Daniela Ginta, Freelance Writer

Gratitude makes the journey better. Kindness, too.

Tag: gratefulness Page 9 of 10

Things I’ve Learned In The Year We Bid Goodbye To

By

On January 4, 2015

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

(Originally published as a column on December 26th, 2014 in the AM News)

It’s always a good thing, to draw the line and sum it all up; good and bad, all that was thrown our way to learn from.

You’re never done learning, that much I know and there is a subtle irony that hides behind every ‘I know enough’ that comes out of hiding as soon as you utter the very words. Some sort of a divine punishment if you will, an extra measure of humbling which we all benefit from.

December came to us with the said measure and more, as the main drain pipe in our house broke open and thus created a different kind of hot springs right in our basement. Not only that, the entire mouse population seemed to take shelter from the cold weather right in the house.

We sailed through some challenging weeks of no toilet close by, no shower or laundry on the premises with as much dignity as we could muster. Mouse traps kept on doing their thing while we pondered upon the simple things that were out of each at that time, such as a running toilet need. Too easy to forget and too unfair to do so, given the continual reliance on it.

As the month ended we took off to the coast to spend Christmas with family and friends, not before stopping for a few days on one of the Southern Gulf islands where we left time at the ferry terminal and all we took with us to the small cabin tucked in the woods was a collection of snuggles and lazy mornings to use as we saw fit.

It reminded me of what’s truly precious: time with our loved ones. It’s easy to forget, because life tumbles fast over our heads and spins thoughts into a mound of worries and milestones and things to do that becomes hard to manage and a time thief of its own kind that prevents us from noticing simple joy.

I was reminded of this most precious gift of time and love as my father passed away this summer, after a long suffering that lasted eight years. Memories of my parents – both passed away now – abounded in the last months and pushed me more towards witnessing my own boys’ journey through life, not letting a day go by without acknowledging the wonder of it all.

My oldest is saying goodbye to childhood and entering teenagehood. There is much to see and know about the world for him, and as for me, this is yet another opportunity to witness all of that alongside him and his younger brother, who is becoming an older child.

I was there for all the steps that take a child from reading out letter after letter to reading sentences and then books. It still charms me to see him curled on the sofa with a book much bigger for his hands to hold but not big enough for his mind to open up to…

We discuss matters of large worldly importance and the oscillation between acting all grown up and still clinging to being a young child is not in the least annoying though it is puzzling. I’ve learned to see all of that with a mind that understands the inexorability of time.

If I can think of one think that this year has taught me that would be that it all goes away in a blink. That time and the consequences of our actions, in how we spend our time, in how we earn and spend our money, in how we give and receive – everything from love to time to a listening ear when needed, it all happens in a blink.

This year I’ve learned to never take things or people for granted. You could say I added it to my previous belief that I shouldn’t. But life has it in such a way that we forget.

Nothing is as permanent as we want it to be. Nothing stays the same, but evolves, and often not in ways that are predictable or that fit with our plans. Life doesn’t wait, and if you’ve come to see it once, you may forget but you will be easier reminded of it all once you stop for a moment to observe life’s tumbles.

May that we all do in the year to come, may that we all come to know that what matters is what we have the least of nowadays, and that is time with those who fill our hearts with joy, and a world that we can breathe and exist without fear of skies darkened by our own reckless actions.

May we be aware that we will have, once again, 365 chances to make it count, and we have the power to choose to make it so. Happy New Year!

A Story Of Waste And Inexcusable Indignities

By

On December 16, 2014

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

Food The article was initially published as a column in the Armchair Mayor News on December 12, 2014. 

Our garden was lush and plentiful this year. We had lettuce since early spring, we had green onion, radishes, kale, chard, and herbs. Later in the summer we had carrots and potatoes and corn. We shared lots with friends and still had enough to freeze.

All that we had was grown on less than half of our backyard, so it was only normal that I kept fantasizing about growing food on the rest of it. If less than half could feed us so well, how about a whole back yard?

The work was hard, no question. Incredibly pleasurable though and rewarding. On any given summer morning I was greeted by an army of grasshoppers guarding the corn, pumpkins, tomatoes and potatoes. Hopping as their nature prescribed, they were a sign that my organic garden was well liked by other critters like butterflies and ladybugs.

The boys helped out as well and they loved eating straight from the garden. They learned a lot too; gratefulness most of all, and the wonder of a seed becoming a full grown plant ready to provide for us.

They learned the value of food and understood why throwing it out uneaten, as waste, is unacceptable. It happens more than we would expect, or admit.

I remember seeing piles of fruit and vegetables discarded on Granville Island in garbage bins, a stark contrast with the perfect produce offered inside where everything looked nothing short of perfect.

I felt slightly uncomfortable thinking that we, the consumers, shape that perfect offer with our buying habits; which, in turn, have been shaped and conditioned by crafty marketing teams over the years.

The fallacy of that way of thinking and acting is that produce is not perfect. In our garden we got to see dwarf veggies, contorted carrots and a misshaped pear here and there. Nature is not perfect. But they were all perfectly edible, no matter the shape.

I remember when I was little and among others, I would go get the fresh eggs every day. I liked seeing them round in the straw nests and I would always inspect them carefully. Some were misshapen and I would ask my dad why. He would shrug, not bothered in the least. It’s how they come out, he would say. It made sense. Nature is not perfect.

Fast forward a few good years; I was at Simon Fraser University having lunch with other grad students and while no meal stood out, this particular one did. One of my friends was ready to eat a peach and seeing a bruise on one side, she said a loud ‘yuck’ and sent the unfortunate fruit straight into the garbage bin.

Many years later, the memory of the plunging peach is still with me. It stopped me from throwing food out every time, and it made me shake my head every time I see hungry people. I tried often to do my part and provide food for the less fortunate, yet thoughts related to food and waste are relentless. How could there be?

There is enough food lying around for no one to go hungry no matter what their budget is like, even if there is no budget at all.

There is too much food going straight into the garbage because of perfection standards that we should no longer entertain; it is insulting towards those who do not have any food, and it is insulting towards nature itself. We cannot give to food banks with one hand and throw away food with the other.

If you have doubts about food waste, just talk to the produce clerks. If the store is small enough you might see the old stuff bagged up for sale at a fraction of the price, a good solution to prevent waste. In big stores though, everything unsightly or old goes into the garbage.

A recent report pointed out that Canadians throw out up to 50 per cent of the food they buy. A few years ago I would rolled my eyes at the numbers, but not anymore. I went to one too many dinner parties or events where the leftovers were discarded and sent straight to the landfill.

With Christmas just around the corner, the thought of food and food waste comes back with a vengeance. How much food will be wasted, how many people will go hungry or eat low quality food that comes from a can rather than fresh, albeit slightly bruised produce that is better nutritionally than anything canned that might or might not come with added chemicals.

There is no simple answer to the food dilemma. Until we all decide that bad food is not the bruised or misshapen fruit, or even the ones that reach the best before date (think perfectly edible stuff like frozen food, dry food or yogurt that go a day or two over the date), we will have inexcusable indignities in food distribution, and we will have mountains of food piled up in landfills instead of people’s plates.

As for the truly bad food, some of it genetically modified, or the one that we insist on growing with loads of toxic pesticides so that we can have it all: lots of it to choose from, available all year round, cheap enough to throw out and tasteless enough to not feel bad about it anyway… well, the old ‘you are what you eat’ should be warning enough.

If less than half of a cultivated back yard can provide enough fresh produce to feed a family of four over the summer and well into the fall, sure people can grow enough food, healthy food that is, to have everyone fed and no bits thrown out unless they go into the compost.

With food becoming more expensive as we go (have you noticed?) it’s impossible not to ask why. Why, when there is enough to feed us all, and if there isn’t enough, then there shouldn’t be any in the garbage.

Toilet With A View (Or What Puts It In Perspective…)

By

On December 12, 2014

In Kamloops, Life Stories

ViewYou’d be right to say at this point that the project “Life in an old house’ failed miserably, yet I would object to classify it as such. Nothing is failing when learning happens and learning happens all the time. So what is failure then? A debate for a next post.

For now, back to the house. We’ve learned a few things, and we’ve learned the value of a bucketful of water, inside and outside the pipes. Speaking of water, it’s been pouring in Kamloops lately, courtesy of global warming.

I’ve always loved rain, so I never thought I’d say this, but here it goes: in this case, rain makes it worse, much worse. Not that I do not like hills enveloped in mysterious fog, or the sound of raindrops. I do. But old houses on hills turn mucky when it’s wet outside. And they turn muckier when the toilet is located out of doors. We’ve come a long way since the days of using outhouses exclusively. Without making use of any visual aids (you’re welcome) I can attest to having gained some perspective on the unseen side of human waste. The thought of seven billion of us leaving our mark that way makes me nauseous. Ignorance is bliss, indeed. Sigh. Repeat.

Laundry is done off-site (thank you to all those who have allowed us to trail through their houses hugging laundry baskets) and because it’s off-site we are discovering the reality of well used everything. Socks rations anyone?

Washing dishes has become the epitome of fast and furious. The fast part is supplied by whoever washes the dishes, while ‘furious’ comes from the pipes around the house that gurgle menacingly as water runs down the kitchen drain. As if to threaten us with a gurgled ‘Don’t make me’. The toilet especially. It’s like an army of angry creatures drumming a threat from deep in the basement. It can make grown people shudder, that much I know. And it can make them hurry with the dishes.

As an added bonus, it makes cooking slightly more challenging (what’s one more when we have so many already) as I am now calculating what is the minimum number of plates, bowls and cutlery that can be used without adding too much pressure on the pipes. Literally. No more mindless usage. Innocence lost or found  awareness? The latter of course.

Shower-wise, we’ve gotten closer to home. Our neighbour next door who is building two impressive futuristic homes, has graciously handed over the key to one of the apartments so we can have full use of the washroom. He noticed the outside plastic contraption and wondered whether we had water. We do, we told him, we just don’t dare to use it much.

As for the impending move… yes, we are getting ready to move a second time in three months, boys, Lego boxes, rocks, plants and all. We are sifting through boxes and wondering (again) what can we let go of (rocks and seashells come with). When on a hill, you better mind the steps. More so when they are glazed in muck, a simple fact of life I learned when moving in when a muddy step turned me feet up while holding a box. The box made it without a dent, and the bruise on my back cleared in a few days. So there, lesson learned.

So you see, no failure issues whatsoever. We’ll put these three months in the ‘remember when’ category and we’ll laugh about it down the road. We are doing it already.

And the view is nice indeed. You see all the way to Rayleigh and past it as you get in and out of the outhouse. All you have to do is keep away from the awning that drips liquid stalactites down your back. And if it happens, take it as a reminder: this is real, all of it and; shitty or not, today comes only once so make the best of it.

 

Letters From The Old House

By

On December 9, 2014

In Environment, Kamloops, Life Stories

WhiteFive days ago… It is snowing softly and the river is carrying ice floaties towards Kamloops Lake like a train that never ends. It’s peaceful. On a day like this I’d be thinking cross-country skiing and boys tumbling down slopes full of wild, dry grass dressed in thick fresh snow.

This morning I am secretly rejoicing that the lack-of-toilet pee spots in the front yard by the pee-tree will be covered by fresh snow.

It’ll be a while until the toilet will be fixed it seems. Think it absurd, I do too. Uncertainty is never good, yet when you have to pick after kids just like you do after puppies it becomes personal. Yes, a pun, what better time to throw one out.

We’ve been running to coffee shops for a few days now, and continue to be grateful for every flushing toilet. A miracle of technology. Chuckle if you want to; I know it doesn’t compare to the shuttle that was sent around the world early this morning, but trust me, a running toilet makes things alright.

On the mouse front, there seems to be none left on the premises.

Three days ago… I found the 11th mouse in a milk bottle at the bottom of seldom used cupboard. Mummified; the smell gave it away. Faint enough to mislead, unless you put your face in (nose included) looking for a jar. I did. A tough, cruel death by all means, inflicted by its own curious murine nature.

You may be now wondering about the tenth mouse, since we only had nine at the last blog count. He got caught in one of the traps our kitchen is laced with at the moment (it was a quiet subdued celebration, and a few shudders thinking some may still be around). Which brings us to a second question from you: do any of us ever get caught? Well, I almost did once while sweeping. The noise is enough to make one jump; every time.

As for the mummified mouse, the discovery can take your mind off lacking toilets for a bit. Until the smell clears away to make room for others issues at hand. We’re still showering in the go, ditto for laundry and pray that the toilet will not back up unexpectedly. Talk about the straw that breaks the camel’s back… It’s a tired, old camel, let’s just leave it at that.

We have decided to move. No more views of the river and the trees hemming its shores, projecting slim silhouettes in the water; no more guessing the weather based on the shade of the water or the way clouds arch over mountains, no more nighttime gentle blinking all the way into the distance and for me, no more wondering about a lone soft light in the middle of nowhere near the grasslands… an isolated cottage, who knows. The small mysteries we carry with; the answers are not as important as the mysteries itself – but that is the story of another day.

No crying over spilled milk, or moving in this case. We will still have a view and we will discover its mysteries and beauty. The very bright side of it is, of course, a flushing toilet and no setting off mouse any traps on the way to it in the middle of the night. Clouds and trees can be found anywhere, rainbows too, if only we find the time to look.

An old plumber named Bud came by this afternoon and spent a commendable amount of time in the basement. He surfaced with a long face. He left, like many before him, disillusioned, and we almost felt like consoling him. I also admit to feeling slightly envious thinking Bud will go home to a flushing toilet, shower and laundry. We did too, except that they all belonged to friends. Gratefulness reinvented.

One day ago…  A fresh team of plumbers paid us a visit. They came hopeful, they left disillusioned. Again. I knew that would happen. They tried and tried, they brought machines and cameras and skills. They took them with when they left, handing over an invoice and the farewell we have become accustomed to – ‘we are so sorry’. We are too, possibly seasoned by many days of dashing for toilets and making fun of the absurdity of it all, which makes people feel even sorrier for us. The silver lining? Knowing half the plumbers in town. Just ask.

Mice count is still at 11; traps are still set.

Today. After perusing over a few unreliable models, we have capture: A nice portable toilet is parked by the side of the house, welcoming weary inhabitants in its plastic arms. The boys find it funny, we all find it useful and, I am sure, the neighbours find it intriguing.

We are learning the meaning of those simple things we cannot do without, or we could, but with added effort. Like toilets.

We will start packing soon for our impending move and that will be good, as long as no mice jump in the boxes. They are amazing athletes; but you already knew that.

 ***

TodayToday was a balmy day in Kamloops, so unexpectedly balmy at almost two digits over zero that toilet and jumpy rodents worries faded away to make room for the uncomfortable question: is this because of climate change? If not, it may just be an occasional and fascinating Chinook; yet if it is due to climate change… no amount of plumbing can fix that…

I am hoping it’s the Chinook and the cold will return.

Rain draped over faraway hills and it dripped onto our front steps, and muck prevailed. There was a short-lived rainbow arched over the north shore and I was reminded of simple beauty. Of the world that we have and we have to hold onto. Of how short-lived everything is, worries and all, and how, at the end of the day, toilet or not, is what you make of it.

There will always be a bigger worry casting shadows over today, it’s part of the package. Often times we look back and we say ‘Give me mice and plugged drain pipes over this, any day…’ because we are, every now and then, humbled by the weight of life, by the way it takes bites out of us. It always does, and that’s what make it worthwhile; learning to cope, learning to hope, learning to say ‘It will be OK, it has to…’

At the end of the day, it’s what you make of it. It really is…

The Reason We Are Not Oblivious To Magic

By

On December 3, 2014

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

Initially published as a column in the AM News on Friday, November 28, 2014.

Beauty to live byToday’s early morning sky had a streak of blue I had never seen before. It was a blue that you pat yourself on the back when you get it by mixing watercolours; it was that beautiful and unique.

Except that someone else mixed the colours this morning. Not only that, it made sure to sift some sunlight on the north shore hills, a patch of brightness splattered here and there, as if some celestial egg was broken over those spots for a reason.

The only reason I could think of was to see. Not the whole landscape, which habitual browsing takes care of but often gets thrown at the back of the mind, but the small patches that stop you short, making you curious and grateful at the same time.

Curious to see more of the hills many times before, because today the sun is shining just so, making you wonder if you’ve ever realized just how pretty that particular slope is… Gratefulness is an automatic response your mind comes up with when you look long enough. I did.

Two hours later I took a walk with my oldest. He remarked on the murky waters of the Thompson River and the white shores hemmed with sand. By then, the cloud curtain had been pulled aside and a whole hill shone white and pretty. Snowy paths snaked their way behind unknown knolls and I wished to be there. I wished for the sunlight to keep on doing its thing many hundreds of years and beyond.

You could say it was one of those moments, which I am grateful to not be oblivious to.

There was something simple yet remarkable about it all: a growing boy, us walking and seeing the world around, a train going clickety-clack pulling its load through town, the light that kept on shifting revealing hill after hill and the realization that the world is changing, every day, and every hour of the day, and unless we make an effort to see it, we won’t. Unless we make an effort to keep it, we won’t…

Everything evolves, the slogan goes. Progress pushes some items out of sight to make room for new ones, and the phenomenon that promotes them. Yet the sun shone on the north shore hills way before progress was accounted for in the way we think of now, and the river kept shifting from murky to blue-green and clear since before this place had the name we know of.

I want my sons to grow up thinking of that as they go about their day. There are no ordinary moments in a day as far as nature is concerned, no matter how menial the daily activities become as we grow accustomed by them.

Like the walk to and from school every day with my youngest. One morning we woke up to snow and we walked through a blizzard that spat snowflakes into our eyes, on our cheeks and down our backs if the scarf got loose. You laugh yourself silly, because what else can you do…

Another morning we witnessed a most spectacular sunrise: a ribbon of sunlight, fresh and bright, rolling down from thick clouds to the bottom of the hill. Everything was shrouded in thick grey fog, save for the patch that looked like golden cotton candy. We were both mesmerized.

I wondered how many people got to see it that day and how many before us, and if they did, did they step out the next morning knowing that there will be something else to see, equally spectacular or more…

WorthyOne of the biggest accomplishment as a parent and guide to life as it happens for my sons, is to have them point out the ordinary bits of everyday life that steal their eyes and hearts. Leaves that are too beautiful to leave behind even as they lay shriveled up by incoming cold weather, grey mornings that have a mysterious feel to them, the ever so perfectly shaped rock that sits among many on the shores of a lake yet somehow it stands out, the occasional mirror-like surface of the river and the miracle of snowflakes. They point them out, and I know what touches their hearts the most. They know of mine.

And then, there is the magic of reminders that are as poignant as they are unique. One night, past midnight and way too close to the witching hour, we heard noises in our sloped back yard. Boys sound asleep cozily nestled in warm beds, we stepped outside.

The next moment I was staring at a beautiful doe. She stared back. Everything was quiet. She walked towards the neighbour’s yard and before swiftly jumping over the low fence, she looked one more time.

We walked up a couple of steps and under the sleepy apricot tree was a buck; not moving a muscle, he looked at us, and he looked towards where the doe went. For a few short seconds we stood, species boundaries notwithstanding, united by the simple magic of being there when no one else was. I could see his breath and I felt privileged.  Never so close… never so magical.

I felt like an intruder, but witnessing their graceful presence reminded me of the big world we should strive to keep alive. It’s a gift like no other.

Perhaps magic is, after all, not only what lies out there but the fact that we choose to see it and that we are, sometimes, given the amazing gift of seeing it. It is not without purpose that that happens. It’s the only way we can find reason to keep it alive; sunlit snowy paths, nighttime deer and all…

Life Is Only A Part Of It All

By

On June 26, 2014

In Life Stories

Passing onThe mood is somber today. The two guinea pigs that squeaked their way into our lives for the last four years died suddenly, one after another.

Digging a grave, no matter how small, is not a small thing. It just isn’t.

But I had to. One last night and one this morning. We chose the spot under the lilacs, it’s out of the way and lilacs are suitable guardians.

The ground was soft at first but then it turned rock hard. All I could think of was digging a real grave, it’s overwhelming in all possible ways. It was a flurry of convoluted feelings that ruffled my mood for a long time.

You can’t think further than that, there is a lot of murky stuff you don’t know how to approach. Life, as real as it gets. Life and death are the opposite image of each other, continuations of each other, complementing each other.

Every day, all around us, life grows roots in what was alive yesterday and dead today. It feeds the next blooms, it powers the next laughter and it reminds of the only thing we hold solidly at all times: the moment we’re in. A short, revealing ownership that carries us into what’s next.

I dig, we lay the piglets in, the boys cover and we hug. It makes everything easier. They had a good life, we all agree. And passed the five-year-old mark, which many say it’s a good age for a guinea pig. We made small crosses out of wood and twine, the boys wanted to.

A few steps away the garden abounds with green; growing, from the roots up. Continuation.

Pumpkins are in bloom, bright yellow, small suns staring into the big one in the sky. By afternoon, the flowers will start to wither, they only last a few hours… Right next to them, spinach, lush and green and loved by the piglets. Dandelion leaves, spinach and peppers were among their favourites.

The boys sighed… Now we have no more pets.

Indeed. I cannot be persuaded to buy any from the pet store and they don’t want that either. Hosting the piglets (SPCA-adopted orphans) made us think of how unfair it is to the animals. All the cuddles in the world and vitamin drops do not make up for freedom. A golden cage is still a cage.

Ours were not big on cuddles though. Just like bunnies, they are skittish creatures, guinea pigs, and like to be among their own kind. And who can blame them. Being prey animals, they also hide their sickness to not be vulnerable to predators, the ones who know write. It’s sad to know that. It means their instincts are still within, so the longing for freedom must be too… It’s unfair to restrict that.

The day moves along. I tend to the garden, the boys pick the slim strawberries harvest and they munch on baby carrots. I open a pea pod and they eat the bright green blobs. They’re sweet just like that, out of the pod, we’ll have some more for dinner.

The pods go in the compost, to die and live at the same time.

Life continues, it’s the circle that has no beginning and no end. Today we caught a glimpse of it, and we got to feel, again, how it rattles the illusion of permanence.

Once again, I am grateful for reminders, they are but soul dwellings where I stop and look to what’s behind and what’s in front of me. Life: to see, to heed, to be part of. We are.

 

My Dad, My Poems and The Old Typewriter

By

On June 16, 2014

In Life Stories

(An older post, but just as new in expressing my immense gratitude to my Dad, who typed my very first poems on an old typewriter…Because you can never say ‘Thank you’ enough times…)

The albatross...Every day that he did not have to go out in the field, for work, I mean, my Dad would come home with a few typewritten pages. His work stuff that he got to type that day.

There was something miraculous about those typed words. Even the paper smelled differently. And my Dad’s fingers always had some ink on them.

Do you know the old typewriters that go clank clank when you jump with your fingers from one round landing pad to another? Letters come out one by one like odd but cute hollow critters, all lined up in a neat row on the paper and then when you get to the end of the row you pull on this lever with a swift move and the ink tank moves all the way to the left and you start again. Clank clank.

If the paper is too soft then each letter is blotchy and as it sits there all embarrassed by its lack of grace and the big mess around it you feel like you want to pet its round hollow head and say it’s OK little odd thing, you’re on paper, you’re where you should be, that was the point.

Because somehow even though you’re still a kid, the fascination that comes from seeing your words on paper is beyond all imperfections. And when all the words you’ve ever written are handwritten seeing them typed for the first time is a mighty leg-shaking experience. A good one.

The pages my dad holds in his hand today are sprinkled with my words. My poems and short stories that he typed that day. He likes them he says.

I know he’s not just saying it. By the way he looks at me I just feel these solid stepping stones of encouragement that he lays out there for me to walk on and take off flying when I’ll feel like it. I had told my Dad that I want to send some poems out to a few contests.

I am grade 10 and have been writing for quite a while now. Too long, my sister would say, let’s play instead. Up in my quince tree, writing away about the world around and the one inside. Poems, stories, my journal. I am part of a couple of writers’ groups, mostly grown-ups where everybody’s writings is dissected and poked at. My first shot at literary critique if you will. Intimidating but good.

I touch those typewritten pages for the first time and I skip a beat. I read them, fold them neatly in half and put them in an envelope.

My Dad smiles as he sees me run down the cement steps with the envelope in my hand. The walk to the post office is hopeful, how else.

The woman sitting behind the thick glass panel in the deserted post office takes the change through the small round mouse hole and hands me back the stamp. She’s probably bored with her job and annoyed with my bringing my dog in with me. Lick, stick and slide the brown envelope into the long thin mouth of red mailbox outside.

A few months later I buy the literary magazine, yet again, and this time I see my seashell poem there. The albatross one too.They’re both there. I forget to breathe.

The words are not the cute hollow black caterpillars my Dad stuck to the paper for me a while ago. These ones are still mine but they make me think of kids who leave home all rambunctious and bedhead-haired-all-day-long to go to boarding school and return all clean and well-mannered a while after.

I keep reading my poems. They’re mine alright. I show them to my Dad. We laugh, he shakes my hand, a ceremonious thing he does because hugs are reserved for other occasions. And it’s perfect. I feel all grown-up now. I show them to my Mom. She’s happy. They buy two more copies of the magazine so they can cut the poems out and keep them in the kitchen in the old cupboard with the small bible and old photos of me and my sister. For show and tell to people who stop for coffee and chat.

I took a detour from writing for many years. But I missed seeing my words dance and laugh belly laughs on paper. So I started writing again. I’ll never stray from it again. I can’t. And every time my words make it on paper, glossy and not so glossy, but published somewhere out there, all I can think of is how this whole thing started: with my Dad typewriting every one of them and believing they can fly high like the very albatrosses his little girl was writing about.

The gift of published word. How did he know?

Page 9 of 10

Previous

Next

Powered by WordPress & Theme by Anders Norén