Daniela Ginta, Freelance Writer

Gratitude makes the journey better. Kindness, too.

Author: Daniela Ginta Page 72 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.

All The Birds Of A River

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On January 25, 2013

It’s Saturday. Cloudy and very cold. After two months of winter here I can distinguish between the soft glow of a not so cold morning, and the drab quietness of a chilly, cloudy one.

Not that I am worried or anything. It’s weather. You cannot change it, you can only accept it. In this case by dressing warmly and heading out. I told the boys I have a surprise for them that involves visiting the river banks. We eat apple pancakes and chat.

“What’s the surprise?” they ask. Spilling a few of the beans makes it more appealing, especially with the drab look of this cold morning. There’s birds there, lots of them. They’ve seen ducks and geese before, but the day before I saw swans. You have to see them, I tell the boys. Their feet are big and black and their bodies are huge and white. Who knew swans are so big?

We have to be there by 11am I announce. They tilt their heads. Why 11 and not later? Well, the answer hides the last part of my surprise. So let’s not miss it.

We arrive and see a potpourri of birds brushing over the half-frozen river towards a certain spot on the shore. That’s our destination, the very spot.

But what is it, they ask. You’ll see. If you hurry a bit that is, so you won’t miss it. We step off the path and down towards the water, and get engulfed by a sea of ducks, geese and swans. Some eat like their plane is going down, other flap their wings, geese honk that familiar honk that sounds so off-key but it’s also so familiarly lovable, swans circle an elderly man crouched over a bag of grains. That’s a feeding frenzy for you. The elderly man comes every day with a couple of bags of oats to feed them. I met him the day before during a walk and thought the boys might like to see the feeding festival.

“They have very little to eat when it’s this cold,” he tells us. They know him by now – he’s been doing this for a couple of years – and are not spooked at all when he puts his hand out to feed them. He’s brought some old bread too, so the boys get handfuls of it and feed the birds. A couple of grey swan youngsters dare to snatch straight from the boys’ hands. There’s giggling and big eyes caused by that slight scare that an approaching bird can cause in a boy whose eyes are at the same level with the bird’s eyes. You try it.

The elderly man and I chat about kindness, how it’s the one often-forgotten thing that could make the world better. Ideally. We thank the man and walk further down the river on frozen snow. There is thick ice at the shore and a hundred meters down the whole river is frozen solid and the ice is so thick that you could cross to the other side.

The boys ask about the man. They were impressed with his kindness. That’s a good thing he does, right, mom? Yes, it is. Are you going to write about him in the paper? No, he will most likely not make it into my column I tell them. Because that could get him in trouble since some people do not agree with his daily visits (he hinted towards that) and might stop the feeding of the birds.

But kindness means… I know, the irony. Kindness as a way of living. It should work like a charm. It doesn’t and I’d hate to be the initiator of an action that might affect the man. Kindness should never be reprimanded but you never know. I’ve heard stories of well-intended people doing something that turns ugly. So I’ll hold onto our little adventure and that’s that. I’d say kindness as a generalized state of being in a society is an ideal, but not quite the reality. Perhaps I’m wrong so feel free to explain your side.

We stop by ice plaques, test their thickness and then step on them. They are extremely slippery, and under them the water clicks and whooshes, slower near the shore than in the middle of the river. A reminder that daring explorers and rivers are not always a good combo. So we retreat. We’re cold but the boys want to explore some more of the shores before heading home.

We find feathers, orange pebbles and talk about the experience of feeding the birds. I knew it’ll make an impression. They want to come back soon. We will. In the distance the geese honk their off-key but familiarly lovable honk and I cannot understand how they can walk on those icy shore bare feet and all. That’s probably because I’m getting chilled just seeing all that icy slush the river carries… But it’s winter, and that’s what rivers do in winter, no?

 

The Reading Thing And All Things Related

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On January 24, 2013

It was a year or so ago that Sasha’s kindergarten teacher asked that we have a chat. She was concerned that Sasha’s early reading and writing skills were not as advanced as his classmates’.

“I am concerned,” she said, as plainly as possible.
“I am not,” I replied. I meant that.

Whether it was mama bear instinct or serenity based on some innate knowledge that only mothers can have, I kept a straight face while being told that my son will soon start to feel embarrassed because he will not be among those who know how to.

That he had no reason to feel embarrassed about anything is an understatement. His interest in Egyptian gods back then, plus his admiration for Steve Irwin, inspired him to draw beautiful colorful renditions of the said gods and also fill many pages of his notebooks with drawings of creatures, both real and imaginary. We read books – nature books, chapter books and picture books, although to be fair, he has always been more taken with the long reads. His vocabulary contained words that would take me by surprise.

I could not understand why at the age of five and a half he was expected to write, as in write down most of a word based on the sound of it as the word was dictated by the teacher. He was expected to read simple words and slowly make his way up the reading skill scale, I was told. Like many kids his age, he could not care less and he was not interested or ready to do so. I let him take the lead and do it when he’s ready. He became ready.

So here we are, a year later, plopped on the sofa every afternoon, opening tiny books with tiny stories about jolly pirate captains that drop their hats in the water and don’t mind, and dinosaurs that eat dragonflies and cockroaches. Accurate stuff, wouldn’t you say? Sasha reads, I listen, and there’s no “you’re amazing” uttered every third word but my proud looking at him matches his sparkling eyes. His pride shows too.

We celebrated his first reading of a tiny book with my eyes growing big and surprised. “You’re reading! Isn’t that nice?” Their room has a huge red bookshelf that holds an army of books. Every week or so we bring a couple from the library. Think of all the books you’ll be reading, I told him. But there’s no hurry up and do it now that you know how. I love our cuddling reading times, just like he loves my reading with different voices and sounds. And yes, the cuddling.

What I wanted him to know most of all is that reading is supposed to be his big breakthrough and no one else’s. He is equally loved and accepted and appreciated for everything that he is. The fact that he is prying open the writing and reading doors and looking at the world through different colored lenses should make him look forward to new adventures to come.

Not that he did not have any until now. His world has been enriched by exploring the world in his own way, by daring to do so, by listening to stories being read to him, by asking many questions, by getting down and dirty every step of the way. The human mind is always pushing forward when the time is right.

Being told or suggested to that they need to do it because everyone does it is not only unfair to children, but also deleterious to the way they perceive reading. Back when I wrote the first post on the topic I argued that it could lead to feeling inadequate and that is the wrong feeling at such an early age when enthusiasm and curiosity and confidence work so well together. Let’s call it creativity for short.

Curiosity must remain the perpetually hungry, perpetually wild beast that will make our children explore further and find richer feeding grounds as it grow. If we don’t spook it with silly milestones that are not set by anything else but the pressure to engage them in the rat race sooner that is.

Ultimately, monumental achievements such as reading and writing should happen because nothing else would be enough anymore. Joy should be part of it. Just like stepping stones, you know. You can’t move further away unless you step on a certain stone at a certain time. But of course, I am merely speaking for my children. I am not a teacher after all…

 

 

 

The Igloo, The Bats and The Snow Wars

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On January 15, 2013

I am crunched inside the vestibule of the back yard igloo. I barely made it in and only after Sasha squeezed into one corner of the half-collapsed construction (the igloo was built a couple of weeks ago just before Christmas). I think “Alice in Winterland” and I smile.

It’s been a while since I looked at snow from so up close. It’s quiet in here and beautiful. If I take Sasha’s lead I can be anything, no holds barred. If you’re not sure how to find a breather on any given day, try crawling into a homebuilt igloo. It will take you there.

I was told I need to bring a big block of snow inside. The group leader, age six and counting, is firm in his request. I asked why twice and I got the same answer: There is no time, just hurry it in and I’ll tell you later. “Yes sir” seems fitting but I don’t say it. You never know.

The igloo is not an just an igloo anymore. There’s an entire snow cave to be explored and there is no time since it’s getting darker as we speak. Our flashlight is not reliable, it keeps going in and out. It makes sense, we’ve been swimming in soft-packed snow for the last forty-five minutes or so.

Sasha digs inside the white walls looking for signs of life. I shine the light: Pale and yellow, the artificial light makes the inside of our snow cave look almost eerie. We breathe soft clouds of steam that resemble gentle genies, the perfect inhabitants of such a magic place. But there is no time for dreaming.

“Quick, block the entrance with the block you brought in!”
The imminence of something terrible stabs the inside of the snow cave.
Why? (I really make a bad second in command with all the “why”s I throw out…)
“Because of the blizzard, can’t you see it?”
But of course. I have to move swiftly. Entrance blocked, we’re now staring at each other with an ink of a smile. What now?

“The blizzard is over, now we have to get out and cover the entrance.” Need I ask? I succumb to being led. He knows what he’s doing.
We crawl out, I grab a big block of snow and cover the entrance.
“Good, now the bats won’t come out anymore.”
Bats? Really? Not that it matters. I do it.

It’s hard work, making sure no snow bats come out. Normally my nature-lover Sasha is bat-friendly but this is different. A new aggressive species perhaps? We cover two more holes and suddenly the focus changes. An army of snowmen is attacking us. Yep, just like that.

I know better than to ask “Why?”
Because they do. Sasha is on top of the igloo designing a defense plan while I’m in charge of building the army of snowmen. Well, someone has to, no? I plant a few near the fence and we take position. We fight with snow balls and laughter. Crawling in snow, I feel nothing but softness and warmth.

Deadlines await and dinner has to be cooked, but I don’t want this to end. Given the chance I’d sign up for another episode of quickly-happening dramatic events right now. I like not being in charge for a change and reaping the benefits of seeing my son’s imagination soar high and taking me with. It’s quite a view from up there.

“You know what’s going to happen tomorrow mom? The snowmen will be all over the back yard, lots of them…”
His wide-eyed delight tempts and rewards me at the same time.
Sign me up, I’m in. No ifs, ands or buts. Or whys.

Because It’s White and Cold And Beautiful

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On January 14, 2013

It’s snowing again but now we’re inside and it’s warm. I am making some cowboy coffee and mending my frozen toes and fingers. They are almost warm and not hurting anymore. Almost.

We went out to the lake today. Kamloops lake that is.  We haven’t been there since a sunny October afternoon and that day was bright and warm and the shores were decorated with gentle lapping sounds. Today the road here was but a thick smooth ribbon of whiteness, thick and dense like a heavy wool blanket laid on the ground. The shore was white and spreading far, a most perfect postcard…

We make our way to the very edge of lake stepping over logs tucked under blankets of snow. The cold bites the tip of my nose and the boys would agree. Their noses get new hues as we walk: first pink, then nose and cheeks turn red.

The gentle laps that were dancing in the fall are now frozen. Two feet from where we’re standing the ice becomes thin and unfriendly. The boys don’t need many warnings, they’ve met frozen waters before. Four steps further out there’s a fast moving stream, courtesy of Thompson river, that carries an all-size assortment of ice slabs into the lake. The whooshing sound of the floating ice is an eerie one. It’s cold and we need to get moving.

I put my boots on, clamp the skis on and as I slide around on the slightly hardened snow, I create my own frozen sound. It almost sounds like the whirring of a snow robot finding its way around. The boys shoot the bow and the arrows fly like long thin birds into the sky and then land most elegantly, burying their pointed metal heads in the snow. As it sometimes happens, the boys fight their way into learning how to take turns. Egos are sharper then the arrows’ heads and it shows. As it sometimes happens, the boys find a way to stop arguing.

In the distance – shooting arrow distance – a man walks his two majestic Husky dogs and I envy their furry coats that are perfectly impenetrable to the cold that’s nipping at toes and fingers, wool coats on both notwithstanding. It’s freezing cold and I vow to never take my mitts off or change my snow boots for ski boots ever in the middle of a snowy field.

We spend the rest of the time exploring, shooting the arrows, searching for arrows when they get lost in the snow and skiing further down the shores.The boys search for signs of prehistoric life (Sasha) and they plunge on a frozen giant puddle that shines a strange turquoise hue at us (Tony). “Mom, can you pull me around on the ice?” Like a human puck, he means, but I decline. Cross-country skis on ice spell disaster. The cold nips at every square centimeter of exposed skin and it does so to my fingers every times I take my mittens off to take a photo.

“Mom, look, this drift log is stuck in the ice!” Indeed it is, in the middle of the frozen turquoise pond. Sasha caresses it like it’s a frozen animal and it almost looks the part with the ruffled shredded bark all over its half-naked trunk. Sasha gathers some “nest material” and then we head to see an icy crevasse that opens like an icy mouth into one of the frozen rivulets tributary to the big lake.

Round lacy perfection with the gurgle of unstill water underneath: I take photos knowing for a fact that perfection of that kind never shows up in a photo. It’s the angle of the light at that particular moment, the sounds of the snow my boys are stepping on, Tony’s excitement as he kneels and looks into the ice cavern, the distant wailing of a train that plunges head-first into the snow all over just like the boys’ arrows a while ago… How do I catch all that in a photo, you tell me.

We try to walk across the frozen stream, just a couple of steps over a thick bridge of ice, but the light cracking sounds make Sasha back up. His big winter hat is slightly pushed sideways and his big eyes are glowing from above red cheeks. There’s no making him and I like that. He’s cautious. We walk further down where the we can cross in one step and he’s holding onto my pole the whole time. That keeps my heart warm, no matter how freezing cold the outside is: the mama bear soul coat. Backpack on my back, quiver with arrows on the side, a big piece of perfectly-shaped white driftwood in my arms, and Sasha on a stick. There’s no better way of bidding goodbye to the lake shores today.

It started snowing as we were making our way back to the car. We take a path through bushes that are subdued by cold and snow: tangles of rigid branches shaped like countless octopi sown all over the field. I make my way through snow, followed by the same mechanical whirring I started out with. I take a couple of more photos and with that my hands give in to freezing. It’s almost sudden and it feels revengeful. The mitts hurt as I put them back on, a useless act now because my fingers are stiff and hurting.

We unfroze slowly on the drive home. I can’t deny the beauty of snow just because it’s so cold but I wished for the hurting fingers to stop hurting. The fields on each side of the road were endlessly white, some studded with distant minuscule-looking cows and some with random patches of trees and bushes.

It’s been a good white afternoon. Cold too. As I type this, my fingers have returned to being warm and mine. Coffee is done with and tonight we’ll watch Shackleton. Antarctica expeditions have been the talk of the day for a week or so…

 

 

Are We Failing Our Children? (Part 1)

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On January 9, 2013

I didn’t find out about the shooting in Connecticut until late afternoon that Friday. It was one of those busy writing and child-attending days when you cannot wedge a second of anything else in. Also, I try to avoid excessive use of “news of the day” because I find the tone alarming and often unnecessarily so. This time is was alarming but real and beyond saddening.

I read and it touched me deeply. It didn’t make sense. It still doesn’t. Sasha is six years old and all those children were six too… I had trouble looking at his hands and face and chest without cringing with pain. How could someone…? It could not make sense and I do not expect it ever will. My heart goes out to anyone in any part of the world that has to go through that. There is no right way to say it and then again, saying it without learning from it is a capital sin.

Where to go from there? I know I have to make the best of every day and guide my children to do the same. I also have to protect them. From anything that could hurt them that is. That is by far the most daunting task I have ever faced with my sons. I have questions but no answers yet. And I do not mean at all protection against people with guns.

The aftermath of the shooting prompted discussions about how to keep our children safe. Physical safety was mostly discussed. More children know about stranger danger and sexual predators than ever before, and more and more understand that guns can kill so they should stay away from them. Some of the dangers are brought forward you’ll say. True, but that’s barely scratching the surface. Warned as they are about what’s lurking in the unknown of the world, our children are exposed to a lot more than we can possibly understand and review before hand. From the moment they wake up to the time they go to bed, they are immersed in a world that is as beautiful and exciting as it is dangerous.

Not playing queen of doom at all, just being realistic. Here are a few of the things that trouble me:

  • The world of internet is open to every child that is capable of handling a device with buttons or touch screen. Exploration of everything they want to explore is right there. If they want to that is, and they do. Their minds are green still, but they are privy to information that could and does affect them in ways we cannot yet fully understand. It is remarkable to see young minds mastering computer skills early in life, but is there a trade of some sort that we are not aware of and might regret later? I hope not. I fear the opposite.
  • Girls grade four and older wear make up (at school and in other circles) and clothes that should not be worn by children their age. Marketing campaigns targeting children treat them like they are already teenagers or young adults offering them lines of clothing and make-up that a few decades ago were regarded as inappropriate. Yet we have come to see it as normal or at least of keeping up with the times. It’s not. It is not prudishness that dictates we should be worried, but common sense. We are losing a battle we had not idea when and how it started. Insidiousness is its main assault weapon.
  • We see children get lost in a world of social media and while we can’t really grasp its ways completely, something tells us we should hang on to our children before they give in to the lure of “perfect” online friendships and scenarios that do not mirror real life in the least. But children are growing up in different times and they are fully immersed in it, there is no consensus among adults whether social media is a blessing or a curse. Are we losing our children to social media? Would boundaries make it better? What kind of boundaries and who will reinforce them when children are not at home? When internet accessibility outside the home is as obvious as the presence of the very air we breathe, do parents have much to say?

There is an odd feeling of losing our footing when it comes to many aspects of raising our children and we’re not sure whether we should try harder or how to go at it. Innocence lost too soon was the cry of many a generation, but every now and then I fear we are witnessing the approach of the last frontier by our children: Access to things and knowledge that are beyond their understanding (ours too) and beyond our means to protect them.

The impact of the shooting is Connecticut was a strong one for me: Parents there lost their very young children suddenly and unfairly. Their consolation, if any, is that there was nothing they could do at that moment to save them.

What’s going to be ours, should we need one down the road?…

Note on Notebooks and Beginnings

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On January 1, 2013

Gotta love new beginnings. New has an undeniable crispness to it that invites to promises and that’s why the second line in a conversation these days is about resolutions. But these resolutions don’t stick. Not with me anyway. I need some crisis to find my way towards resolutions that actually stick. I will make resolutions when they are needed, not just because one or more have to be invented.

Kind of like getting a new notebook when you don’t really need one. The first page is always perfect. The second not so much. Four pages later it’s getting a bit sloppy and you can’t find the right groove.You realize you did not really need the new notebook but could not resist the temptation of that first page. The crispness of a new beginning…

When you really need the notebook you make good use of its pages.

So here’s how it is: When (if) a particular crisis happens I shall come up with a resolution that will help me move on. Until then, there will be no new year resolution except for promising to not get a new notebook unless I really need one. Then I’ll make good use of its pages.

Here’s to a happy year, each day a crisp new needed page… Make the best of it!

 

So This Is Christmas

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On December 24, 2012

It was two days ago that I realized how I am not scared of this year’s Christmas anymore. Or apprehensive for that matter. The first Christmas in a different place can do that to someone like me, you see.

Unfamiliar places become familiar as you immerse yourself in them, and so has Kamloops since we landed here on September 1. It’s been a good and rich few months but Christmas still had a big cloud over it: It did not feel like Christmas and faking the joy just doesn’t do it for me. I painted like I usually do, I baked like I do (but had to convince myself to do it and thinking it will be worth the effort since the ginger-smelling house will summon some good Christmas thoughts) and got a nice (albeit spiky) tree. All like it should be. Yet not quite…

Two days ago I was heading downtown with snow falling so thick and plump you’d think the entire sky was draped very close to the ground. It makes you happy, you know, snow falling like that. There’s no hiding from snow flakes, they pinch your face, they hide in your hair, they tickle your nose and there is no better game than sticking your tongue out just to catch a few. Try it. Before you know it, the pre-Christmas pout is lost somewhere in the thick snow under round bushes that winter cold has cocooned into dormant blobs.

The downtown was white and slushy as one would expect on a day when snow kept falling and people kept throwing salt on the sidewalks to prevent bumps and bruises and broken limbs.

For half an hour or so I was tucked in the warmth’s of a nice lunch place owned by a dear friend and her mother eating soup and chatting about dreams and people we know, and snowy places where you have no other option but to count your blessings for being snowed in. We hugged and I was on my way to meet another friend who has seen my soul bruised from up close and has seen it dance with sparkling joy too, and embraced it all with kindness. Being the relationship minimalist that I am, there is no army of friends around me, but the ones I have come close to my soul wrapped in blankets of deep trust and I know, and they know it too, that they are there for the right reasons. It’s a two-way road, always.

We had coffee, laughs, shared memories and talked about our boys, about being mothers, about being us, about the places we would go to and about whether we ask too much of life. It started snowing again and we walked through snowy-slushy downtown and it looked festive all of a sudden.

I walked home and thought of Christmas again. Whiteness does wash worries and fears away, not sure how. I realized I was in a place where I have friends who laugh and cry with me, I have my boys who are trusting me to bring them a jolly Christmas, I have people who bring the world to me and show me the wonder of it when I am too teary or tired or frustrated that I fail to acknowledge it.

I am in a place that is as good to be in at Christmas as any other place, but being on the side of those who do not always see Christmas as an unconditionally happy time is a gift in itself. It softens one’s heart to match the softness of the very snow I’m stepping on. It’s good to see both sides of it so I can be grateful. Being grateful makes Christmas real. Like with every other part of my life, I’d take real over anything else any day.

May your Christmas be real and infused with gratefulness. Merriness  will find its way into it, somehow I came to learn that.

 

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