Daniela Ginta, Freelance Writer

Gratitude makes the journey better and so does kindness

Month: October 2013 Page 1 of 2

Bats, Ghosts and Pumpkins and Twice the Fringe. Costumes Ready.

By

On October 30, 2013

In Life Stories, Motherhood

GhostsIt’s the night before. You have postponed the sewing. The craziness of the day that should not be more than a day is consuming… Halloween, tomorrow. Costumes, masks, too much of this and that, stores engorged with hats and lace and inadequacy. Sigh. Tomorrow night will be owned by ghouls and shredded tempers and you can’t settle for it. Shudder. But the boys, they want the sweetness of it. Is there any?…

Time to sew. Tomorrow the costume parade and Halloween wickedness will unfold.

“Do you like Halloween, mama?” Not really. But I like it for you, if you like it. “We do, the costumes, but no creepy faces.” Costumes it is.

CowboyLet’s sit on the sofa; needle and thread, fringe waiting. Little boy reads from a book with little boys and big canoes and bears piling up in the canoe, eating the fish, splashing the boy, what silly-mannered furry sacks. Little boy reads, you sew fringe on the cowboy costume; one leg, then the other. Small pants still, knees left on hills of sun and rocks that had to be observed from up close, left on grass during tumbles with big boy. Pants with knees have no stories.

“Mama, they need to be dirty, can you?” You go outside, rub dirt from under the mint shrub, make them look tired and rugged. Small pants, fringe on both legs.  The tips of your fingers sting from the stubborn needle you had to push in.

Little boys reads “Spooky Old Tree” and laughs.

“Three little bears…

without a light,

without a stick,

without a rope.

And all with the shivers!”

Big boy comes by. Trying the coat on; a stitch here, one there, tuck the sleeves in, don’t cover the metal buttons, they should stay like that. How about coat tails? “Can you, mama?”

Big boy sinks in the orange blanket, pumpkin-colored sofa. Can I sit with you? Chat, read, wonder…

Gentleman“Is my gentleman suit ready? Can I try it on? Oh, it’s perfect!” Big boy, dark brown eyes and a smile reaching straight into your heart. Gratefulness, thoughts of goodness. You bask in it. Boy rhymes with joy and it’s a poem you’ve been writing for years, every day. Today it rhymes. No tears.

Little boy makes little friendly ghosts to hang around the house, and bats that are friendly, and silly pumpkins. “Wanna color with me?” Big boy shrugs; no. Mama says yes, don’t grow up too fast, your brother is holding the door open for you. Stay a kid, go color, cut, stick to the wall. He does.

Night tumbles into the room, draws yawns and hangs sleepy thoughts on tomorrow’s trees. Time for bed, silly boys. Costumes sit in piles on the orange blanket. Fringes, coats, tall hats and polished boots. 

“Not mine, I am a cowboy. They have to be rugged.” The boots, of course.

The kitchen smells of cookies, the crumbliest of all, soft and chewy, sweet-steamed dollops that fall apart when you hold them up. The boys want them so. Handfuls of crumbles, milk dripping on the table, that’s all there is to it. Sweet crumbles.

Halloween is still not your favorite. But the boys love dressing up, friendly little ghosts twirl with the lightest of touch and you think of the little hands that made them. They wanted to make peace with the spookiness of tomorrow. To make it right.

Face. SmileOn the porch there is a jack-o-lantern with thick orange cheeks and a wiggly tooth. Smiling.

“Do you like it, mama?”

 

Clean Is As Clean Does

By

On October 27, 2013

In Kamloops

On October 17 the cancer agency of the World Health Organization, the International Agency for Research on Cancer, has declared outdoor air pollution as carcinogenic to humans. It is a monumental decision that is bound to affect the future in a positive way. About time, you’d have to agree.

Outdoor air pollution causes lung cancer and increases the risk of bladder cancer, the report said.

Particulate matter, while a major component of air pollution, was analyzed separately and declared a carcinogenic substance by itself. Nothing new there.
Where is it all coming from? From transportation, stationary power generation, industrial and agricultural emissions, and residential heating and cooking. In other words, we’re surrounded.

I have been decrying the dreadful reality of air pollution for a while now, not losing hope that things can be changed, but realizing that tweaking the minds of fellow humans is a gargantuan task.

As the cold weather approaches, idling cars make their appearance. Not significant, some might say, compared to industrial pollution. But, here’s the thing: everything adds up.

A few years ago I wrote a feature article for a health publication in Calgary on the topic of environmental allergies, asthma and diesel exhaust as a trigger for both. A new study had come out pointing to fine particulate matter such as the one derived from diesel exhaust – the new and improved diesel fuel that is – as a serious threat to human health and a cause for respiratory problems.

Scientists agonize over far-reaching air pollution that travels in all corners of the world. It’s sobering to think that polar bears walk around carrying the shortest stick of all, healthwise. Various pollutants have been found in high concentrations in their bodies; a dirty inside in stark contrast to their snow white coats.

Yet closer to home, the reality – and threat – of air pollution is impossible to ignore.
There’s countless debates over the proposed Ajax mine. Pro and cons arguments are being tossed on all sides, dressed with stinging words and put on the table again. And, to be fair, there are pro and con arguments.

But if the proposed mine becomes reality and increases the levels of air pollution in Kamloops we will all pay the price. The first ones to pay the price will be people with chronic respiratory diseases, those with a genetic predisposition to cancer, and children. The rest of us will follow swiftly.

Too apocalyptic? Not at all. Real, if anything. If A causes B and B causes C, then establishing the connection between A and C is a matter of logic and social responsibility.

Debates aside, I think we’re drawing near – on a global scale – to the point where any new industrial development should only be allowed to happen if it is vital to a community. The decision should be made based on industry and independent panel reviews, and also based on the objectively-assessed needs of the community where the project is about to be developed.

Wants versus needs has been played to death, some would say. And it is bad enough when wants take precedent over needs and affect our emotional well-being, empathy levels and general health (cheap, chemical-laden conventionally produced food.)

But when it’s about a real threat that will materialize in chronic diseases with the grimmest outcome, then we should seriously reconsider priorities.
From idling cars to big industrial projects, we have choices and responsibilities. We owe it to ourselves and our children to exercise them.

Published as a column under the same title in the Saturday edition of the Kamloops Daily News on October 26, 2013

Of Bees and Life. A Story of Boundaries

By

On October 23, 2013

In Life Stories, Self-improvement

GreyThe day starts foggy and grey. You don’t feel like stopping by the farmer’s market but how about the people selling goodness by the pound, or jar or bagful? They woke up to the same fog, the same heavy sky and they showed up. So you have no excuse.

Buy potatoes from the South American lady. She always smiles. Everything she sells, from eggs to potatoes to pies, has the same roundness as her words. Some accents are that mellow and warm on a day like today. Colorful beans, two-pound bag, too colorful to miss. Fall and earth colors. To eat.

Then parsley, both root and green bushy stalks. You shake hands with unknown gardens when you hold up a bunch. The lady says they’re good, you can make a parsley puff. How? Here’s how, she tells you. You say why not. Change is good. Challenge for little people’s taste buds.

Then the honey table. You have to buy a jar. Good, golden, thick, local. You must. The lady sells jars of golden and fragrant bee’s wax.

There’s someone else there, an elderly gentleman you’ve never met. You know, he says, we were just talking, the bees had it tough this year. The wasps were vicious, attacking bees, killing entire hives. You frown. How unfair. On top of everything else that tangles their invisible dance lines, you think.

It’s like that, the honey lady explains. A somewhat cyclic sorrowful bee event; the wasps sneak in and kill. Won’t waste a drop of golden honey ever, you promise yourself. Such hard work and danger. The bees who made this honey faced peril. They prevailed. Seven dollars a jar.

You buy a basket of tomatoes from the elderly Italian farmer you always buy from. “Last ones, eh…very sweet.” A thick bunch of chard on top, and not enough arms to hold them all. He laughs, you laugh. Like a good grandpa, he helps. He holds a big bag to fit them all in. “There you go, you cook a good dinner, eh?…” He chuckles, you smile. “See you on Saturday!” He’ll be there and you’ll buy tomatoes again, and eggs. They’re always fresh.

The afternoon passes with more grey to chew on, to walk on, to breathe in. You walk with the friend who challenges you to keep your voice above the humming of everyday life, to not give up. Walk under yellow-leaf trees, sit on pink benches, celebrate life once again. “Look, an ice cream sky!” Sunset sky, scoops of kindness. Being alive is never a lesson in grace, but you knew that.

Later, as you cook dinner, you think of the bees. The jar of golden on the counter, all that work… The bees had it tough this year... The wasps go inside the hive through the opening, you remember the lady saying. Hmm, just like words and facts of life you find aggressive and mean. Scary. They find openings, they get in. They hurt thoughts, hopes, they raise fear, trying to kill dreams… Life is full of analogies, you know that. You need boundaries to survive and to thrive. You find them, again.

Because not all the bees have to die, the lady told you today. You make the hive opening smaller, so it’s gets tricky for the wasps. Boundaries…

It’s no small feat, you know that. To set boundaries that is.

You’ll never be infallible but you’ll be better protected. Your thoughts, like bees, in their home of sweetness. Afraid at times, but alive. Daring again tomorrow. And then again. Alive is a gift. Days blossoming into joy, golden and ripe, reminders of past seasons, celebrating today’s bounty and the reality of all that we are: sweetness to taste, hard work, dancing over sunny fields, fear of dying, fear of all that could hurt, courage to go out and do it again. Daring, because of the sky, the fields, the swaying trees and all the rainbows you could never see unless you fly free.

Parsley puff for dinner. The kids have learned to say “not my favorite but I’ll eat some” when dinner has too many shades of green and earthy flavors. Dinner, laughing, some food-bursting-out-of-your-mouth toilet jokes (how rude and necessary!), day falling asleep on the table…

Bedtime soon. Be grateful. You’ve learned a lot today.

The Need To Rethink Our Children’s Heroes (And Our Own)

By

On October 23, 2013

In Motherhood

In the days before the Terry Fox Run the boys did with their school, our walk-from-school time was filled with questions and discussions about Fox.

How did he know he had cancer? How did he come to set on a monumental task like the one he did? How did he manage to run with all the pain and heaviness caused by the disease and medication? The topic is far from over in our house.

Terry Fox is alive in more than our hearts. He is with us many times when there are tough tasks to accomplish, or determination, as a life skill, to understand and learn.

But it goes far beyond that.

It’s about understanding the greater good and why it matters to think of more than yourself along the way.

Terry Fox touched people’s lives. He saved people. No cape, no mask or impenetrable costume; no machines and, unfortunately, no well-designed pause in the scenario at a time when his life was in danger so he could be saved in time.

But he saved people.

Many have gotten stronger in their fight against cancer because of him.

What he did was making people — like my sons and me — realize that superheroes are the most human-like creatures. Vulnerable and strong at the same time. Awe-inspiring.

He is not the only one.

A couple of weeks ago, we stood in a long lineup at TRU for a chance to see and listen to Commander Chris Hadfield.

It was spellbinding. He talked about being nine and dreaming of being an astronaut. He talked about following a dream and making it a reality.

If you have encountered many people like that as a kid, and learned from them, good for you; you are fortunate.

Not to imply for a second that dreaming as a child and accomplishing as an adult forms a beeline, punctuated solely by accomplishments and joy. There are trials, there are many failures along the way, but if the dream stands and becomes reality, chances are there were some more factors involved, such as determination and motivation.

Hadfield and Fox are two of the people who have made many of our dinners and walks alive with questions.

There are many more.

We have our own heroes and role models. We have reasons why for choosing them.

Talking about people who accomplish things we admire is something necessary. Children learn about values because we acknowledge real values and our words have weight.

Children also need to know that regular people do outstanding things.

In a world dominated by superheroes who make accomplishments look so easy and quick, children need to be reminded that achieving anything worthwhile takes time, determination and ability to give ourselves to a dream or cause. It is never an overnight thing.

In a world abounding with “awesomeness” and everything is “awesome” from shoes to movies, to just about everything that our children encounter on a daily basis, we need to redefine the word awesome for them. To rediscover it ourselves.

Awesome is, according to the dictionary, “inspiring an overwhelming feeling of reverence, admiration or fear; causing or inducing awe.”

If we are truly inspired, amazed, or awe-struck by what we see in remarkable people around us, in people we hear, read about or meet, we should see it as it is: awesome.

If we keep at it, there’s a chance our children will be learning the true meaning of awesome and applying it to their lives.

(Originally published as a column under the same title in the Kamloops Daily News on Saturday October 18, 2013)

Tippy Toes and Dreamy Feet

By

On October 22, 2013

In Motherhood

DreamYou wake up in the morning. It’s early and the room is still asleep, draped in darkness. You see the door open wide and wonder if any tippy toes and magic little beings have made their way there during the night.

Little people coming pitter patter in the middle of the night… “Mom, I can’t sleep…” But you know they’re asleep , sometimes even as they walk with plumpy little feet through puddles of dreams.

You wonder if you should say “Go to bed” or “Come in here.” They need to grow independent, you know that, but what about hugs and warmth. They need that too. Rules and musts are sent away, little people invade spaces between pillows and blankets, they wallow in warmth and it feels so right.

Sometimes you send little people away “Go back and sleep, little wanderer, night is still thick and you need to sleep…” To grow, to laugh, to play and not fill the house with thumping of tired feet tomorrow.

And you’re sleepy yourself and feel like you’re implanted in a big pile of doughy tiredness but you should get up and tuck little people in, bundle them up in soft furry blankets, make sure they get a sleepy kiss on the head…

One day they will come no more. Little beings will shake their magic off and stop wandering in the middle of the night seeking warm soft snuggles somewhere between crumpled up pillows and blankets.

Until then, keep coming little beings… Pitter patter, open doors, midnight whispers and soft little feet, baby otters in one hand and pockets full of dreams… Keep coming…

The Aftermath (Or Lessons From A Burglary)

By

On October 21, 2013

In Life Stories, Self-improvement

TodayImagine this for a second. You are swimming and someone just pushes your head underwater. Gurgles, water up your nose, that terrible pinch in your sinuses and when the bad feeling is gone you try to swim again. And after a while it happens again. Then again. Then you start being afraid. What if it keeps happening. The connection is real, you’re not just imagining.

Two weeks ago our house was broken into while we were camping at a lake . Four laptops were stolen and with them memories, unbacked work – my fault, I know – and the feeling of safety in our own home. Warmth; gone.

We fought hard to look beyond it, to move past. We did. The invaded rooms have been since cleaned up and rearranged. I wrote about the weekend we spent camping at Adams Lake and tried not to focus on the burglary. Unbeknownst to me the boys did the same at school, their teachers told me later. They talked about the magic weekend when they played with a baby snake and paddled to mysterious islands and then they mentioned that our house got broken into, casually so as if not to give the perpetrators too much power over us.

But the truth is, there is a feeling of fear and uncertainty circling overhead like an ugly bird, flapping its creepy wings over us every time we leave the house unattended. We try to think positive and say the feeling is not there; for the boys’ sake and for all of us.

For a few days I really thought I had it. Then Tony’s watch broke and I offered him mine until we could fix his. I could use my other watch I figured. Except that it was gone. Stolen when the laptops were stolen, I just realized. Bummer. The ugly bird flies low and cackles. Go away we say, again. And it does.

You swim, again, but someone pushes your head underwater… you struggle for breath, up again. Breathe…

I came to terms with the watch missing because what else can you do. I don’t believe in pricey possessions and the things that I have are mostly utilitarian, which is why I really miss them. What’s truly of value stays with us at all times, I tell the boys.

Then today’s afternoon rolled in sunny and plump and then an unwanted chill squirted down my spine, drowning joy and pushing me back into that cold evening… We realized one of our bikes was gone. The recently fixed mountain bike. Stolen.

We have been trying hard to get away from the memory of that evening. We set at building memories just like we have until now, the boys grin towards the camera and embrace my heart through the lens just like they’ve always done, and writing happens too, hiccups and all but that’s what writing is like sometimes. But it is unfair to hear the ugly bird cackling over our heads again. If we let it that is. Which we decided not to. Not anymore.

So we will keep swimming. And it will be a good one.

Lessons? A few.

Lesson 1. Attach yourself to what matters and if something matters a lot then make sure it’s safe wherever it is.

Lesson 2. The things that go missing are most likely gone forever and there’s little value in crying over spilled milk (by others, but spilled nonetheless)

Lesson 3. We have what we need to move on (in our case some leftover wheels, grouped in fours and twos, they serve the purpose)

Lesson 4. The ugly bird has to leave at some point. Or fall from the sky. Either way, it feeds on attention, so getting none means the end of it.

Lesson 5. The feeling of violation is real. Cry, kick, scream if you have to but don’t dwell on it for too long (note: easier said than done!) The feeling itself is a parasitic species you don’t want in your garden.

Lesson 6. (and pushing hard for a happy ending) My belief: There are plenty of good, kind people to make up for the ones with lost souls (temporarily or otherwise) who breed ugly birds and release them into other people’s worlds…

 

Stop, Drop, Roll. Repeat.

By

On October 18, 2013

In Life Stories

Sun splashedWe’re walking home from school. A day of “Mom, you know what happened today?” and everything is so important. They both want to talk. Simultaneously. Their words bubble like cute little mud volcanoes.
“Hey I was talking!”

“Mine is shorter to say! Mom, you know…”

Who was first? The forever conundrum.

Interrupted, again, little guy puffs and walks ahead. Whatever. You can’t win all of them. Big brother is excited. A new program at school involving babies. To elicit empathy… “but Mom, it seemed like we were observing an animal, that’s not right. It’s not good for the baby.”

Empathy springs from other existential corners, we both agree. My boys are learning life. Are they learning the right things? I teach them to question things, to think for themselves, how else will they know how to choose the right path? But right and wrong are not set in stone, I tell them. Think, don’t betray common sense,

BiteCommon sense. “We have that, Mom, don’t we?” Yes, heaps of it, sweet boys, except for the times when you’re so wild and chopping down all the wisdom, patience trees I’ve been planting since you came into my world. But those times, they are my trials, my getting lost as a mom and finding myself again. Better? Who knows. Willing, always. Yours truly.

I remember my boys as babies. Peeking at the world from their slings, infinite cuddles, nursing like koala bears and holding onto my shirts with tiny pudgy hands. Loving the night snuggles, quiet breathing and twitching of eyelids. The mystery of baby dreams… what do they see? 

The afternoon light is made of caramel and fine dust, and I coax them outside. They need no coaxing.

“Wanna play cowboys?” Tony’s favorite game these days.

Rolled...Leather holster, vests, cap guns that puff smoke and make clackety noises, hats that tilt backwards… “Mom can we get the Chilly hats?” It’s Tilley, I want to say, but I know better than to correct Sasha. He still speaks words that seem to have come from his baby dreams, a world that’s sweet and round like the fists that were holding on to the my shirt,

They drop, roll, yelp, climb and I succumb to being there.

Piled dishes can wait, wilted flowers can wilt no more until they are taken out, crumbs from breakfast that stick to socks, they can wait… this time will never come back.

Today this, tomorrow that, from one day to the next, we celebrate growth; I push them out of the nest gently “Come on, you can…” but then I pull them back in. Stay, wings need to grow.

I want to be with them when October afternoon sun bends over them in soft caramel arches, I want to see their sweaty faces and worry about them dropping too hard to the ground… “We’re boys, Mom…” Smile, laugh, I stand to catch bits of it and just like dandelion fluff, laughter scatters everywhere… To grow further, to become. Bright, golden. Stay, grow. Nothing stays the same.

“Mom, I want the holster now!”

“No! I didn’t have it enough. No!”

“Moom! He is not sharing!”

Wait, what? I lost track. Who has what? Does it matter? Sweetness whimpers, departs like a wounded animal. No, come back. It does. This time. Every time I fear that it won’t. It always does. What drama queen.

'Lion headIt’s true. Motherhood makes you dramatic, you have to know colors, be fair and remember how to catch smiles; you have to be there, soul done or undone but who cares. You have to teach little people how to take turns, to share… But you yourself never want to share them, the (dande)lion heads. You want the crowns, the fluff, the escaping fluff and the air around them. Shhh, don’t say it out loud. How wicked and childish, people will say. How aware of preciousness and its infuriating fleeting nature, you say. You know.

“That was a good game, Mom. Can you bake cookies tonight?”

Page 1 of 2

Next

Powered by WordPress & Theme by Anders Norén