Daniela Ginta, Freelance Writer

Gratitude makes the journey better. Kindness, too.

Author: Daniela Ginta Page 46 of 99

My path is a winding one. I write, I raise my sons, I love and I live.
Waking up to a new adventure every day. I have all that I need at every moment.

Of Eagles, Specks of Gold and Never Ending Dreaming

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On February 22, 2015

In Kamloops, Life Stories, Motherhood

I didn’t notice the eagle until it took off flying from some scraggly tree near the beach the boys affectionately call Golden Sands. The sand is speckled with mica, but we all choose to think of it as gold. Not the gold bits you’d ravenously stick into your pockets to become rich, but the gold you’re already rich with because you can see it and feel happy because you do.

goldIt was sunny and all four of us descended on the Golden Sands with hearts overinflated with sunshine and the feeling of having missed the place. A sliver of uneasiness pierced my joy …these banks should’ve been under water if the season wasn’t so messed up. Heavy snow melt should’ve come and bathed these shores in lots and lots of green heavy waters till late June.

The boys ran zigzags and sand flew behind them in twirls that sparkled. No matter what ails you when you’re heading outside, having kids by your side and more sunshine than you ever thought yourself worthy of, that just dissolves any and all bitter bits of life and hands you over this sweet pill of hope and incredible gratefulness. It was like we had our own golden butterflies that we released for the sheer joy of it.

themragsThe four of us walked together for a while until the boys decided to stay put in a camp of their own where they could play. Max and I kept walking; the river was wide and lazy and the sky the freshest blue you can imagine, with shreds of clouds scattered like kid clothes all over the floor. I should know.

The eagle flew so close we saw the bright white feathers on its head. It flew silently to another tall tree and I could not help wondering what he thought of us. Intruders? One thing was certain. He saw more of us than we saw of him. That invites to reverence. How much life was there aware of our presence and hiding away because of us?

fortWe came across a shelter built of old branches and driftwood, with a bench inside, and an old bag of marshmallows hanging on the side.

More sunshine, curtains of clouds drawn to the side by the wind. On and off, again and again… an ocean of golden specks, the boys like two bugs hopping in the distance, rolling in the sand, crawling, creating small golden tornadoes. A world of our own.

We walked back to tell the boys of the shelter.

We walked and talked. It’s never enough; our together time to churn through bits of life, to talk about the next steps, to build dreams together, to think ourselves grateful. We played the game of ‘if you could add one more thing to what you have now…’ and we both wanted for nothing more. That’s the kind of soul embrace I wish upon everyone. Simple and sturdy, the belief that everything else is a bonus feature.

pathThe path ahead is as it should be. Control is an illusion and what we have is what we see right now. Chasing golden specks with the intention to collect them all, to have them all… or choosing to keep on walking, too see them fly high with winds and children’s playing, knowing that having is not really having but rather renouncing what you already have… the joy of experiencing life on any given day, trespassing areas of grey together to get to the sunshine that’s always there. If only you can see it.

We walked with the sun on our backs and our steps sinking in the sand; the boys waved in the distance and came running. We led the way back to the shelter. They sat on the bench, with long lines of sunshine traced on their cheeks, red from all the running and playing, sparkles in their hair.

Onwards? We kept on walking until we found a narrow path through the trees to the main path that would take us back. We noticed another guardian perched high in the trees, not a bald eagle, but maybe a golden one, so we all turned quiet and stared. It stared back, but did not fly away, clearly knowing who the visitor is and who’s there to stay. Reverence.

brightThe sun was splashed all over the hills and on some orange trees in the near distance, making them glow bright and surreal. Another eagle flew low and silent over our heads, graciously sailing through the air saturated with sunlight, and farther away a yellow airplane took off noisily and with a somewhat awkward wobbling. So much to learn still…

We walked and talked and I stopped for one more photo. My perpetual attempt to make it last, to remember. I sometimes think of all the photos I am accumulating; megabytes of emotions and beauty, days I will never remember by the actual date, but by how I felt, by the storms or the sunshine that was gifted to us that day.

I often think I should print them all so on any given day I will be reminded that I am blessed because I got to see it all and through photos I get to see it again and again, relearning the lessons of then and knowing that it is all like the flight of the eagles… short-lived for those walking on the ground, easily missed if you’re walking with your head down, and majestically uplifting because it speaks of heights from where everything we let ourselves be overcome by becomes what it really is… specks.

The day’s lesson… Bird’s eye view. Never mind the specks. Hold onto what you have, what you see, what you know it’s there.

We drove home, ate dinner and got one step closer. To each other, to understanding the purpose of being, to just being and not asking for anything else because just being in the moment is plenty. To knowing that enough and plenty are, as far as we’re concerned, unlikely but decidedly so, synonyms.

In Cars With Boys On An Ordinary Day

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On February 17, 2015

In Life Stories, Motherhood, Self-improvement

Feet are ready to walk but school is far nowadays so driving it is. For now… But driving has its charm when you drive children. A wee bit of music, sleepy words snaking their way through the foggy morning air, buckle up and go…

Grey‘Do you see the hills?’ you ask as you drive down the hill and little boy says yeah with a sleepy voice and you think he just says it to be polite but then, just like a small bird taking sudden flight, his words come out chirpy-jolly… ‘Mama, look at the light on that hill…Is that the sun? Is it rising now? We can see the sunrise?’

Which one do you answer first? You listen, the chirping continues but now it’s something else. Words and their meanings, things to do when back from school, plans for later, homeschooling, making sense of a world too big, too small, so beautiful and present…

You drive slower just to catch some more time, you love the time with little boy tucked into the back seat, chirping or sitting quietly, listening, thinking, learning…

Hug, kiss, have a good day, you see him walk into the school yard with the big backpack on. You want him to stay, to chirp some more, to ask you of your favourite season, again and again…’I like summer,’ he says when you ask. But he delights in icicles too, you remind him, hanging off drippy awning, time frozen… you tease him, he smiles, he loves that… silly fuzzy morning thoughts you wrap yourself in on the drive home.

You love the time with little sleepy boy, his chirps and tiny laughter clinging to frosty windows, melting the white icy fuzz so the world outside becomes clearer. It always does when children laugh.

Later on, the drive home with so much that happened in the time you weren’t there. ‘Why’ abounds, and you try your best, and you also shrug and say ‘I don’t know’ and little boy still thinks you know everything anyway as if you put the world together from one end to the other… you secretly delight in that, in the love that gives you more than you ever imagined. ‘Are you singing, mama?’ Yes, I am, you say… it’s a song your grandma loved. You make a mental note to learn all words soon enough.

Later on, big boy hops in, you drive in the dark, you listen to music and he does too, you hum and he asks softly ‘Are you singing, mama?’ You smile and say yes, almost adding that you don’t know all the words, but before you get a chance to say it he says with a smile ‘I like that.’ This is not about perfect lyrics anyway.

It is turning dark and the sky is burning with colours so alive you feel grateful for having the chance to see them. ‘Mama, I love the sky…’ The day falls asleep on the horizon, slipping behind it like a child’s arm falls off his mama’s shoulder when asleep…

You’re on your way, again, driving, going places – what a busy day today is – but you get to see it, you get to see the wonder of it all. There’s wonder in ordinary, small things… Big boy sees it too and he talks about things that are not easy to talk about.

You whisper almost in response, your voice is low and all there, and if your heart were the ground he could walk on, your voice was the fence to help keep him safe… until he is ready to open the gate and fly. Free of things that cling hard to his wings; you help him peel them away. Again, and again, one step closer to lightness. Today is good and soft and the sunset is now over with; night settles in and you’re almost there… ‘Let’s park and talk, mama’.

You talk, and he talks, and silly jokes come in uninvited and you laugh silly, and he laughs too and you can see the heaviness falling off his wings… You talk about dreams and fears and growing towards tomorrow, knowing that being human comes with joys and struggles, often times too big to take on by himself; you talk, he talks, stars are plentiful and you feel happy for no particular reason, but because you find peace in knowing you’re right there, to hear the words, to soothe worries and to laugh silly. To have thoughts merge, sighs chased away with hugs. See you later you say and drive home thinking of them boys… ‘Today was good and it’s not over yet.’

You are all alone now, listening to songs your mom loved, you miss her so much, and her voice, but it’s all there, inside, a pocket of bitter sweetness you can reach into anytime, pockets of souls that are made of all that you cannot explain but know it present. Life. You’re grateful and quiet, you listen to songs and then you learn words… later on, you pick up big boy and he chirps away, fears gone and words flying high like kites that nothing can bring down. Nothing? Not today. And that is good enough.

You listen, he talks, you smile, he talks and laughs, you love his presence right next to you; his laughter clings onto the windows like a bug with sticky feet, sweet and fragile… you’ll remember it all in the morning when little boy will take his place, sleepy and slow, in the back seat, ready to see the sun, the hills, to listen and chirp away, to laugh… again, and again, melting the frost. And you’ll be there, and you’ll be reminded that gratefulness is a celebration of life, and no day is ordinary, and no time too short to make it count…

Education Should Not Be About Money But About Critical Thinking

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On February 13, 2015

In Armchair Mayor Column, Kamloops, Learning, Life Stories, Self-improvement, Social issues

Initially published as a column in the AM News on February 6, 2015. 

I grew up in a country where I had access to free university education. It seemed logical. I had to pay to live in the dorms and I had to pay for food, of course, and I also had to pay for some of the textbooks that were not available to borrow from school (department or library) but most were reference textbooks that I have to this day and have served me for more than one particular course with a final exam.

My graduate studies here opened my eyes about paid education. I could pay my tuition from scholarships and by teaching in my particular field, but the undergrads I was teaching often complained about having to work and study at the same time. Some could barely made ends meet, coming from underprivileged families but they were very keen on learning; their debt grew with every year of studying.

I also had many students that arrived to school in expensive sports cars and could not care less about the way cells uptake glucose. There were arguments about marks, haggling over fractions of a mark and an attitude that was that I had to deliver something that will push one’s social status to a higher tier. I guess the perception was that if one pays, the goods should be delivered and they’d better be worth the price.

That was when I started having the distinct feeling that such a conflict of interest might breed trouble. The story repeated itself during my years of teaching at a private post-secondary school. Some students believed that though they were paying (and more so, because they were paying money that did not come easy to them) they had to work hard and make it worthwhile. Others believed education to be some sort of merchandise that was being bought with money. A certain sense of entitlement was often looming over their heads and it was affecting the learning process.

Many a conversation with people who have to pay for their own education bear a bitter taste. Tuition is high and increasing, quality of education often low because, many feel, every paying student has to be caught in the safety net that will not allow very many to fall behind, whether they truly have something to show for it or not, and then, there are the exorbitant prices for textbooks that, on being resold after merely a semester, bring but a fraction of the money back (percentages may vary depending on the discipline and institution.)

Tuition, I was told by a second year student, includes a bus pass which she uses occasionally, but some do not use at all, it also includes daycare costs (she has yet to have a child in need of a daycare), and union fees; thus, fee by fee, tuition meant to open the avenue to higher education becomes an avenue towards frustration.

Should education cost so much? Getting a loan these days becomes increasingly difficult. Between not having well-to-do parents and/or acceptable co-signors, many a student willing to learn are pushed out of line because they cannot afford it.

The cost of living even in a city like Kamloops is increasing, rent and food, and many have trouble paying for textbooks that rake bills in the hundreds just for one semester, which makes one wonder about it all. Should education be free and standards higher, wouldn’t the whole society benefit after all?

By higher standards of learning I do not mean forcing kindergarteners to read before their time or promoting competitiveness at the expense of true knowledge and common sense, but rather allowing them to learn at their own pace while providing them with enough time to play and express their creativity and encouraging them to develop critical thinking as they see the significant adults in their lives use theirs.

As soon as we put a price on education, everyone suffers. The learners in the first place, the instructors, and the society. By promoting values and true knowledge, with no price tag, students feel like they have truly achieved something when they graduate from school, be it elementary, high school, university or post graduate) and moving forward. I have heard from high school students and university students as well that they do not feel challenged enough so when they finish school they almost feel like frauds. That is a sinking feeling.

On the other hand, no one benefits from anyone entering society with superficial knowledge or barely any knowledge, just like we do not benefit from people doing jobs without much passion and just for the monetary gain. We see critical thinking and common sense missing; in politics, at a family level, in all types of learning institutions and workplaces, we see it everywhere and at all levels.

Education should not be about money but about learning and acquiring knowledge not just for personal benefit but in order to bring a contribution to the society that has enabled us to get an education to begin with. When financial issues get entangled with education, a certain bias is bound to overshadow the noble and worthy endeavor of acquiring true knowledge.

A first discussion topic on many an education board should perhaps be disentangling the learning and finances for everyone’s gain… for the greater good, you could say, and that is a lofty goal for any society where critical thinking and knowledge are valued.

It’s High Time We Give Our Buying Power A Shake-up

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On February 5, 2015

In Armchair Mayor Column, Environment, Kamloops, Learning, Self-improvement, Social issues

Initially published as a column in the AM News on Friday January 30, 2015. 

I had forgotten my reusable bags at home that time and had to choose between plastic and buying another reusable bag. Too much plastic as it is, I thought, so I chose the latter.

After I got home I realized that the reusable one had a plastic insert on the bottom. Right. To keep things steady and prevent the usual crowding of groceries and falling on top of each other. A first world problem indeed. The insert, made from ordinary plastic bearing no recycling sign, defeats the very purpose of it all.

I was misled and felt uncomfortable. No one likes that. More so when the buying of something I believed greener than a mere plastic bag (many of which are recyclable, not that that makes it better) turned out to be the wrong decision. Greenwashing at its best.

Here’s the thing. Ever since we open our eyes to the world of commerce, we are being told that the customer’s wishes are the merchant’s desires. If only that’d be true. Once upon a time it was.

One cannot notice that things have shifted sideways for a while now. The merchant, backed up by crafty marketing gurus designing the offer, present it to the customers and the rest unfolds. The customers, minds ripe with commercials, promises of this if you buy that, expectations, not to mention the ominous ‘buy now, pay later’, well, it’s easy to fall into the trap (it really is one.)

It is truly scary and overwhelming to try to imagine the amount of goods – excluding food – that are being offered in all stores across the North American continent. Add Europe and Asia and Australia to all of that and it get nauseating.

After the buying comes the garbage and if applicable, recycling. Then, we move on to the next spree of things we do not need but buy anyway to fill spaces that cannot be filled that way anyway.

I am not here to deflate any bubbles, though maybe secretly that is the idea. I just cannot wrap my head around why the merchandise one can find in today’s stores often include completely useless items made from questionable or downright toxic materials, many of which are geared towards children (who are learning to equate happiness with being able to buy one more thing.)

At the same time, garbage grows, people complain of unhappiness and busy schedules, working long hours that deliver the means to buy more stuff we do not need, while stealing away any hope of spending time doing what we love and matters. Ultimately, ‘having’ just doesn’t deliver what the flyer promised.

We are, in many ways, at a crossroad. Climate change is more of a subject (and reality) than it has ever been, there are battles over approving and/or regulating products, including foods and chemicals that end up in our homes or around them, and there are debates over pipelines and mines and fracking.

It is enough to give one a headache. In some ways we seem to have lost our way while faced with so many opportunities to get rich (for some), to buy more (for many) and, should guilt or that little thought that says ‘I have enough’ ever come begging for attention, we have entertainment to chase them away.

Yet reality and truth have the annoying habit of showing up in front of us. Not always civilized and ready to spell it out for us, but rather aggressively throwing it in our faces. Pollution is high in many parts of the world, and because of it the health of many suffers, children and the elderly most of all.

The oceans carry more plastic than ever and more is coming, because we buy and throw more plastic, and more pristine land is being sacrificed to grow palm trees, create feedlots and extract natural resources. Hardly respectful towards the blue planet we all hail as unique.

We are at an important crossroad. We need to assert the power to do exactly what we were once told (and many times over since) we can do: have our wishes satisfied by those who are benefiting from our needs.

It is so. With every choice we each make in how we buy or not buy things, in what we buy and what refuse to buy because we think it unethical, toxic, unhealthy or environmentally wrong, we force the big river called consumption steer a bit in a better direction.

We might have to forgo a few things along the way. Simplicity is a beautiful thing. It helps us make time for what matters. It helps fill the spaces that cannot be filled with anything else.

It helps us help the world get cleaner, our kids breathe easier, have fewer chemicals around to absorb and ingest, and it will remind us of some of the reasons we’re here. To make every day count, to make a difference, no matter how small, to leave the world a tad better than we found it; to know, most of all, that is it up to us, to each of us really, to make good things happen.

Of Days That Still Are

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On February 1, 2015

In Learning, Life Stories, Motherhood, Self-improvement

ThenI still have the card. I open it on my birthday every year; a ritual of some sort that brings it all back for a bit. It has a photo of snowdrops and crocuses. Inside, my dad’s neat narrow letters, tilted just so… I always loved his handwriting. My mom’s written words followed his. They would write letters and cards together, each bringing their own thoughts as gifts.

My mom’s round letters remind me of her hands. I loved watching her cook and iron and I wanted my hands to be the same; they seemed to know so much of life. They were always warm.

The card, the last birthday card they ever sent brings it all back. Truth is, nothing really goes away. The pain of missing is like an old lifeless tree still standing by the side of road after life left its every branch but with roots still anchoring it to the ground. You want it there but it hurts every time you see it.

The pain of missing the ones who leave us clings to us. You cannot rush it. You let it sink in, and it reveals colours you think are too harsh to use, only to realize that those are the colours you can use to paint your world alive from now on, the only real ones you have. They help you know who you are and they trace the roots of who will become.

I did not look back for the longest time. Out of fear of pain, I didn’t. You’re never ready for that. You miss so much of what could never come back.

My birthdays at home, the smell of my parents’ kitchen with coffee and cake and warmth… I don’t remember the cakes or the presents, but the flavor of mornings I’d wake up knowing them there. My parents, both present, eyes happy to see me. I belonged to them and my birthday did too. This year is the first without them both.

One time my dad brought me a white cyclamen in a green pot. I was turning 12. I kept it in my room on the desk by the window, right next’ to my sister’s red one. Bright as the snow outside, it whispered happy birthday every time I’d look at it.

The next year I got a bouquet of freesia and the fragrance became mine forever. It is the smell of my birthday. I miss that. The smell of those snowy mornings, cold air and afternoon freesia. That’s when my dad would come back from work and we’d have cake.

I have been trying to make peace with it all. Not having them around. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. On my birthday it doesn’t. On the boys’ birthdays it doesn’t either. There is an emptiness that just sits there not sure what to do with itself, and I am not wise enough to say ‘now you go, there’s nothing for you to do here…’

‘Do you think she would’ve liked us, mama?’ Yes. Little boy never got to meet my mom. His brother did, yet all he has are bits of memory. They knows stories and miss her because I do. They see photos and try to paint their grandparents alive but that never works. They called it unfair a few times, the loss and the emptiness of my world and theirs, the smiles of times that could’ve been. There must be a better answer than shrugging…

MirrorsThe last chat I had with my mom… I remember it because I held onto that phone bill for a few years. I would stare at the date of that last chat, a line among many; like eavesdropping on the past, I could hear our laughter and silliness amidst the most serious things that life was throwing our way, her words ‘You take care of yourself, and of the boys…’ Like she knew, but she didn’t. In my darkest moments the pain of the most punishing thought there is ‘if I wouldn’t have hung up, she wouldn’t have gone to sleep and… ‘ grows so strong it’s unbearable.

I’d touch the date with the tip of my index finger, as if to take some memory dust and make that time mine again. Try again, do it better. It never works like that. It’s a one-time deal. Then came the realization that that piece of paper was heavier than the heaviest anchor and was tethering me to a place of pain that had no beginning or end. It was humbling and revealing. Two years ago I parted with the paper that was telling of a time that did not exist anymore, knowing that the door that opened just for my mom to leave could not have me knock on it to bring her back. Such doors are not for knocking.

Soon after, my dad’s long suffering came to an end and he too, opened the door and walked away. He had it rough and I knew he’d go. Still, the world without him was so much poorer and sadder. So much sunniness missing, memories of him returning in strong waves and trying me in new ways. My boys’ world without him and them both was turning grayer and all I could do was shrug, fighting back tears and knowing that I could not make this one right for them. Feeling powerless in the face of life becomes real in ways you cannot anticipate and you write the script of crawling out of that deep dark pit as you go; you see yourself slip downwards but keep on trying because of your children.

Mourning happens in waves. It comes and goes, it hurts, it stops; it transforms you. You grow into a better, braver version of yourself and then every now and then you wake up crying, dwarfed by pain and the missing of that place you grew so used to as a kid, the place where everything was good and safe and warm; inside your parents’ heart. Home.

Life seems cruel in how it peels layers off of us, leaving raw and hurting patches, yet the story is as it should be. How else would the inner layers show? We never are just who we are in this moment. We are who we become from what we once were, sheltered in our parents’ hearts until we learn how to make ours a shelter for our own children.

Yet, we’re never ready. We’re children playing house and giggling away, seeing the bright light shining through the branches of the tree we’re sheltered by, never minding the shadows, so spoiled in the comfort that grows with every time we touch the time-kissed bark.

We carve our names in it, blissfully unaware of the times to come when reading the very names in the bark of the tree that is no longer alive will bring around a sound we’ve never heard before. Mourning.

We honour pain the best we can, remembering that pain is only part of the song we will now sing to our children. Songs of people we loved so much, our parents, stories of times, of loss, of petals peeled away suddenly and buds revealed too soon but what choice is there anyway?…

Time rolls and drags you along, incomplete and prematurely exposed to suns too bright and winds too strong. But you grow, you grow kind and mindful of time, knowing that even the longest summer day will at some point become night and the darkness holds no threats of being lost from brightness, but the promise of at least one more day.

So you make the most of the one you have. And you help your children understand that though never the same, life without the ones who leave is not poorer, but that much richer because they were once in it. And you say the name you once carved with little child hands in the bark of the trees you love, you say it out loud, and the sound becomes a song.

GrowYou see the contours of every letter, you remember, and you become more. You ask your kids to close their eyes and you guide their fingers to feel your name, and in doing so they’ll discover that some are now in their names too. You help them belong and know that they are not fragments of worlds lost but pieces of the one that cannot be complete without them.

They’re safe from shrugging and emptiness now, and you are too for having learned that night comes with the promise of yet another new day; at least one more, which you will make the most of…

Of Growing Boys, and Tears, And Stories, and Soft Grey Caterpillars

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On January 29, 2015

In Learning, Life Stories, Motherhood

Striving‘I cannot do it!’ Little boy says it loud and though no tears come into his eyes, I could hear them stomp behind the words. Loudly; tears.

It is about a game. Cute, old-fashioned design, itty bitty characters that look like baby crocodiles… Yes, sigh, the one Nintendo game little boy gets to play is wrapping him up in frustration like a cocoon.

What a long day the day had been. School in the morning, a laughter-all-around Lego building time with a friend who came for a visit, plus a whole lot of playing outside with big brother in and around a melting igloo… And so much more, all that a child’s world brings for him to see, smell, fear, dare through, be silly about, be serious about, be there every minute of a day so long and rich.

‘I cannot do it!’ He says it again. Loud, frustrated, chin trembling.

The mom that I am wants to say ‘You can do it’ but how is that not patronizing when a kid is frustrated to sky and back. Games like that are not easy, I am told. Like many things in life, there are levels. You learn, you persist, you get to the next. But when you only have one hour and fifteen minutes three times a week to make it happen… a battle ensues, I am also told.

Here is the things though: When the world tells so often of things you can get just like that – yes, instant gratification is an occurrence that creates false realities whether we want it or not in our children –  what to make then of the occasional hurdle? Electronic game or not, frustration caused by inability to do what you want to do, what you expected to be able to do so easily, or somehow hoped that invisible arms will make it happen for you… how to then?

‘I cannot do it!’ If you’re a little boy, and tired, you say it again and again. And big brother looks into your big round sad eyes and says ‘I can help you.’

Mom (that’s me) says ‘That is not help, but cheating.’ Two boys, four eyes, big and bright and wondering… But to help, Mama, just this time, I can help him… Big brother melts, understands and insists. To help is to tell him he can do it, I tell him.

“But I cannot!’ Feet stomping, big pouty face. Hug? Yes and no wrestle on his face. ‘I can’t.’

Yes, you can one step at a time… ‘No, I cannot!’ Tears. Sadness. A thought strikes true. I turn to my screen and type ‘inspirational man with no arms and no legs’. Just like that. I had heard about him but never really searched properly; there are only that many hours in a day. Today has more.

The two boys and their four big eyes watched and listened, and I did too, peeking at their faces and wondering about it all. You can search and see. Nick Vujicic is his name and he will inspire you.

He talks about frustration, about failing again and again and not giving up, he talks about taking steps – one at a time, to reach your destination. He talks about falling down and getting up, and how it never ends until it ends… He would know.

Two boys with bright big eyes looked at me and asked ‘how could he do all of that?’ knowing the only answer there is. Because he did not give up; because he chose to see the gifts that he had, rather than cry about the ones he did not have.

Sighs, smiles, crooked and sweet, no more tears.

‘Mom?… I can try again.’ Yes indeed. Thank you. I was grateful for help. All settled and peaceful, the evening rolled along like a big, grey and soft caterpillar, smiling at us… until. Until it all went black again, and a crow of hungry ‘Can I please have help just this time?’ swooped down and scattered the caterpillar’s fluff all over. ‘I cannot’ returned for one last flight through the house.

No, I will not, could not, should not. Allow for that kind of help.

That’d be like falling back twenty steps after you’ve advanced ten I tell them. They stop and listen. ‘But not every time,’ they plead, ‘just this time.’ I trade hugs and stories for half-smiles and listening ears. No is a must.

I am not cruel, but loving this. What a good chance. Sit down then. Boys listen to stories of little kids crying because they could not draw like their older siblings could; getting help when help meant locking them in a box that said ‘I cannot by myself…’ and how love should be fair, and encouraging and never ever indulging in ways that cripple. I tell stories of people lost, people who loved ones help by saying no. It turns serious but they listen.

Faces lit with smiles. Yes, they get it. Yes, they feel loved when a no is lovingly said, and fair and encouraging, and I do too. I thank the man who gave us a push today over the hurdle.

No arms, no legs, no worries, he says. How could one do it like that? By not giving up, by getting up again when falling, by reminding yourself of the brightness of the day when the night threatens with too much darkness… using the light of the day to brighten the night ahead. Belief.

The night caterpillar returns fluffy and grey and sleepy. Grateful. We snuggle on the couch reading stories of mice with big ears and big courageous hearts and then we snuggle some more. Bedtime, hugs, ‘your special kisses, mom, and then I’ll give you mine…’ A nightly ritual that brings sparkles from many days of love and brightness into all the nights that threaten to be too dark. Not now, not yet, not ever?…

Goodnight, sleep tight, wake up bright… Two boys with bright eyes and big smiles learned a lot today, I did too; they’ve grown so much and so have I. More tomorrow, again and again… one step, two steps, can never take two at the same time. Just as long as you know where you’re going… When you forget, I’ll remind you both. Of a day, of tears, of smiles, of a day so bright and a night so soft… Goodnight…

It’s a Together Thing – A Kamloops Story

By

On January 27, 2015

In Armchair Mayor Column, Kamloops, Life Stories, Social issues

(Initially published as a column in the AM News on January 24, 2015)

I saw her talking to someone in a parked car as I was walking towards mine. Then she wobbled her way towards my car. I was already in when I noticed she was standing by the passenger’s window.  I rolled it down.

At first I could not understand what she was saying. She had no teeth and her words were coming out mangled. She must’ve been 65 or so, maybe older.

‘Can you drive me to the Crossroads please? I will give you ten dollars.’

I bought a few seconds of thinking with a somewhat troubled smile, but realized soon enough that I could not say no. I just couldn’t. And I did not want to take her money either.

I said I will. She smiled and climbed in. Slipping on ice made her movements rather awkward. She had an almost empty bottle in one hand and was clutching an old purse with the other. She smelled of booze; that answered the question about the empty bottle. She poured the rest out.

The side of the road was icy and the car slipped a few times. I felt the woman’s gaze on me as I was trying a few maneuvers.

‘We can do it, me and you. Try again. Put it in reverse.’ Her voice was encouraging and the words were coming out less fragmented.

We got unstuck and drove away.

‘You’re a good driver,’ she said full of admiration. Right. If only. I laughed and said thank you. I felt a bit uneasy as we all do when something unusual happens, but I knew this was more than driving someone a few blocks through the downtown.

I turned right and drove into the heart of the downtown. The sun made the ice glitter and it looked pretty. I thought of how many people in this very city will not see that or hate it altogether for that is what you do when it’s cold and all that means warmth has been peeled off of your existence.

‘My name is Joanne. What is yours?’

I said my name and she repeated it slowly.

‘Are you named after your mother?’

I said no, my parents just liked the name. For a couple of seconds my mind flew towards one of the many times I asked my mom why she named me Daniela. She would always smile, her own thoughts carrying her to the time when I was born. There was always another story of my early childhood tucked in with the answer. Slices of life that help us understand.

I asked Joanne where was she from. Nova Scotia, she said. ‘I have nine sisters, but I don’t talk to them on the phone.’ I thought of her as a little girl, playing with her sisters and dreaming of growing up and… The contrast with today’s wrinkled face smelling of booze was sad.

What is life? How does it turn its ugly face and ghoul eyes at some of us… Life becomes a beached whale, abandoned on a beach that holds too much garbage, it just does and we often have no answers. It stinks.

Life can flip from gracious to ungracious in a few moments, and the witnesses to the ungracious disappear like scared birds. Ungracious scares us.

Joanne asked if I know where Crossroads is. I do, I answered. It’s the building that used to be an inn and now it is managed by ASK Wellness who made it into a shelter for the homeless. Fragmented life putters around the building at any given time. It’s a place of hope and despair at once.

Joanne repeated my name one more time, quietly, as if to memorize it.

‘Are you mad at me?’ she asked out of the blue. No, I said. Why would I? I hoped no one would be. Then again, being human makes us prone to emotions of all kinds and a person on the edge of life wearing all the paraphernalia of failure often serves like a mirror we’re never ready to stare in.

‘I like your name, it’s beautiful,’ she said as we parked in front of the building. Someone was sleeping on the sidewalk, lost in an old bright green sleeping bag.

Joanne opened the door, stumbled out with the empty bottle in one hand and the purse in the other. She bowed with a big smile and said thank you, leaving me with my thoughts. Sad and bittersweet, grateful that I was given an opportunity to remember that life is not a high note but a repertoire of many, some so low they growl at you, others so high they hurt your thoughts.

Balance and grace. How do we? How do we mask the failure, how do we fall and how do we get up? It matters to have someone to love you, it matters to be truthful to yourself and know that you can do more than humanely possible; you need a hand to help you up sometimes, hugs to remind of warmth and you need to be loved.

What happened to Joanne? Her journey from Nova Scotia to here and to today, what happened along the way?

Compassion starts with looking into someone’s eyes without judgment. It’s the hardest thing. We all carry stories, we carry our own mountains and valleys we crossed since we can remember, we carry guilt and heartache and all the hope one can muster when hope is a flotilla of broken vessels, most submerged… Can you still do it?

Is there an end to hope? I guess hope is like a torch. Some people carry it with them for as long as they can, and then they attempt to pass it on. It’s up to those who are still standing and have strength to take it and carry it forward. To use it to light a fire that will help warm those who are cold, and cook food if they need it.

It’s a together thing. The hope, making the journeys smother for those who have it rough. No one can do it alone. When we can, as much as we can. Never turn your eyes away when another pair of eyes is trying to find yours. You are the lucky one. You are giving hope and are, in turn, given the gift of humbleness.

Like Joanne said… ‘We can do it. Me and you…’

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