Author: Daniela Ginta Page 68 of 99

Rain has so far been a luxury in Kamloops. The smell of rain has always brought stories and memories of places and people.

On the coast, rain is as familiar as the air you breathe. You wake up in the morning, it’s there. Go by your day, in and out of the house, rain is there. Come nighttime…Well, it’s there. Yet though I lived in Vancouver for almost 14 years, I have not come close to disliking the rain, endless drizzle that it was at times.

Here though, rain is short and precious.

I never quite understood the grumbling about it either. Whether we grumble or not, rain falls until that last drop will be squeezed out of every grey cloud. Unless the wind picks up and scatters them like dandelion fluff in all directions.

The wind has been sweeping the skies for a couple of days now, and ever since the sky turned clumpy with clouds, I kept thinking rain is but a hill or two away. Not yet?

As if to taunt the sky, I put some laundry out this morning. Why not, if it’s all a big tease anyway. Then I went for a long run.

Half an hour later, the wait is over. A few drops to start with. The smell of rain-thirsty pavement and grass is thick and plenty. As if shy about taking over the air, rain picks up ever so slowly. The hills around are dressed in rainy fog and I know we’re next.

Full-on rain. How perfect. An invitation to press on, because you don’t just stop mid-run when rain starts.

The next five kilometers or so, rain comes from all directions and it has no intention of slowing. Plump drops land on my face and I like it. I’ve always liked rain, even more so because of its scarcity.

As I run, my mind splashes in all those memory puddles countless rains left behind.

I think of how so many times during my childhood I’d climb in one of my quince tree retreats and listen to the rain; seduced by the cascade of pitter-patter sounds and fascinated by the glistening trails of water drops left on the leaves.

I think of a camping trip up in the mountains where it rained almost icicles for days. It was early June. It was cold, but that rain made the trip memorable and did not stop me from subsequent ones.

I think of the boys relishing every rainy walk we had. The rain curtain would reveal a whole new world every time. Earthworms chased out of their dirt shelters by the water and perfect half-spheres of sparkling rain on leaves. We stopped for each of those.

“How does the water stay like that mom?” I have yet to meet a kid who, given the chance to observe rained-on leaves, would not stare in wonder. “Look, everything inside the water blob looks bigger.” If learning would happen like this, no kid would resent sciences. Neither would adults.

Many of those walks took twice as long and before we went back in we had to empty the boots. They were filled to the brim. From splashing as if that was the last rain ever. It wasn’t.

We camped in the rain many times and the sound of raindrops licking the tent fly made for a perfect late night tune. Plus it makes one quite good at starting a campfire with damp wood.

With all the rain today the ground is too dry for any puddles to form. It’s cold and the back of my hands feels numb.

A few minutes later, over Peterson Creek Park, the clouds are rolled to the sides to reveal a sky so blue it puts the very color to shame. The air turns balmy and I decide to keep running just to have some more of it. Warmth brings on its own magic touch.

By the time I get home sunshine glitter is all over the streets and the wind has weakened to a gentle swaying of the trees.

Later in the backyard, laundry is dry. Towards the east, dark clouds are stomping their long wet legs over the hills yet again. More rain to come perhaps. I take the laundry inside; taunting can only go so far on a day like this.

As if it reads my mind, the wind picks up and twirls dry petals high over the porch. Some make it into the house with me. The laundry smells of wind and sunshine.

A few hours later, in the west, some thin long clouds pile up over the horizon like tired pencils after a day of drawing in the sky. Their cloudy scribbles spreading all over the city will be drenched in orange sunset glow soon.

It’s been a beautiful sunset and we walk up the hill crest to see it all.

(Originally published as a column in the Saturday edition of the Kamloops Daily News on May 18, 2013)

A week or so ago I signed up for a race: The Blackwell Dairy Run, taking place in Barnhartvale on May 26th. I was thrilled to have found a race I like, a first after I broke my leg and twisted my knee. I biked in Barnhartvale and I loved it.

The race is a hilly one I was told afterwards. So be it, I said to myself. I am a decent runner. I am not a lover of hills but oh, the things we can change when the mind wants to and gets busy… So I set my mind on the busy setting because time is short and hills must be tamed.

I changed my training regimen from running on mild hills and mostly flat surfaces to running mostly hills. I checked out more details about the race and it looked like a good race with some speedy people and… OK, it is fun to compete, why not.

My morning runs got longer, hillier and I was once again about to discover that the part I dislike more in a hill is the descent. But unbeknownst to me, the uphills had a dark side that was about to become a pain in the …foot.

That’s right. The top of my foot started hurting and I realized that I could not even walk on a hill without hurting let alone running. So I gave it a day, perhaps the laces were too tight or I needed the other running shoes. It’s good to rotate them, they say.

Nope. Pain was still there. Now I know that it is called extensor tendonitis. It happens when you run hills extensively. It takes a while to heal (weeks at least), it hurts if you try to run or even walk fast, the pain extends in the foot and even crawls up the shin and… That’s when you know you have a royal mess. No race, which is disappointing, but no running either for a while.

So I messed up. I wish I didn’t. I will miss my early morning runs and saying hello to the sun as I make my way to the Peterson Creek dusty trails. I will try to walk early in the morning instead and still say hello to the sun. At a slower speed, which means I will have more time to look around and be grateful for the morning. For each morning that is. It’s amazing how we can bend things out of (bad) shape when we set our mind to it.

So I messed up. And learned something I should’ve known. And added yet another tiny regret to that hidden bouquet that only I know about…

It’s Mother’s Day. A bit windy and cool and you’re still asleep. You are the reason I celebrate today. As a kid I would read books and come across parts where they would talk about “motherly instincts.”

It sounded like a big thing to achieve and, being a kid still, I thought “What if I have no motherly instincts when my children are born, then what?” It really sounded like a tall order. It is, thank God. How else would we get better at it, because you see, being better at it only makes sense. Children deserve so much.

Like many fears we have along the way, my fear of not having motherly instincts when the time comes proved to be wrong and unfounded. Should I add unnecessary? It paints the complete image and it is a good word to learn to spell.

My motherly instincts kicked in the moment I knew you existed. They kept growing since. You both made it happen.

I kept journals for each of you, but mostly for the first few couple of years of your lives. The reason they stop rather abruptly is because you took off running and I ran with you. It was quite easy to write while carrying you in a sling, but it makes for more exciting stories once you happen upon them on your own two feet. Happy times. All of them, no exceptions.

You should know this about children. It may seem hard at times, being there for them and all. Yes, you were both a handful at times. But it is miraculous how all those parts fade away as you go (may I say by the end of the day) and all that’s left is joy. You’ll see.

I’ve learned a lot of things since you both came into my life.

I learned that everyone is different and has to be honoured for what they are. Children most of all, because you see, they are the beginning of people. It’s a big responsibility, teaching children to be proud of who they are and encourage them to be all they can be. You helped me see that.

I learned to seek the real in every day, in every action, in every person I meet. Most of all, you have taught me to be real. There was no other way, really, not if I wanted you to be the people you seem to become.

You taught me that happiness is a forest of wonders, where light and shade play intricate games and the mystery of it all keeps you going. You helped me realize that you can see deep in my soul and you’ll feed on both joy and sadness. You made me believe that living joyfully is worth it. Even when the path to it is a meandering one at times.

You made me learn patience. You made me a better person with saying “It’s OK, mom” after every time my words proved too harsh for you. You taught me forgiveness just in time, because now I can teach it back to you.

I learned to stand up for you, to protect you, and through that I learned to stand up for myself. You taught me that I am stronger than I ever thought possible. Your hugs are the very stepping stones that take me to where I want to go.

You gave meaning to my life. To how I live today, to how I think of tomorrow, and how I shape the world around me.

Today and every day, I wish to see you grow into kind men, strong and fair, I wish you’ll learn to love and be loved because a whole beautiful world opens up from there on (more on this later.) I wish for you to learn that never is a word that should be used sparingly and only in a positive context (for example, Tony’s forever question about a cure for me to never grow old and Sasha’s wrapping of arms around me saying “I’ll never let go,” that kind of stuff.)

Have a happy day my sons, and may that happen every day. It’s possible you know. With a wee bit of a catch: You have to make it happen. Yep, believe it or not, you have the power to make every day a happy one for yourselves and those around you. It’s all in you, I saw it. Like I’ve always told you, I can see inside your soul, just like you can see in mine. So there.

Last Friday we returned home after a few days away and found two big beautiful tomato plants on the porch. The note attached to them read “Cherry tomato plants need a transplant to good home. :-).” It was signed by our neighbor across the street. She is 92.

I met her after we moved to Kamloops in September. I saw her puttering around the yard one day and went to introduce myself. It’s good to let people know you’re there.

I was charmed on the spot. She is witty, and knows a lot of stories of Kamloops and western Canada too, and she smiles a lot. The only thing that’s slightly wobbly is her vision, she said. She can’t see further than a couple of meters in front of her and even close range is not what it used to be.

Far from feeling crippled by it, she accepts it as a fact of life. Complaining would not bring her vision back, she says.

During our first chat she tells me stories of old Kamloops, how it changed since and she also tells me that I will love it here. A magpie hovers over her house and she’s quick to point out that a crow will show up soon to chase it away. As if on cue, the crow does its thing. It takes being somewhere long enough to know that.

I find out that the house I live in and others around here were built shortly after the WWII for the returning war veterans and their families. I get a glimpse of old Kamloops and I like it. It’s not every day that I get to hear something like this.

I didn’t keep track of time that day, but instantly freed some of my afternoon time to be there. Relishing my neighbor’s sparkling presence, I could not get over the fact that she is 92. The references we have can sometimes point us in the wrong direction but lucky me…

I always say that age is but a number, but my neighbor really makes it true. It’s been like that every time we chatted after that. She’s funny and her way of mixing old stories with new ones has been locking me into good conversations from that first sidewalk talk.

Last Saturday I went to thank her for the tomato plants. We sat in the shade of an old apricot tree and the afternoon sun made puddles of warmth all around us.

   She then showed me her secret garden patch where she proudly pointed to a rainwater collecting system that brings every drop of rain from the roof into her back yard. Both the vegetable garden and the exquisite flower one benefit from it. If I were a butterfly or hummingbird I would call this my happy place.

Dark purple clumps of lilac hang heavy and fragrant in a corner. I told her about the surprise of discovering that Kamloops is a city of lilac. I grew up in a yard guarded by thick, old lilac trees and they made my world joyful. It was an unexpected surprise to see that I now live in a place lined with the very trees I’ve been searching for since I left home.

Exploding white and purple lilac bushes remind me every day of my growing up in a place where I could just walk across the street to visit my neighbors, old friends of my grandparents. I was four but that was no hindrance to sitting and listening to stories. It was easy to forget about time back then too…

On my way out my neighbor invites me to take a shortcut through her home. A keeper of memories, her home is nice and cool. She shows me the sun-drenched room where she grew the tomato plants. There are family photos all over.

In the hallway I notice a violin hanging on the wall, bow next to it. Quiet as they are, sounds and memories trickle out of them. I ask. Her late husband’s violin, she explains.

Some say that violins carry their owners’ playing styles in the wood. An imprint of some sort. It must be true. I see my neighbor’s hand reaching out to touch the violin as if to cradle in her palm once more the memory of the music that she once listened to and of the man who played it. Her eyes light up. Her soul sees further than her eyes can, and I am humbled to witness it.

I thank her for more than I came for to thank. For stories shared under the shade of the old apricot tree, for the inspiration and for those smiles that make me feel welcome here because somehow they bridge the new world I come from, with the one she has been privileged to witness over the years.

I leave with a beautiful bouquet of dark lilac and thinking that often times the best way to see what’s ahead is to look behind us. And truth is, we cannot have one without the other.

(Originally published as a column in the Saturday edition of the Kamloops Daily News on May 10, 2013)

To parent an emotionally astute child is not for the faint of heart. Subjective, you say. Be it so, some days take you for a tumble and make you question yourself yet again. As a parent and beyond that. Your child will point out the emotions that surface on your face like bobbing barrels on a stormy sea, hoping that he will find the key to who you are, because there might just lie the answer to who he is as well.

Parenting often feels like you’re stomping on a field that’s emotionally mined anyway. As they grow, children leave that sweet dwelling of “hugs and kisses to feel better” and move into a world where they need you much more, but act aloof because they happened to read the instructions backwards. Go figure.

You want to be there for them as they grow, and they do too, but they still push you away, yet it is striking to realize that they push you towards yourself. So that you face yourself and thus make things better for all involved. You tell them be real, be yourself, don’t take things for granted and don’t waste today and now. They ask “are you?”

A child who thinks as much as you do, though on a slightly smaller scale, is both scary and miraculous. Like a pulsating vein you see contoured on the back of your hand, you can guess its texture but not quite. And because they’ve been feeding on your words since before they were born, they’ll come back to listen to them; they need to, more so when the going gets tough.

They sit and listen to you, eyes and ears pointed to your soul, and you are all there, letting them see the world the way you see it, with all the discoveries you’ve made along the way. They listen and learn, and when they learn they question things the same way you do but their intensity makes for an even sharper spear to slay the unwanted.

Then they call it as they see it. And then you, the parent, wonder if you’re doing it right after all. Because they don’t sugarcoat anything, they let it all out and you think they’re like that because that’s how they are. But they hurt at times because, like you, they see more than they can handle or understand or accept. And that’s when you wonder whether you made them see more and question more with your way of doing it like that.

Schooling has always been a big conundrum in our little circle. Yes and no still clash in midair when I think about it all, and I don’t have an answer that proves to be responsible, smart, visionary and abiding to the laws of the world we live in (or so I am told.)

“Why do I have to go to school? I can learn on my own.” Is it so? Yes it is, you know it is but as you’re weighing your options you feel like the sly merchant who uses the fake heavy weight to sell his stuff. But some days are good, kids roll home with faces dipped in big smiles and you can say it out loud “See, it’s good, I told you so…”

But on the days that make frowning an iron mask for the little faces, you just sit and listen. School should be joyous, right? If it’s not, you’re questioning yourself and the world yet again. And you hurt when your children hurt.

They come home questioning some of the adults they’re supposed to rely on for help or smiles, whichever comes first. Wise enough to avoid conflict with peers if need be, children are baffled by adults who can’t get the right grip when dealing with kids.

To cloud a day, you don’t smile. Adults should know that. Some do and still don’t smile.

The world is not kind and you can ask yourself “why” a million times and the answer will be the same every time “Because it is. So there.”

How to make it right for children then? You cannot change the world for them, and you know that everyone they encounter makes them become who they’ll be tomorrow. You cannot be there for them all the time, but you can open your arms wide to allow them to bring their ruffled selves and hide in there.

You can sit in the backyard in the sunset and eat watermelon. It might drip, ticklishly so, on tummies and legs. The children will giggle and lick the juice off their fingers and you’ll think… So there’s still time to learn, to make it right. And you just know that right is in the eye of the beholder… But you’re not it. Who is then?

I had changed the beds just a few days ago. I have to do it often than I used to since my youngest is prone to allergies. But like many things we start doing because they make our loved ones’ lives easier, you get used to it.

Today, though writing abounded, I had to do it all over again. Plus more specific cleaning. The reason is … well, black with brown paws, curious, and with an exaggerated propensity for bed jumping. A cross between a black Lab and a Maremma, she’s smart and unreasonably cute.

Our home is her occasional daily abode. We’re helping one of our friends. The dog comes from a litter of many, equally cute. Four weeks ago I drove my friend to see the puppies and I promised myself that no matter how cute, there will be no thoughts of getting one of our own. We have, after all, two guinea pigs and two jumping and unexpectedly interacting Beta fish.

But I am not immune to animal charms. Ever since I could walk by myself to school and around my neighborhood, I was an animal collector. Some whole, some hurt, all lovable. Baby birds fallen from their nests, stray dogs and baby cats, even a hedgehog, a rabbit and a couple of mice.

I got to see some birds grow strong and take off flying. Some of the stray dogs left a couple of days after being taken home. The cats stayed.
I loved my cats but wanted a dog too. I was eight or so. My parents were not in a hurry to get me one.

Six years later I bought my first dog – a rescued one from an abusive home – with a whole lotta money from my saved stash. My parents only found out about it afterwards. They shook their heads, but did not scold, because she was a gentle spirit and though I had been tricked into overpaying, they thought I did well to rescue her. Love is often impractical.

I took great care of her and we wandered many hills together during my high school years. She became a sweet companion for my parents when I left for university.

Fast forward to that Sunday four weeks ago. It was the beginning of a long decision-making process about getting a puppy. The boys were charmed by tiny paws, wet noses and cute little squeaks. So was I.

“Can we? Please?” They would take breaks to catch their breath and start again. We almost said “Why not?” because our hearts were truly left in that basket of furry beings.

We considered all sides. It made sense in many ways, less so in others.
Simplicity is what I have been longing for for a long time. You could ask how can that be when children are involved. It can, but it’s not a given.

We learn together about what we really need and learn that having fewer things to occupy our space and time means more time spent together and outdoors. It simplifies cleaning, which could become a Sisyphean task when many objects dance around the house with no defined purpose.

But the dog. There are a lot of good arguments for having a dog. Boys bond with dogs in a way that’s hard to argue against. We are outside a lot so it would make sense to get a dog.

Yet puppies grow. The kind we looked at especially. We have a car that contains us four and necessary camping gear, but with very little room to spare. Actually no room to spare.

Our house is small and delightfully so. A big dog could feel restrained at times.
Plus the responsibilities. I loved taking care of animals and still, I was often overwhelmed with being the sole caretaker of my dog (I had to keep my promise to do so.)

The boys are still young and green at that. Guinea pigs and fish are often my job though they vowed to make it theirs. We’re working on it but I expect it’ll be a while.

For now, for the sake of simplicity and yet still show them the other sides of having a dog, aside from being drenched in cuteness on any given day, we will help our friend take care of hers. And wipe the occasional puddles, as well as save the shoes. Socks too.

The puppy is adorable, no doubt about it, but here’s today’s tally: two puddles on two beds, many others around the house, two chewed plants and poop behind the sofa.

I had to attend to some deadlines you see, hence my inability to observe her every move. Be it so, I relish the chance to see her grow, help my friend, and have the boys understand that a dog is no toy.

Simplicity and dogs have a good chance to work in the near future. Less stuff to chew on, more time for us to spend with it outside, and having the boys a tad older and more responsible. One can hope.

(Published as a column in the Kamloops Daily News, Saturday edition, on May  4, 2013)

It was a couple of months ago. The boys and I were walking alongside the half-frozen river and chatting. It was cold and the ice lacing the shores made it look even colder. But it was a good warm walk with good warm words sewn into it. My oldest son is enthralled by a creative game called Minecraft.

“There sure are a lot of squares,” I’ve told him jokingly ever since he first showed it to me. He laughs every time I say that. He asks me if I like it, and I do say that it is not what I’d choose to do on a rainy Saturday morning, but I love to see him so passionate about it.

It’s not just a click-buttons-to-exertion kind of game. It involves thinking, it pushes creativity to the next level and I was not surprised at all when I read that some teachers use it as an educational tool in school.

He’s always shared his ideas and joy about it and rightfully so. He beams because he is listened to, and I bask in his smile, grateful that he took the time to share.

We have countless discussions about the things that we’re passionate about. I often tell them of the things I read and write about. Environmental, social, all the things that I care about, I share my opinions and concerns, and they listen.

But on that cold winter morning walk, while his little brother was looking for ice-buried pebbles by the river, my oldest walked side by side with his cheeks all red and explaining how he is working on equipping his pixelated world with geothermal heating and wind turbines.

“Because that is good, mom, I can use something that’s natural and already there, I just need ideas on how to build it properly.”

I asked for details. How did he think about it? Can it be done? It’s a pixelated world after all. “Yes mom, but so many things mirror the ones here,” he said. Like a manual of some sort.

But the inspiration came from our talks, he said.
My turn to beam. Our worlds were intersecting in the best possible way. His words built a world that though pixelated by design, rounded itself around each one of his words and smiles.

It’s not that I want them to accept my opinions without debate. I welcome all the “why” they can throw at me. And then again, I tell myself that if it wouldn’t make sense to them they would not accept it.

They hear me talk to people, they read the things I write in my blog. Environmental issues are by far my biggest concern. Most of their trust in my words has been established by never being told something without a reason.

A few days ago, my youngest son, a nature lover by his own definition, joined me in watching a documentary about the decline of the sockeye salmon in British Columbia. We buried ourselves in the sofa and watched. There were a lot of references to studies done by various people trying to solve the conundrum. I feared boredom. He’s not seven yet. Instead, he cuddled and watched.

There was evidence about certain data being kept secret from the general public. Not necessarily his first encounter with conflicting opinions and interests. We talk about oil spills, marketing campaigns directed at children, and the wrongness of GM foods.
But he got the gist of it. As he explained it to his brother, something bad is happening to the fish, they die, some people hide the truth because they don’t want people to know.

We talked about it before bedtime. They had questions; why would people care more about money than about people or the environment. I told them answers are not easy to come by. I often realize that I have uncomfortable beliefs, the kind that make people shift in their chairs. But for the first time since the boys were born, I understood the depth of what legacy means.

All our talks, during some of which I share my thoughts – environmentally and otherwise – that I uncover while researching for my articles, the choices I make for us day after day, they are not falling on sleepy little kid ears.

I never associated legacy with what we give children when not even thinking about it. It must be something you make prim and proper before exposing, right? Not so.

While they are bound to follow their own dreams, we should be aware that whether we want it or not, some of the things they see and hear will become the very material they’ll build their wings out of. It better be solid then.

Should they honour us as parents with what they do or say, I can only think we have honoured them too by sharing ideas that contributed to who they become. It’s called legacy, and as I keep telling myself, it better be worth their time and mine.

(Originally published as a column in the Kamloops Daily News, on Saturday April 27, 2013)