Daniela Ginta, Freelance Writer

Gratitude makes the journey better. Kindness, too.

Author: Daniela Ginta Page 59 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.

Heart Strings And Daisies

By

On November 14, 2013

In Life Stories, Motherhood

This morning has been no better or worse than others. In fact, slightly worse because an overnight rain soaked my shoes, which I had forgotten on the porch, yet again. First world problems as I call them.

The boys are cheery and gabby and we manage to leave the house on time with no altercations and no delays that make us run and jump over sidewalks like a group of sun-scared bats on the way to the first deep dark cave (no negative reference to school or maybe just a small one?…)

So we walk. There’s chatter and silliness and loud “No, no, I’ll say it. Mom, listen to this…” and some of last night’s toilet jokes on replay. Some are that good, according to 11-year-olds and under.

Hold hands, small hugging palms hiding in mine and if I hold stronger than I should is because I know the jumpy nature of such holds. They go poof before you realize it. So hold on while they last.

A sparrow hops from between some cigarette butts on one side of a chicken-wire fence to wet sand on the other. She’s round and fluffy and the hopping is exquisite. Elegant and light and we’re spellbound.

Toilet jokes are forgotten. We stare. She stares back. Hops. Stares. A hand squeeze but this time it is not me. It’s the small hand making me heed the bird and its exquisite tiny feet. “Mom, isn’t she cute?”

I am struck again by how we attach ourselves to memories of no particular day or place. Muck, sand, a brownish bird and five more minutes until school starts. All wrapped up in a forgetfulness-proof mental package that will never be stamped with the awkward “when was that again?”

The day rolls into a big fat cinnamon-tinted cocoon of a sunset with a glued-on ghost-white moon and when night comes I know of the one thing I learned about today. “No special day” memories, or no-planning-to-acquire-memories-but-did-it-anyway kind of day.

Heart stringsAnd I know of two things that will never leave my prized possessions box (not that I have one, but I will think of one) and those are: a string of no particular glamour that Sasha has loved and played with since the dollopy days of toddlerhood and he still holds dear, and a pressed little daisy which Tony gave me one day at a park that has long disappeared off the Vancouver map. It was drizzly and cold and ten years ago and a late daisy made it from his tiny fingers into my heart and journal. Just like today, we were half-way into winter, which is why heart strings feel warmer than ever.

DaisyToday I learned that heart strings are not negotiable. They just are. They appear out of nowhere and they will stick forever. It takes one to learn to spot one when it happens.

Heart strings are never planned for, so don’t start trying. That’s the magic of it all. They happen with no warning and often you realize what happened way after they’re gone. But they’ll be there when you least expect it. Magic.

Unless, the Troublesome Beautiful Concept

By

On November 13, 2013

In Environment, Social issues

It is one of those days. The air feels heavier for no particular reason yet for many reasons that have been around for a number of days, some even for months or years and most are not about to disappear or get fixed any time soon. Unless. An entire world at its mercy.

I struggle with awareness issues you see. The modern-day disease of the ones who cannot say “Oh well, it is what it is…” I am one of those who say “But why? It shouldn’t be this way…”

I often perform the dangerous activity of taking a few steps back to assess the “big picture.”

In other words, I am attempting to identify where I stand as an individual and where we stand, as fellow humans sharing a planet and the world that we impact, willingly or not (yes we do, lots.)

The latest environmental disaster, the typhoon Haiyan in the Philippines, is a troubling event in more than one way. Planet-wide and humankind-wide. The typhoon has ravaged the country and will continue to do so for a long time, long after the mucky puddles have dried and the global media will have moved on to the next big event that rattles the world.

More than that though, this typhoon and many past and future similar environmental disasters, are defining a world that seems to just “roll with it” in a way that is detrimental to us all. The climate change files are getting plumper by the day with yet another discovery of what bakes us all up slowly but surely, and yet another disaster that claims lives and places and to the latter we say “thank God it did not happen here,” because we can afford the luxury of saying so, though it is solely due to luck provided by geographical location only.

There are warnings, some thin as gossamer, some thick as a sailor’s rope, but in the end neither able to tie us to the very reality we’re stepping on. As if we’re in a state of bobbing over it all helped by nothing more but the lightness of being spared (for now.)

But there is a good humane response to it all and that has to be acknowledged. Help is pouring in as we speak, and though the disaster is far from being fully assessed in all its beastliness, people are being given food and water, mobile hospitals are being set up and millions of dollars are being donated by countries around the world to help the approximately 11 million people who have been affected.

This is all an illustration of who we are in times of trouble. There is empathy, we need that. Media, the finicky mistress of terrible news, is doing its part in providing enough visuals to keep the empathy levels high enough so that help will continue to be sent to those in need. But if history is any lesson, the most diligent of us might just come across news of still unresolved disaster and ruin in the Philippines many months or even years after this. It happened in Haiti.

The reason I am saying this is not because I am trying my hand at being a nagger or a pessimist – I am neither! – but because of the discrepancy of all that our present world is displaying. I struggle with seeing the many facets of our world and wondering how on Earth (where else?) are we going to be able to deal with future disasters if their numbers and intensity will increase?

That the planet is slowly warming up is undeniable. A natural consequence of that are typhoons and hurricanes that kill, displace people and leave many without food or water for days, bringing the kind of desperation that makes people stomp and kill each other in their quest to alleviate their most basic needs, thirst and hunger.

Many environmental scientists are warning about approaching the tipping point. Many of us believe that to be the case while others roll with “It can’t be that bad, they’re just a bunch of scaremongers…”

It is rather unfortunate that human nature, empathetic as it is and a beautiful trait by all means, it can also turn severely dismissive of things that can and do alter the collective quality of our life on the planet, the only one we have.

A recent string of news pointed out to a “dream come true” kind of situation that is on its way to completion in the United States: asserting their crude-oil independence by 2020.

That means two things at least: the first is bound to affect us all because of an increase in carbon dioxide well over the projected allowed levels meant to ensure a halt in global warming, and the secondly, an extra shake-up for us Canadians, because the US oil independence, as desirable and guilt-free as it sounds (no more war-tainted oil) it may just open Pandora’s box when it comes to our oil. Someone will have to buy it and that someone might need pipelines to move it all the way to where it could be exported overseas.

Whether or not things will shape up to follow this scenario or a slightly different ones, my point is: If nothing will change, habit-wise, in the developed world and if the need for more, bigger, better (this one is questionable, yes) more typhoons and storms and climate changes will rattle us all.

We may or may not be able to help those in need when future big disasters hit, and not because we will lack empathy – that I choose to believe will never change – but because the way we treat the environment, which in turn will affect our lifestyle and our capacity to give.

We are slowly coming face to face with the consequences of increased and increasing levels of industrial, agricultural and oil/gas-derived pollution, massive deforestation done to occupy larger areas with various conventional-grown crops, ethanol-producing GM corn included, and the picture is not a pretty one.

Sad large-scale events like the typhoon Haiyan are meant to make us reassess. I strongly believe we should. A disaster of such proportions is a wake-up call that should extend beyond shocking images and heart-warming help.

As Dr. Seuss wrote in his visionary and superb illustration of an environmental crisis in The Lorax “Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot/Nothing is going to get better. It’s not.”

Unless is a powerful concept. We demonstrate often that we have what it takes to help our fellow humans when disaster hits. It is time we apply the same level of commitment to changing our ways. If we want to see things get better that is.

It starts with each of us and all as a collective made-up global mind. A matter of honor if you will…

 

Our Freedom Is a Gift From Veterans

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On November 9, 2013

In Social issues

ReminderOur neighbourhood has many charming little houses, which were built for the returning veterans back in 1945. A thoughtful project meant to say ‘thank you’ in more than words.

Every year on Remembrance Day, I am reminded of two things: That there are some very brave and selfless people out there, and that the Remembrance Day ceremonies do not bring much solace to those who were injured while serving and are left at the mercy of a system that creates additional stress.

A few days ago, a soldier who suffered a traumatic brain injury while serving in Afghanistan came forth with his story of grief.

Cpl. Shane Jones has been working with seven or eight caseworkers and has been visiting multiple doctors since his injury happened during his 2005 tour. He suffers from posttraumatic stress disorder like many other veterans — and, like many others, feels betrayed by the government.

It is sad and disheartening to hear, yet he is one of many veterans who are not getting appropriate care and consideration for their service.

There are also debates around the financial compensations for injured veterans.

A group of ex-soldiers is suing the government over the new compensation system, arguing that it violates the Charter of Rights and Freedoms. A lifetime disability pension has been replaced by a lump-sum payment, a decision that has angered many.

Previous governments have taken pride in providing for veterans, recognizing the sacrifice of the wounded as a great service to the Crown. Our present government argues that promises made in the past should not be binding.

While debate flourishes, injured veterans are left, more or less, to their own devices. Some injuries are more visible than others, but all war-inflicted injuries are debilitating and take their toll on soldiers and their families.

Once a year, some of the veterans are called upon to share their story and make some of their stories known to the public. Many details are left out because they are too gruesome to share or too painful to recall.

After the wreaths are laid and the poppies are forgotten, stories are set aside for another year and the wounded veterans are back to fighting their private war.

On top of it, they have to worry about a Veterans Affairs minister who expands the definition of a veteran to the point of making it look ridiculous.

Minister Julian Fantino’s words, “… I spent 40 years in law enforcement, I too have served. I’ve been in the trenches and heard the guns go off. I guess I can also put myself and other colleagues, firefighters and other police officers, who put themselves in harm’s way every day, in the same category …” has earned him a resignation request from angered Canadian veterans.

I don’t discount the courage and dedication of firefighters and police forces; they should be honoured for their own sacrifice in serving the people of this country, too.

Some could argue that the Canadian military service is volunteer and so is deployment. But, no one goes to fight a war in their own name. Every soldier deployed by Canada is a soldier of Canada, and his or her sacrifice should be properly acknowledged.

By acknowledging them, we to teach our children that putting one’s life on the line in the name of your country is something that is honoured — not only by citizens, but also by a government that stands true to the core values of a nation honouring its fallen heroes and veterans.

A definition by an unknown author on the Canadian Peacekeeping Veterans Association website reads: “Simply put, a veteran, whether regular or reserve, active or retired, is someone who, at one point in their life, wrote a blank cheque made payable to ‘The Government of Canada,’ for an amount of ‘up to and including’ his life. That is honour. Unfortunately, there are too many people in this country who do not understand it.”

Lest we forget, the freedom and peace we enjoy are a gift from today’s and yesterday’s veterans, to each of us, every day.

Originally published as a column in the Kamloops Daily News on Saturday November 9, 2013

Political Correctness vs. Principles. Where Do You Stand?

By

On November 7, 2013

In Social issues

Rivers of ink and pixels have been flooding newspapers, news websites and social media outlets about Rob Ford, the current Mayor of Toronto, for a few days now. The threat of it all lurked in the shadows for a few months, since the drug antics of Rob Ford have been hinted at by the media. We now have a fully developed case of social and political black eye (one of them at least) for all to see and shake their heads at .

Most people who kept informed willingly or were assaulted by the news over the last few days, know that Rob Ford has admitted to using illegal drugs (while in a drunken stupor, as if that softens the blow,) he avoided admitting to drug use when asked by the media a few months ago, and he has also been photographed with alleged drug dealers, hardly the place to be for a mayor, unless it’s some wicked undercover work to expose the bad guys.

You can access details in most papers, and online as well, so I will not go further. The situation is disgraceful and it shouldn’t have made it this far. A person in a position of influence should display respectable conduct. There are no two ways about it. Even more so when the situation is recurrent. That points to absent remorse and that is a scary reality.

But my thoughts revolve around the conflicting messages about this situation. That such a situation has been created is a sign of the times. It is, on the bright side, an opportunity to reassess our value system and make the appropriate adjustments, if you will.

Some people defend Rob Ford with the unoriginal, though true, “everyone makes mistakes,” and while that each of us want that applied to us at least once in a lifetime, I believe this to be a case of “n/a” (not applicable). It should be. Barring unforeseen political and social circumstances, when one is in the public eye, and in an influential position in which elected by a community, one should avoid any situation that might become a black eye.

Others are saying “Many of us have been there at least once or have loved ones who have…” meaning not drugs necessarily but alcohol and questionable behavior. I’d stamp another “n/a” on this too. This is not an appeal for help and compassion issued by a man seeking help. A man of high political stature is plunging into one pool of social wrongness after another and he is getting away with it, while almost everyone’s hands are wringing over something that should have not been. Shedding some PR-required crocodile tears while saying “sincerely” three times and throwing a “God bless the people of Toronto” at the end should not make anyone say “have some understanding, he’s going through a tough time.”

The threshold of what we consider socially acceptable is getting lower and lower. I am troubled by it. Extremes are never good. Taut lines stretched across concepts and ideas and life in general annoy people and make them react, but being permissive and lacking principles is not the answer either. With common sense and critical thinking as bearings we can find the way, I am sure.

Finally, there are some people who are saying “enough is enough; how much time are we going to spend on this issue when there’s many more pressing ones that need attention?”

True to some extent. I think the Rob Ford incident is one of the iceberg tips that might help us – if we are so inclined – understand and assess the times, review our collective principles, reformulate terms on engagement for those who are or will ever be in positions of influence and ultimately understand the huge responsibility we bear as today’s adults. Our collective children are learning values, principles, political and social correctness (they should not differ much) from us. Parents, educators, politicians, and every person who has the capacity to become a role model has to know that the responsibilities associated with such a job are as high as the job itself.

What do you think?

The Aftermath: Keeping Halloween Fun For Kids

By

On November 5, 2013

In Kamloops

Picture this: a dummy resembling a person fallen to the ground is placed in front of a garage door to look as if the head has been crushed by the door — blood on the door and suggestive puddles on the pavement included. It looks as real as you can imagine. Anything more would be the real thing.

A neighbour calls 911 and a discussion ensues.

It happened in more than one place. Comments abounded. The majority were a reverberation of, “Come on, it’s Halloween!” and praised the creativity of the displays. A matter of opinion.

Others argued that we shouldn’t allow for something that creates fear or unease.

One such commenter was told to look the other way if she couldn’t take it, while another who suggested we should return to what Halloween used to be (goblins, ghosts, black cats) was deemed a witch and told, “What did they do with witches back then? Burn, witches, burn!”

Feeling uncomfortable yet? Intolerance of a different opinions punctuated with implied violence is never a good thing.

Halloween is one spooky day, everyone agrees, but suggested violence — to the extreme, in this case — can stir negative emotions that are not conducive to good fun. Most commenters suggested that children would be the first ones to find the display funny because they know what Halloween is about.

I disagree. Creepy and horrifying is not funny. Normalizing violence is not acceptable. Halloween or not, some boundaries should not be crossed.

Our 92-year-old neighbour reminisces about Halloweens that were not about zombies and severed crawling hands. “Halloween is for kids,” she said. Jack-o-lanterns and decorations, trick-or-treat if they wished, but horror was never part of it.

Children nowadays are exposed to myriad stimuli that may or may not be appropriate for their level of understanding. They seem to know more, but knowing is not the same as understanding.

Children’s brains need time to grow and rushing serves no one. They need time to learn to make the distinction between fake and real.

Present-day Halloween décor is different from what it used to be. Children, young and old, get a big dose of gore, dismembered bodies and zombie action, on top of the old-fashioned ghosts and skeletons, which seem tame by comparison. Save for the last items, I am not sure children can take the above-mentioned in the expected stride. Some will, some won’t.

One way to honour human nature is to not desensitize children to violence. In my youngest son’s class, some kids still believe in the tooth fairy, while they also talk about watching clips from movies like Chucky and Candyman.

If violence happens out of the Halloween context, children are referred to counsellors for help. Parents have a hard time explaining it. Violent images in the news can shock children. We know that.

Movies have parental guidance warnings for a reason. Not only is the plot geared toward a mature audience, but the horror elements and sexual references are clearly not to be seen, let alone understood, by children and tweens.

I watched 20 minutes of a scary movie once. I was already an adult, yet it made me cringe.

I grew up with very little television. We played outside and read. But here’s an interesting thing: many of my favourite books included sword fighting (Alexandre Dumas) and gunfights (Karl May’s books describing the Wild West). I was never uneasy or scared. The violence wasn’t gratuitous, though.

I am trying to raise my boys the same way. We have always been outside a lot, around our yard, town and on road trips. We read books depicting times past and present and the heroes within — real or fantasy. Ditto for movies.

They never feared “monsters” under their beds — until this year, that is. My youngest now struggles when night approaches.

He was told about a bad guy who comes and kills you in your sleep. Some kids at school talked about it. The name is Candyman. Just the product of someone’s imagination, we told him. He knows, but fear has stuck for now. Having our home broken into recently doesn’t help.

As a result, he is ambivalent about Halloween. Excited about the dressing up part, troubled about the anticipated scary, possibly gory, décor and costumes he might see that day and the stories associated with them.

It shouldn’t be this way; it should be fun — kiddie-appropriate jack-o-lantern, goblin and ghost fun. After all, like our 92-year-old neighbour said, “Halloween has always been fun for kids.”

We should keep it that way.

Originally published as a column in the Kamloops Daily News on Saturday, November 2, 2013. 

It Happened To Santa Too

By

On November 3, 2013

In Life Stories, Motherhood

Santa's steps?This time it wasn’t my fault. More so, I had no idea that it will happen today. There was no warning.

The day started with laziness in bed, snuggles and a big pile of pancakes. A pot of steaming strawberry sauce… memories of summer mornings drowned in fragrant berry smells and perky leaves holding sun and dew in green curled bellies.

Mouthfuls, butter melting, dripping sauce and sweetness, boys joking about all the inappropriate things again and again. This morning will hang in a corner of my soul, for no particular reason, but for the sweetness, the innocence and the roundness of it all.

The hills around have white dusted tops and countless thin trees, black and sleepy and fog-wrapped. Coffee on the porch, soft whispers to go with small sips. Find a place to take the boys. Where to, where to? A snowy lake? Is it snowy? Let’s try.

We drive the licked-clean road through snowy meadows and patches of trees… Do you hear the lone woodpecker? The sky is draping low and white. We park, boys roll out of the car in snow and make us promise snowball fights.

PathThin ice grows from the shores on the black surface of the lake. The path along the shores is padded with fresh-fallen snow and walking on it sounds like stepping on buried drums… muffled thick noises, branches droopy with snow, voices of boys running ahead and the distinct drum-roll of another lone woodpecker.

We walk around the lake, bumping chests halfway with the lake-dwelling dusk and making our way out of the woods as snow starts falling again.

A snowman perhaps? But the snow is powdery and stubborn, there’s no sticking. Snowman head and tummy crumble, we leave but two snow angels by the side of the road, taking our own with us. You need them when you drive through curtains of snowflakes, when you know you have to say thank you, again, for the simple beauty of new snow.

As snow-covered layers come off, Sasha’s big eyes turn and stare into mine.

Boy. Wonder“Mom, is Santa real?”

I stared back, I pondered, I listened to the voice that said “Be true” and pondered again. Will that take the magic away?

“What does your heart tell you?” This is how shy truth-teller me goes about it. I’m barely an inch tall.

“My heart says it’s not true.”

Truth-teller bows to child’s wisdom, eyelids drop in approval and then the promise snuggles in between our hearts “We can keep Santa with us though, magic and all…”

JoyYes we can. If new snow can sing to us every time, so will Santa and its wicked trail of make-believe. Truth and magic can live together if they’re done right.

So that’s how it all happened. Truth-teller honor.

 

I Killed The Tooth Fairy

By

On November 1, 2013

In Life Stories, Motherhood

ExchangeThat’s right. I did. It happened yesterday.  I have no remorse and at the risk of sounding cold and heartless, which I am not, I must say that it feels liberating.

I did not have a good relationship with her, you see. If I had to define our relationship I would say it was a case of forced labor. I had to become a tooth fairy and not by volition but because everyone did it. I was ushered into it even though I had no desire to perpetuate a concept I did not agree with.

The reasons I did not agree are as follows:

  1. The price per tooth varies with the household, which is puzzling for little people and downright annoying for big people who believe in fairness (it is almost ironic that the root of fairy and fairness is, well, fair, and the work of the said entity is anything but)
  2. If you, the designated fairy, happen to forget to operate before you go to bed, and on top of it happen to sleep in and hence do not manage to replace the fallen teeth with money by the time the child wakes up, well, you’ve got some explaining to do or you have to do the kind of sneaking you haven’t done since the days of high school…It is not pretty, or comfortable.
  3. A big one: why would a child get money for a tooth that falls out? There is no work involved, not the child’s anyway, and if anything, children may be driven face to face with a chilling concept (I will leave it to you to name it due to its potentially offensive nature.) I may be wrong, but somewhere out there a child must have wondered at some point “If my baby tooth is worth X dollars, then what is —- (fill in with random body part) worth?” Just sayin’…
  4. According to children, the tooth fairy does the following: she walks through the house in the middle of the night, reaches under the child’s pillow, takes the tooth (care to know what her house looks like?) and replaces it with money. Creepy by most people’s standards, you’d agree. After having our home broken into just a couple of weeks ago, the concept of strangers walking through the house is challenging. My boys are perceptive enough to ask point blank: How does she get in, mom? Then what? Asking the questions was only a matter of time.

So you see, for all the above reasons and more, I had to kill her.

The straw that broke the camel’s back (or the fairy’s spell in this case) was Sasha’s “fresh-from-school” question.

“Mom, is it true that the tooth fairy does not give money if the tooth has been pulled out by the dentist?”

That was it. I had no decent answer to it and the cheekiness of an imaginary creature can only go so far. It was me or her.

One had to go and it wasn’t going to be me. Without an ounce of hesitation I blurted out “There is something I have to tell you.”

Pitter-patter, wait for me hurried steps brought a wide-eyed Tony from the bedroom to the living room, which was now becoming the sacrificial tooth fairy arena. With a gaze that meant “I knew it” he gave me his vote of confidence in handling the situation. Talk about feeling like a grownup. Occasionally I act like one too.

“There is no tooth fairy, my love.”

Sasha’s eyes, wide and trustful, built a question mark right there and I could see it trying to stand on wobbly feet and I knew it did not mean “Really?” but rather “Now what?”

So he asked. “Then who is the tooth fairy? You?”

I nodded. Yep. Was he disappointed? Yes, no? A few seconds of no words and deep long gazes waded like fat ducks towards a lake that was to cover the pit of newly disclosed life truths. Not murky, but clear water. You see the bottom if you care to look. Kids do, because they appreciate the full depth of such truth. Mine do.

“I knew it!”

“I knew it too!” Tony peeped in.

Smiles. No disappointment. My explanation: I thought she was unfair. Some kids get paid five or ten dollars per tooth, others don’t have that much worth of food over the course of a day, or week. Here in Kamloops, and everywhere.

Bottom line: I couldn’t stand her ways. She had to go.

A few good pounds lighter, my whole being has been celebrating the event since it happened yesterday.

And if there’s a shadow of unpleasantness associated with this whole story, because there is one, it is this: I almost had my hands on Santa too, but I let him get away.

“Are you Santa too?”

Pause. “No.”

OK, don’t ask. And please don’t say “Oh, but you had it, right there!” It’s true, I did. But I am weak. Or just more attached to him than I was to the tooth fairy; sentimental value is hard to argue with. I need to think and assess. It’s not an easy job. Being a parent, I mean.

Thoughts to share? Please don’t be shy. I just showed you mine.

Disclaimer: I did not ask for the portrait. It was Sasha’s gift. And his way of making peace with it all. 

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