Daniela Ginta, Freelance Writer

Gratitude makes the journey better. Kindness, too.

Author: Daniela Ginta Page 79 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.

Why Half-Assed?

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On May 22, 2012

“In every deliberation, we must consider the impact on the seventh generation… even if it requires having skin as thick as the bark of a pine.” The Constitution of the Iroquois Nations

It’s venting day. Part of life. Before I go on, I’ll offer a disclaimer: If you expect me to be happy or calmly pensive or simply relate about things that make my heart jump and dance, well, there’s a lot of that in here, but occasionally I will rant and stomp my feet and I think my words, even though I might not put any in caps today, will be loud enough. OK, that’s done.

Today found me and the boys at the beach on a “Keep Vancouver spectacular” clean-up-the-beach mission. A mouthful, I know. Bear with me though. Rain pouring down like someone punched holes in the sky, we make our way to the beach and meet the others – kids and parents. We each get rubber gloves, tongs, giant tongs, lots of plastic bags that come individually wrapped plastic pouches and with a piece of cardboard inside to keep the good form of each of the plastic bag that have Glad written all over them. Bad form, in fact, as Captain Hook would say, and accurately so. Bad form.

After we get equipped we start our mission. The beach was clean, having been cleaned up just a couple of days ago as a lifeguard explained later on. No worries, the kids can still get a good lesson in how to care for the place they live in. Their city. A pouch in what we collectively call “the environment”. We find cigarette butts, a few pieces of old wet paper, some beer caps, two short pieces of string and a soaked and sandy tennis ball which we leave on a log for the next dog who forgets his toys at home. Barely a handful of garbage. Kids switch to a hunting mode and fight for every piece of garbage they could find. It’s a competition, you see, who collects the most.

We return to the parking lot bedraggled and rather empty-handed. At least ten bags lie on the grass. almost empty, except for two of them. One kid found a seagull skull, another a pineapple crown. It’s cold. Where will all the bags go, I ask. In the garbage bin. No, how about we dump the garbage from all in one bag and save the rest? Overruled. Too complicated or too dirty. Well, it’s garbage. The dump hates plastic, we know that by now yet we still send it that way. Come on. I’m behind a glass wall or something, no words make it through.

The kids are comparing the collected treasures, who got more – it was a competition after all – and they are given hats to remember the event. And the idea. The gratification factor? The “what’s in it for me” worm has to be satisfied or else. Now I’m bitter. They are given hot chocolate – a most welcome treat, but – GASP! in Styrofoam cups. Cruel joke (at the expense of what we collectively and absent-mindedly call “the environment”), irony, lack of proper planning, call it whatever we want but the message is the same: It’s wrong! It dirties the day, the mission and everything about it. Styrofoam is evil, one of the least biodegradable man-made materials out there, it leaks chemicals into hot drinks that happen to have a certain content of fat and the idea of drinking from them on the day when the kids fight over a small piece of biodegradable piece of wet paper like their lives depend on it, well, it’s wrong. WRONG on all levels and if you don’t think so please feel free to share your reasons. So my big fat screaming question is this: Why do we do it half-assed instead of going all the way. Why not use every opportunity to teach our kids about how to really do it the right way? Why not go for the least amount of stuff left behind, especially when you’re out to collect garbage left behind by others?

What then, you say, what can satisfy the finicky and frowning Miss Criticism? I won’t go overboard but I’ll say this:

  • There’s biodegradable plastic bags made by companies with a stellar environmental stewardship like Seventh Generation (no, no money for me here, I simply like the ideas they play with and the stuff they sell). Let’s buy those. A few only, making sure they’re fat and plump before heading to the dump.
  • There’s bring-your-own-mug-if-you-want-hot-chocolate kind of policy to enforce (an effort, I know, but are we not supposed to teach our kids that all things that are worthy come at a price. Are we not yet ready to teach them that the “have your cake and eat it too” is a lousy fallacy)
  • There’s opportunities like the one today to teach kids that it all starts with buying less, relying on less, and definitely not going for the one-use-only articles anymore. That’s so last century. A nasty joke.
  • Today was a good opportunity to teach them about plastic bags, the plague of today. We used so much plastic today it makes me gag. Why not? Why stop mid-sentence?

Rant over. Do as you please, but I invite you to leave a comment. If you feel like it of course.

A River To Have And To Hold. My Happy Place

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On May 17, 2012

The sand is warm and the water is all buttered up with a thick layer of afternoon sunshine. The boys and I. At the river. A warm-weather ritual, you see. With my head on a sun-bleached driftwood log I listen to the lapping sounds of the water, the whooshing of trees behind me and the boys. Do you know what the elves are saying, Tony? They set out to explore the banks and with them Sasha’s words hop like bunnies. Hiding in the bushes. I’ll never know what the elves are saying and it makes sense somehow that some things are only meant for a brother to hear. Fair enough. Elves world.

It was love at first sight, three and a half years ago or so. I was accompanying Tony and his Boy Scout group on a walk along the Fraser river banks. Sasha was just about bidding goodbye to his beloved blue sling. We both were. To the sling and so many other things with it. That late fall early evening did it. The musty air soaked mud, reeds, tall bushes of almost withered blackberries and the old wooden bridges. That thick ribbon of water draped over sandy banks was, unbeknownst to me, infusing every part of my being with a promise. To be back. And I did, the next summer. And the summers after. I never understood the meaning of homecoming parties until then. That summer was spent at the river. I wrote, I read, I thought and remembered. The boys played, swam in mud, explored the woods, got lost in there, proclaimed the river theirs and dressed old green river boulders in hot clay.

A huge barge pulled by a mighty small tug boat – it’s quite amusing to see those David and Goliath combinations – produces waves that tickle the air and make burrows in the sand near our feet. Two small mountains of sand separated by a bulldozer plopped on the barge. Is that sand, mom? Yes, it is. I know, it’s for a sand box, right? He knows. Sasha’s contentment to have found the perfect explanation is so solid is almost tangible. Tony smiles the big brother smile that knows about treasuring little brother sweetness. As elusive as dandelion fluff, I get to see it every now and then. Enough to know it exists. They explore the banks going so far I no longer see them. They come back with treasures of spines, big leaves and dry reeds. Can I eat this? Sasha holds a green button of a salmonberry. If  you’re ready to say that our lives seem to be eternally intertwined with the very berries you’d be right. Some unions we don’t choose but accept as such. Might as well. So he eats the berry.

I have to be near a river, I know that much now. Seeing to the other side is essential. The sounds and smell of the river make the world dissolve. It’s us in a cocoon and everything stands still. Planes land far away on the other side, a sign that there are other forms of life on this planet. The boys return from another expedition. Mom, I painted my hands yellow. Give me your hand. But of course. If it gets yellow it means you like butter. Random? No, he explains, because that’s a buttercup. Yeah, you do, mom. And look at my hands, I really like butter too. Can never fight kids’ logic. He drops the buttercup on the sand laughing and runs to catch up with Tony. We make a quick decision to skip Tony’s evening class and stay at river until later. I read, the sun plays, the boys dig for clay and paint imaginary elves with it. We make our way back to the car sailing through tall branches of berries. This is the place of answers. Because here’s where I had the guts to ask the questions. I still am. Answers are still pouring in. Pun not intended.

Salmonberry Shoots To Chew On. Happy Mother’s Day.

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On May 14, 2012

The salmonberry bushes stain the woods bright green and the sun-soaked dirt path through the old growth trees is a most comforting sight. Mother’s Day is a majestic bittersweet day. Why, you ask? It’s a day of assessment, even though I say it isn’t. I always question my ability to parent my boys the right way. Be kind, be strong, be accepting, don’t lose it, be there. No pressure. Be there. I am. Am I? The boys leave their bikes at home. Walk, mom, no bikes. Sure thing, I love that. It’s late, it’s when baby bats come out and baby humans go to bed. Mine go to bat school tonight then, it is decided. Chatting, hopping, elf-chasing boys are a treat. We snap the soft crunchy tops of salmonberry bushes, peel them hastily and eat them. Watery and barely sweet, they are part of our new spring ritual. We’ve learn of them last year from a First Nations elder at the Musqueam reserve. We trudge through the woods and somehow I know that the boys hold the bouquet of those make-believe late afternoon adventures of mine. In my parents’ backyard, soft grass and green bushes. Back then…

Walk, peel, eat. Try the shoots before they get woody. Meager amounts but somehow plenty. Can I eat the dark skin, mom? I guess… Sasha spits the whole thing out. Laughter. Tangy with a hint of late afternoon forest is better left in the dirt. But how do you know which ones are good to eat? I make up rules that seem logical enough and that’s the kind of confidence that motherhood instills. Mom, a banana slug! The boys roll him to the side of the road. For safety reasons, they explain. Covered in grit and pine needles, the banana slug is saved from big feet and hungry mouths but truth is, its own species would not recognize the poor fellow. Heartfelt intentions, I know that much. Boys are clumsy and beautiful. Thoughtful. Hopping, running, wondering. Questions. Don’t ever stop.

Tony talks about creatures he imagines, stories that have yet to be written. The dark elves are near... Sasha perks up his ears and they both breathe in the dense fragrant forest air. Quiet. Bird songs drop to the ground like rain drops. The boys sudden laughter roll through the soft grasses of my soul. Every now and then Tony looks at me  like he’s seeing me for the first time: Happy Mother’s Day. Mother. I am. Happy. The woods are a shell of warmth and I feel closer to the boys than everywhere else.

A small bouquet of purple spring bells wrapped in a red tulip petal. Gift from Sasha on the way to the woods. I put in my pocket so we can hold hands. Later on I notice the purple bells dropped. Trailing behind like bread crumbs they must be. Hansel and Gretel, you know the story? That way I can always find my way back to the jumps and laughter my boys leave behind. How much will I miss their elf-chasing and ferret hopping? I will.

Running creeks, backswimmers and then the way out. It’s been almost two hours. They did it! Happy Mother’s Day! Dawdling, tiredness, whining. Not a shade of inadequacy. I asses myself often and sometimes I get the passing grade. Sometimes I fail. And fall. And get up again. Not today. The toughest thing, the most profound and beautiful transformation of self into a gentle dragon. And the other way around. Fire-breathing begone.

We eat, watch some Peter Pan, hug. Hug. Can I have one more? And one more? Clingy? We all are. My heart has two pairs of legs. Sometimes they kick the ground, sometimes they kick each other, sometimes they kick me and other times they downright dance. Motherhood means learning to walk and run and dance on all four legs. You’d think it’s a given. Sometimes it is, and then it’s not. Grateful, humbled. Happy Mother’s Day.

Give a Cookie, Take a Cookie

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On May 8, 2012

It’s almost 10 o’clock at night. Long day. I stop by the neighborhood grocery store to get some stuff for breakfast tomorrow. Lunches for the boys too.
The woman at the till knows me, she always asks how I am and she’s never satisfied with just my words. She scans my face when I say “Good.” A blunt answer. She tilts her head. “Really?” … Busted. “No, not really if you have to know. Had better ones.” She smiles. You don’t have to keep it in… Even though I can, I’m ready to tell her. The self-pity cloth is a heavy one, never liked it much and I am too proud to wear it in plain view.  Not today it looks like. Some people just know to ask and it does not feel like self-pity to say it as it is. Just real. One day we might talk some more. For now it’s the looks. I know, been there… hang in there, some days suck and that’s that. The girl from the other till hears us, there’s barely anyone else in the store. “Tough day?” she asks. I nod. Full admission. Somehow I feel not exposed but taken care of. We know each other, short exchanges between warm croissants and vanilla yogurt. Funny how we anchor ourselves to people that way. We move through places and times anchored so storms like the one today will break their ugly claws before hurting. It feels like that.

Exhale, shoulders drop, no more triple pleated armor clonking too close to my head. It gets loud sometimes, you know. I’m ready to leave the store now. Good night, it was good that I came in. I mean it. Wait, don’t go yet.

“Where are the cookies? Get the cookies!” Till forgotten, the girl runs to the safe where they keep wallets and such. And cookies, it turns out. A box of cookies grows in front of me. Smiles. Have one. Chocolate-wrapped cookies. They feel soft and buttery. Refined sugar and raw thoughts tumble into my body to be taken apart. I take a bite and the heavy afternoon drops on the floor breaking into a million pieces. I hear the loud bang and the two women hear it too! Anytime you need one… I know that, I’ll remember that.

One day soon we’ll have coffee by the tree where they take their break, it’ll be good. With cookies, my treat. Chocolate-wrapped or not.

 

Of Boys. Mine

By

On May 3, 2012

I walk through today’s spring and my mind curls around thoughts of my boys. I need shelter.

Today is a day when I have to remind myself of the magic of boys. You see, everyday life with my boys is like squeezing handfuls of stars.

There’s sparkles all over, there’s laughter and screams and there’s fighting. Manners begone, some days cannot carry such load, it’s like walking on a tight rope with a basket of apples on your head.

Could you, would you?

Boys don’t.

The know-it-all ones call it high energy. Whatever. Piling in thick fat heaps is this desire to give them what I think matters most.The courage to be real and speak their words, the courage to live their truth. How is that done?

I want them tall and strong, yet humble and loving. I want them to be quiet when tears are being cried, to listen.

I want them to open their arms and understand. I want them to ask for what’s theirs and know how to draw that line in the sand that will keep them baddies away. I want them to trust and be bold. I want them to love loneliness as much as they love people.

“Mom, can someone walk through fire and come out unburned?”… No, fire burns.

No, wait, you can. People do it. How do they?

I want my boys to be self-sufficient, I want them to know to say “enough” and “no.”

I look back at all the times I gave them the anti-meaning of both. Guilt seeps through the cracks of my heart. When and how does one learn to be a parent?

We parent ourselves through the birth of our children. We become children with them once again while wearing big people shoes. Noisy, clumsy. Sometimes we need hugs and reassurance as much as they do.

No one can know more about the child cradled in your arms than you do. Your child. Yet inadequacy takes over ever so often.

What children do or don’t do does not align with what’s expected of them. Then what?

When do we start pushing them towards the barren of places of “you must fit the mold” afraid they’ll lose the start? Is it fair to push them if the time is not right yet? Not ripe yet…

I’m ready to fight this one. Raw instincts fight back. When do we tell them to let go of themselves so they float like the rest of them? Why? Swim with your head in the water so you’ll go the distance. Don’t look up or to the side, you might see things, you’ll fall behind. You can’t. I won’t say it.

Lagging when there’s no room for laggers is a serious offense they say. Head in the water, catch up, no more playing games and wondering at things.

Still, I won’t say it. Should kids be allowed to lag and look at all things wondrous and magic? It is in the eyes of the beholder, you’ll say. That’s exactly the point. How are we to know what touches one’s heart and makes the mind expand.

Here’s to them not getting lost along the way. Lost from themselves, from magic, from being boys.

Here’s to them knowing when they’re ready to jump and having the courage to do so.

Here’s to them knowing when they cannot turn around and walk away, here’s to them knowing when they should walk away. To them knowing they have choices.

Here’s to me being there for them. And here’s to them knowing that. “Mom, can we play that game where I’m trying to get away and you try to stop me? No, not like that. Yeah, like that… Now you have to let go…” Trust. Knowing when they’re ready. Knowing they will be.

The secret, our secret, as I came to realize is that when my boys fill the air with laughter and tumbles their voices sound clearer.

I can hear them loud and clear when I laugh and tumble with them. Even when they whisper. I whisper back. They hear me.

My boys. Never lost. Just boys.

I Have What I Need (How To)

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On April 29, 2012

Some of what I have, in some particular order (but not spending too much time on being too particular, since it is a very subjective matter to begin with): family, friends, health, ideas, achievements, opportunities, objects. I don’t own much yet what I own is more than what many people around the world would ever have. I’m saying this with a profound sense of gratefulness and humility. So why am I sometimes looking at what I don’t have and make that the compass of my traveling through life? A question that entails a cheeky, rather insufficient answer: because I’m human. Because the human side of me will always have its eyes on the next thing. It tends to anyway.The more unattainable the bitterer the chagrin. It’s not about a consumerist plea, that I know I am not.

“I want to make a smoothie…” was this morning’s request. A fair and yummy request you’d have to agree. Some fruit was available, some was not. Not in season or pesticide-laden means that mom won’t allow. One of the boys choose to use what was available, the other one sulked. The smoothie was delicious. And then I saw it clear as daylight. As long as you have something, you have what you need. You could have more but if more is not to be had, whether now or later, sulkiness and bitterness and weeping over imaginary spilled imaginary milk makes no sense. It won’t brighten the landscape.

Lesson of the day. If I need it, I’ll go for it. When not having something hurts enough then I should try get it. Or not. It’s a choice. Bitterness as a state of being makes one weak and joyless. So I’ll avoid that. I have what I need, it takes stopping and assessing what’s within reach. That’s what I need. People are never happy when they keep wanting what they don’t have and ignoring what they already have, I explained to the boys. Not arguing for death of dreams at all, but rather for how to choose the right basket for the eggs one plans to get. There’s only that much time to do it all and do it right.

The human mind is a wonderful tool of both joy and deception. Ours to steer. To have what you need is to know what you have. Practicing awareness. I can add that to my daily schedule.

Because I Don’t Have Time, That’s Why

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On April 28, 2012

Not sure what did it. The shells perhaps. So many of them in my kitchen, bathroom, bedroom. Hallway too, and you can barely call it that. It’s a small place and that is good. But there’s too many things in it. Shells get dusty. I don’t have time to clean them and dusty annoys me. Then there’s rocks. Many, still. Too many. One day I’ll have a small house made of driftwood, rocks and shells. But I’ll cross that bridge when I’ll get there. Then there’s the many objects, from toys to potential garbage items that Sasha collects. There’s toys and books and tiny objects that the boys might never ask about again, they might never touch again and yet they’re in the house. I sort, clean them up when they grow in piles that can no longer be tamed. Every time I clean and sort I think “there’s too many.” Every time I do so I realize how much time goes into an activity that will be repeated again. And again. And again. To no avail. “But Mom, I need that.” They almost never do. Now I know.

The stack of books by my bed is also dusty. Another kind of dusty. Sheer desperation. Because I barely get to move read them. Time is short. Wasted on so many activities that gulp it hungrily just for kicks. Pirates, time guzzlers. Like feeding rats. They’ll steal food anyway and they’ll keep multiplying. That’s what it feels like. Not worth it.

Having moved recently I went through rivers of objects, let go of many but many came with and many others have come to us since. Time gulpers. They all need attention of some sort. That means time. Mine mostly. What’s really worth hanging on to? Not much in the end. Everything is temporary and there are so few things we really need. So much we think we need but we don’t. The thought that surfaces in my brain every now and then is this: if there’s a fire, what will I be saving? The boys. And my computer if i get to it, but I won’t hold my breath on this one, I can always start anew. The boys. That’s it. Food for thought.

Keeping the necessities and some extras for now. Books. Some rocks. You’d have to see to understand why I keep them. Same for some shells. I even let go of some bracelets, shells of times past. Some I keep. Leaves and petals, gifts from my boys. Long fingers of lazy hot summer days dripping sweetness. I’m keeping those. And the photos, time imprints. Letters.

Getting rid of time guzzlers for now. Making time. Making it count. Unsubscribed from newsletters, deleted emails that I was saving for when I’ll have time. Nothing but more time rats. They chew. Juicy long hours become seconds. Short and dry. So long then. I am making time.

Yes, it must have been that stack of books by my bed that did it. Glad they did.

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