Daniela Ginta, Freelance Writer

Gratitude makes the journey better and so does kindness

Month: September 2013 Page 1 of 2

Night Out In Kamloops

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On September 30, 2013

In Kamloops

It was last Wednesday evening that I honored an invitation to go about town with a bunch of strangers and eat at four different restaurants for a first time of a culinary and social event called Dishcrawl. I did not know what to expect as everything had been kept a secret until that evening.

Sometimes all you need to do is sit back and relax, but how to? It’s becoming a lost art in our hurried times. Often chased by gadgets into physical isolation, people often find online socializing easier.

It is not unusual for people to go hang out at an eating place because they know for a fact if any of their friends are there. There’s an app for that.

But there was none of that during the Dishcrawl event I attended. I sat down with people I didn’t know at 7 o’clock in place I had not scheduled ahead of time and knew that by the end of the night we will have learned at least the basics about each other.

We ate pizza at Papa Tee’s, sweet potato noodles and other Korean-inspired bits at the Cornerstone Sushi, tacos downtown at Quilas and a raspberry sauce-doused torte at Romann’s Swiss Pastries. Food is food is food you could say and that may be true, but this was more.

All places are family owned and operated. Every one of them came with a smiling host explaining the food in simple, user-friendly terms. Curiosity and the novelty of it added new flavors.

My table-mates and I talked life, careers and whether Kamloops is anyone’s birthplace. Less important in the end, it turned out, since we all call Kamloops home no matter how far from it we were born. There’s consent about the beauty of the hills and mountains spreading forever, and the wonder of our somewhat small but lively city.

I discovered that night that even when you hang out with strangers – and they are only strangers until one breaks the ice really – mentioning a name will have someone at the table say “Oh, I know that person!”

It is a small world, but how small could you go in the end? It turned out that a Labrador native is no stranger to a handful of Kamloops native. Or someone could tap you on the shoulder and say they know you and you realize that you know them. Conversation ensues and you feel the comfortable homey warmth of a place like Kamloops.

I may or may not see my table-mates any time soon, but what I know is that saving seats or seeing an arm raised signaling the seat that someone saved for you connects you to people you’ve never met before. An intimacy of some sort that will not go away. Memories of a time when you did know what to expect.

I wondered what made people sign up for the event. Perhaps curiosity or something to do on an ordinary Wednesday night, or both. At least one person moved to Kamloops two weeks ago.

At some point I am asked about advice for a newcomer to Kamloops. Someone just acknowledged my “no longer new in town” status! A rite of passage for sure. I take pride in telling of the many places I have visited with my family since we moved here a year ago, skiing across frozen lakes and hiking on crumbly cinnamon-hued hills included. It comes down to three words: Just do it!

In a time where we schedule our next breath with apps and such, a surprise evening may throw the proverbial stick in the wheels. There’s no app for that. It better not be.

Four places to go, countless conversations to be had, snippets of life to be swapped over a glass of wine, laughter and a brisk walk back to the car when the evening is over.

There’s something to be learned every time you take the word “usually” out of a schedule. For Dishcrawl, you shake hands, smile, introduce yourself and let the evening unfold while tasting good food prepared by local chefs you meet and greet as you walk in. “Thank you,” and then you’re off to your next adventure.

Originally published as a column in the Saturday edition of Kamloops Daily News on Saturday, September 27, 2013

Find A Child To Read To

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On September 22, 2013

In Kamloops

We finished The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn on the way to Vancouver — the last three chapters or so. We had started reading it the day before in the midst of unfinished chores, but what better time to read than when the child says, “Let’s read!”

There’s never been a better excuse for shifting priorities.

A few days before, we had picked up The Wizard of Oz from the library and dedicated two overcast afternoons on the front porch and a sunny one to reading about Dorothy’s happenings. I had only read an abridged version as a kid, so we savoured each chapter together. You can call a book remarkable when a scarecrow inspires you. Read it and you’ll see for yourself.

I mostly read to my youngest these days but my oldest joins in sometimes. He reads on his own and I choose to credit at least part of his voracious appetite for reading to the fact that we had countless mornings and afternoons of reading.

The first book my oldest son and I picked up from the library when he was one and a half or so was called Anna and the Rain.

I must have read it 20 times only that first day. They usually let you borrow them for three weeks. I was new to the concept of reading a book until your tongue becomes numb. For veteran readers, Dr. Seuss’s Fox in Socks is always a good book to see where you stand in regard to tongue numbness.

A few months later, the library put Anna and the Rain up for sale. It was a bit worn, they said, and no wonder; loved books often turn raggedy. A mere 25 cents later, the book was ours. To us, it was priceless; it still is.

When my youngest came along, he picked his preferred book on a rainy Vancouver morning at the neighbourhood library: The Gunniwolf.

By then, I was well versed in reading a book many times in a row, voices and all — and the anticipatory giggles only a child that young could come up with were precious fuel; eyes wide and curious every time, as if we were reading it for the first time. The book never grew old with either of us.

When you read to a child, you open a door that lets them see farther than you can imagine — taunting them to learn about the world and calling to them in a way that only books can.

I never read to them because I wanted them to do well in school or to keep up with any recommended amount of reading. We read because it makes sense, because we need to do that or else my world, or theirs, would not have all the colours in it.

From the simplest rhyme books that are never simplistic, to more complex stories that go on for many chapters, reading with my sons has been a privilege. I never shied away from reading big books from early on either. I grew up with big books, and long and intricate fairy tales being read to me. I always thought that children could understand a lot more than we think. Now I know they do.

I can recall many days that have wrestled me into a state of mind that was anything but peaceful and to many of them, there is a jolly tag attached by my kids when they asked “Can we read?” No matter how tough the day, reading a book that’s smurfing good will make you smile. Smurf’s honour!

Reading is not a “follow the rules” affair, either, that is bound to squish some of the fun out of it. Pick books that abound with silliness, pick books with your eyes closed if you have to, and tiptoe back to your childhood for the books that you loved. Read book backwards, if your child asks for it. Mine did. It made no sense, the book I mean, but then it did.

Reading to a child, yours or not, is an adventure like no other.

Closeness that is exclusive to that time together also comes with secret keys to a magic world you both step into. It’s the gift that will grow with every word and the only side effect I can think of is that every book in your child’s library will have a memory attached to it so that giving them away might become problematic.

When people refer to books as being alive, they may refer to the world inside the covers, but to me the books that are alive are the ones that have memories attached to them. Every time you read with your child, a piece of your soul stays behind in that book.

I cannot think of a better way to stop time but by building a fort of whispers, silly giggles, cuddles and words. Words to live by.

Originally published as a column in the Saturday edition of the Kamloops Daily News on September 21, 2013 under the same title.

This Is How It Starts

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On September 21, 2013

In Life Stories

Just do itWe asked them “Do you want to try it on your own?” They both said yes. Not a blink of “maybe.”
They grabbed paddles, bulked themselves up with life jackets and cut a path through the lily pads. A canoe, all for themselves.

They sway, they scream, they laugh, they give each other sailing names and they promise to come back in a few minutes.
At first they paddle along the shores though the lake is calm. Cautious but itching to go. They hop on the shore a few times, docking the canoe with the the nonchalance of canoe veterans. It’s charming to watch.

They come on the log where we sit, a long arm the shore has extended into the lake, a reminder of how the ground and the water will always be entwined.

“Mom, a snail shell for you!” My boys’ gifts, seen and unseen. Treasures.

The sky is light blue in preparation for another sunset. They hop into the canoe, ready for take off, and become two red specks in a their own special green lily pad. Laughter from afar slides over the water and climbs like a vine around my soul.

With every thread of water they carry over the surface of the lake, the boys are growing up… They laugh, learn and float into a world that has them thirsty for adventure.

Night paddleThey signal their first ever crossing of a lake by themselves. “We made it!” Yes, you have. And so much more. Keep going. No, come back! How could I ever get this right? I want them to learn, to dare, but to be safe. To be near. For now. For ever. Somehow, they will be. Their voices will trail back to my soul no matter how far they go. So keep going, the world awaits!

Life Is A Train, And You’re On It

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On September 20, 2013

In Self-improvement

From here to thereIt’s true. I dare you to say otherwise. You are on this train from the moment you are. Whether you ride with your head buried in a seat – in which case you miss most of it, or all – or you occasionally climb to the very top from where you see the mountains and the seas you roll by, you are on it and will be there for a while.

When you put your head out the window you get to feel the wind, the sun will burn your cheeks and then a storm might come and build a wild nest with your hair. You’ll know the taste of seasons… You will feel alive.

Thoughts will grow, take off flying, free and forgetful of how new their wings are, how pristine the air they plow, how daring those loop-the-loops are… If you let them be. If you let yourself be.

Life is a train. It moves fast, but it stops every now and then, and you get time, more or less, to touch the ground, to see around, to lie in tall grass and breathe. You get to see the sky and the clouds. Until you hop on the train again, because it is time to go. It always is. Time is adamant that way. You hop on the train, but now you hold the memory of blue skies and traveling clouds, and you find a new purpose for a while: to see them again. And again.

TrueYou find the ladder that takes you to the roof of the train car you’re in. And people – there could be one, or a few, or many – might say “Don’t do that, it’s dangerous, you could fall…” And you know that you will not, somehow you know. You know you will get to see the skies again, the traveling clouds and you will try to match that to what you knew about skies and clouds you knew only to discover that it’s better every time, because you’ve grown in the meantime. You understand colors and textures and freedom of being a lot more every time. And up there you remember the tall grass you were lying in that day when you got to see the clouds. How soothing and necessary to have them both, you will think. To know that you are somewhere in between the grassy dirt and the sky, safe from closed spaces and unafraid…

Life is a train. You can bury yourself in a seat forever, never daring to get up and look for more, seeing fragments of this and that only, gleaning colors and fleeting images of this and that, trying to put that big puzzle called “The meaning of life” together, but fragments will not do. It gets frustrating and when it does, you know that you have an invitation in front of you.

To look for the rest of the pieces that will make your puzzle complete and that means stepping out of that comfortable seat and keeping your eyes open. Or you can get up just enough to force the window open and feed the invitation to the wind.

Life is a train and you’re on it. Make the best of your ride. Be curious, be daring, be open to feel the wind and the rain; to see the moon, to never be afraid of moon-less nights and, to taste the freedom of sleeping under the stars at least once. You might get to taste the fear of almost falling off when you’re only holding on with one hand; it’ll teach you to hold on.

All the wayAbove all, you will find out that though you are the only one to decide how tomorrow will be – true! – you are not in control of the train. And why would you? Being in charge of it all is an illusion. You are in charge of the day’s ride, and tomorrow’s. And the days to follow. Yours. You. Buried in a seat or climbing to the roof every now and then. Life happens and you’re in it. Perhaps that is all you need to know to make the ride worthwhile.

 

Prolonged Teenage Years: Fact Or Fiction?

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On September 17, 2013

In Kamloops

Kids grow fast. People will tell you that when you show up in the world holding your new bundle of joy.

You get to see it yourself as scrunched little faces bloom into toothless sweet smiles.

Kids grow, mind and body, and so do we alongside.

Then the world knocks and our kids run to the door. They peek, eyes growing wide. They hold onto us, ready to hide, should the world look too scary. We have the necessary grip, still; attachment and love create a magic potion.

The world is a big, wild place; we know that. Yet with the advent of new challenges like the Internet and its ever-growing multi-headed younger sibling, social media, we are facing the prospect of opening the door too fast for our kids, allowing them to step forth but not checking whether we’re perched on a ledge. Freefalls are nothing to joke about.

When my oldest was born, I was, like all moms, weak in the knees just by feeling his velvety little forehead and have his tiny fingers curl around mine. Cloud Nine became my permanent residence, sleepless nights notwithstanding. I was told, “Beware the terrible twos, it’ll get rough.”

Whether it was luck or enlightenment in how they were raised, we had no terrible-two storms raging through the house. Perhaps the negative connotation is something that creates the very storm we’re trying to find shelter from. Negative expectations mold themselves into real life, some believe.

While I am still wading in the warm waters of early years when innocence is not yet lost and silly laughs happen when I least (or most) expect it, the warning from the well-intentioned are as perky as ever.

It’s about the teenage years now. Brace for impact, they say. Based on my experience with the non-terrible twos, I may choose to celebrate rather than fear my sons’ impending transformation into men.

Yet, regardless of what I choose for my family, here’s my concern about all of our kids: If we fear the teenage years, why do we shove our kids forth by allowing them to be peeled of innocence too soon?

Why do we allow corporations to pull them into social networking before they’ve finished playing hide-and-seek in the backyard?

Why do we enable teenage-idol creators to tempt children with skimpy clothing, conflicting messages about how to be cool in a world where image counts but not the substance behind it?

Children are multi-dimensional beings. Now they’re being tempted to live in a bi-dimensional world — a sure way to lose depth.

Parents are still learning the ropes of the fast-evolving multi-faceted present-day world. The often-clueless state we find ourselves in is but a natural consequence of things moving fast. Trouble is, by the time we find our bearings our kids are long immersed in a world we’re just starting to learn about.

That most children become teenagers too soon is no longer news.

As if that was not enough to scratch our heads about, some psychologists and educators point toward an equally worrying new phenomenon: prolonged teenage years.

Many young adults become older adults while still living with their parents and in a state of teenage bliss way past the 20s threshold.

“No responsibility, no worries,” looked fuzzy-warm and funny in Lion King, but it is bound to give us cold shivers as we see our children grow up and indulge in a state that we used to have the habit of warning each other about.

It was a time of budding independence when hugs, while still needed, were becoming something you could let of as you would face the world as an almost adult. Budding independence went beyond handling a phone bought by your parents and used for texting at large and keeping the Facebook I.V. dripping at all times.

A declared optimist, I believe that honest dialogue, the oldest tool still standing, can still save the day and the ones to follow.

Between parents themselves, or parents and educators or other influential adults, and most of all parents and children, dialogue remains the best tool in understanding the world and acknowledging that often the guide becomes the guided one, for some of the portions that is.

The world changes constantly, ever-evolving and with new daily challenges, but society relies on the same old values to build itself strong such as reliability, trust, honesty and courage.

Just like every season has its role in maintaining life as we know it, so do developing stages in our growth as human beings. But they should start in a timely fashion and not go overtime either.

Originally published as a column in the Saturday edition of the Kamloops Daily News on September 14, 2013 under the same title.

Circles In The Sun

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On September 11, 2013

In Life Stories

GoldenIt is a well-known fact that mid-September sun has the habit of glazing streets, trees and electric lines in a golden layer that almost turns too bright at around 6pm or so. The air is a golden warm fog that makes you think of being hidden in the fluffy wings of some gigantic gentle bird.

It was past 6pm when Sasha said he wants to take his bike out in the back lane for some tricks.

“Race you to the end of the block!”

Nah, not feeling it tonight. It was mellow, you see. The air, my thoughts, the noises trickling from the gold-glazed city. I was stitching the back lane with steps, pacing as to not let Sasha get too far on his own. Mama bear instincts are never mellow.

“Watch this, mom!” He swerves, too sharp, almost falls but what a save! Wicked little smile that admits to nothing and the turning, swerving and brushing by long dry back lane bushes continues.

His tanned calves sprouting from summer-bleached shorts are still tiny, just like his arms holding the handlebars determined and already strong. His rosy cheeks are lost in long golden hair and pinned forever to my heart. Just like his brother a few years ago, he celebrates growing up with grins of satisfaction “Did you see that?” I did, but no hurry. To grow up I mean… They never heed such requests. We have today.

The golden glaze of September…Just like when I was little, grabbing my bike and heading out to learn tricks and speed and all the things I was thinking I shouldn’t do, but wheels and that fragrant fall air made me do them anyway. The air smelled of ripe grapes and I knew I had left the wooden ladder just ready to climb on and grab some more purple sweet clumps on my way in.

Sasha traces smaller and smaller circles in the lane, his shade following like a puppy. When the circles get too small, the bike slides sideways and  knees get scraped. “I’ll never ride this bike again!” Stomping feet and angry little face leave the bike asleep in the middle of the lane, quiet and dusty.

We sit at the side under gigantic weeds that play some palm tree game. I fell many times, you know, I tell him. It is like that… He smiles. Trickster, he knows he cannot stop now. He loves it too much.

“I want to learn tricks and be really fast on my bike, you know.” I know. That’s all I wanted back then when the air promised grapes and warm nights still. I still do. He will too, I know. It’s like that.

A slight chill drapes over the golden city, streets and trees and all. We go in. In the oven, deep orange squash is roasting and promising soft sweetness. Fall has nothing sharp in it.

DuskWarm air curls around my feet like a sleepy cat. One of these days I will take my bike out for a ride, it’s been a while with a summer away and all. To trace my own circles. Fall has nothing sharp in it… It’s like that.

Half A Napkin. A Tribute

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On September 9, 2013

In Life Stories, Self-improvement

HeartJust like a lake and its floating green hearts… If the lake would be covered in waterlilies, you will not see the sparkling water holding the green hearts. You might miss the hearts, the clouds holding them, the water, the wonder of it all…

Overcast on a day when you wish for sun seems like punishment. Or a good excuse to hide in a coffee shop and find your way. Again. Life is like that. It likes tumbles when you don’t.

But that’s when you sit at a table in a coffee shop, your basket of life happenings by your side and your friend on the seat next to you. You take those life happenings, rags and all, and put them out on the table. They were all one piece a few days ago, you tell her. She knows. This needs no explanation.

A few sun rays escape through the clouds and land on the table. Life happenings. Yours, hers. You both know life would be no good without all of them.

Sulkiness does nothing. But you sulk until you know that. It takes a while. Years sometimes. Until you learn to use those rags life leaves you with and make a nice warm quilt and colorful skirts to taunt the rain and overcast days with…

You get bruised, you learn, you get up and walk again. Right? You ask, she nods; for a moment there you want to look dignified enough so she won’t think you don’t have it together. But she is not after that. Being proper has no place in a friendship. You are real, that comes first.

You peel words, raw as can be, off your bare soul and she’s there to lay them all in a pile that will later be used to patch the very wounds you speak of. It’s like chain mail. Everything holds together because you leave no piece behind. And why would you? It’s your life. Friends remind you of that. You know, the old “you are what you are because of all that’s happened along the way.” Don’t run away, you’ll have to come back to the same place. Only a lot more tired.

Friends help you see that. Own your life, your thoughts, yourself. You do that when you’re accepted in all that you are.

You are accepted by those you resonate with. Not a whole bunch of them, because you can’t really resonate with too many. The resonance in itself is a gift. You can’t abuse it or attribute it to just about anyone. You’d be dishonest. To them, to yourself.

If you have to cry, do it. Let go of holding your heart like a stiff bouquet of flowers. Sometimes you’ll tear up and look sideways because being vulnerable is still not your favorite place to be in. But you have to, she says. You’re not alone. She talks, shares, you listen. Her eyes become wells too. Life is often unkind, there’s many shared paths you walk on. Words fail where tears appear. Redundancy is forbidden. You don’t look sideways anymore. She picks up the napkin off the table, right from the sun puddle. Warm. She rips it in half. For you.

You just got someone’s heart, trust and half a napkin. Laughter plops its chubby feet into the sun puddle too. You laugh, you cry, you are alive.

By the time you leave the coffee shop the overcast will be done with. It will be either sunny and raining. The air will be lighter nonetheless. You’re lighter, and half a napkin richer.

You may forget to say thank you. Joy can be a wicked clown. Never mind, your soul spoke for you. But you know that. Your friends do too. Mine do.

 Just like a lake, you… If you had too many people to crowd the surface, it’d be hard to let your depth be seen…

 

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