, what about when it happens? Soulbender. I am? They learn, I learn. They ride, I run to keep up. They slow down at the hill. Can you you push us up, mom? Sure. For now.

 

Half A Cup Of Tea

By

On July 2, 2012

“Can I have a bit, mom?”

“Sure.”

I pour some of my green tea in a small cup, half of it or so. It’s a small cup. Colorful circles on it, tiny handle just big enough for his still small fingers to fit through. I got them from a garage sale, overpaid. I knew they were small when I got them, I knew that. Their hands would still curl around the handle the right way, I thought. He sips and the playful spark in his eyes makes it across the table and dances on my face. Wait…

“I feel so grownup when I drink green tea, mom. It has caffeine, right?”

“Yes, it does, not much…” I don’t mean to take it away from him. His eyes sparkle. I think of myself having black tea with my mom, I remember the kitchen stools, off-white and good to sit on. The red and white cupboard with a place for all my mom’s special things, the smell of summer mornings and winter nights, my mom’s voice. I remember feeling the outside of the cup, smooth and warm. My mom’s voice. All the untold stories. The house is gone now, the kitchen in a place I don’t own. I didn’t know to say it. It’s so good to have tea with you…

He holds the cup in his hands and looks inside. A world of wonder, a world of growing up. He is. I want him to stay like this, but the sparkle in his eyes asks me to let him go. I will. How? Stay…

“Sasha, do you want to taste?”

 

When you’re six it’s not the same. It tastes a bit bitter and taste-less. The tip of his tongue comes out to chastise us for offering the unsweet drink and his eyes twinkle the “is he trying to fool me?” look. But no, I want to say, your big brother wanted you to taste that feeling. It’s a big one. When you’re six, tea doesn’t taste like anything.

“Can I have some hot chocolate instead, mom?..”

“Yes, babe.”

Tony smiles. I smile. Stay a while… He will, for now. He can taste the tea. The kitchen chairs sleep under us like camels. Maple colored camels taking us to places we will smell in our dreams. Places we’ll hide in our hearts and peek at and never let go. Places we’ll cry about every now and then and we’ll lay out in the scorching sun to dry like colorful carpets. Roll them up, keep going. The joy in the journey, I tell the boys all the time. It is, it is. No regrets.

“Can I have some coffee with you soon?”

“Soon, my love…” Soon is far, the witch inside of me wants to keep them mine and small. Selfish. I let them go, not yet… He steals a sip from my cup and runs to play with his brother. Pitter patter. Pitter patter. The sound of their feet. The song of their bare feet all over my heart. Echoes…

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