This is why I love to dance

At the dance studio where my daughter and I both take dance classes, there is a contest going on.  “Write, in at least two paragraphs, about why you love to dance.”  If you win,  your story will be featured on the website and your dance profile will be displayed in the studio.”  Well, for reasons that will become obvious, I am not going to enter the contest.  (I don’t really think my daughter or her friends need to see my dance story.)  But, if I could enter the contest, this is what I would write:

 

I started to dance about a year ago.  On a cold January night when Amrita wouldn’t eat her dinner.  Spaghetti with meat sauce.  How can there possibly be a more child-friendly meal?  This is a regular occurrence at our house, but, for some reason, that night, it made me feel frustrated.  Probably, there were other things contributing to the way I felt than just the dinner incident, but I don’t remember what anymore.

 

I wanted to go out for a bit, but once I stepped outside, I realized I had no where to go.  It was a Wednesday night in Ottawa.  Bitter cold January.  Everything near-by was closed and I had no car.  And we don’t have a culture of dropping in on friends or neighbours.  

 

I walked to the community centre at the end of my block, a second home for my kids, and went inside for warmth.  It was almost 7:00.  I looked at the board to see what was going on that night.  I saw that there was a beginner hip hop class starting at 7:00.  Since it was early January, it was the first class of the session.  I had to make a choice, either go to that class and see where it would take me, or go back home and remain in a grumpy mood.

 

I hadn’t danced since ballet and tap lessons with Doris MacDonald in elementary school.  And I had hated it.  “Point your toes, Monsumi,” the crotchety old Doris would always say to me.  I would be in tears by the end of class.  

 

Nonetheless, I was under the influence of Glee with all the singing and dancing.  I kind of wanted to do that.  Hesitantly, I chose to try the hip hop class.  I went to the front desk to buy one drop-in class, and went upstairs to the studio.  There I met Emilie.  A young woman full of contagious energy and enthusiasm about dance.  She wasn’t phased that I didn’t have the proper shoes or clothes.  She was just delighted that I had come.  

 

It was a full class and I knew no one.  We started with the warm up.  I somehow was able to keep up and follow Emilie, because the warm up seemed to be aerobics steps set to hip hoppy music.  And then yoga set to hip hoppy music!  Since I have done some aerobics and lots of yoga, it seemed pretty good so far.  

 

But then we went on to the next part of the class.  She got us to choose partners and I had a moment of panic because I didn’t know anyone and I was taken back to the stress of having to choose partners in school.  However, it didn’t seem to matter that I didn’t know anyone.  Someone caught my eye and we became partners.  We had to practice body waves.  This is what I find hardest about hip hop.  I still can’t do body waves!

 

Then we went on to learning the first steps to an actual dance.  Okay, this was getting a bit trickier.  All kinds of moves that didn’t feel natural to me.  Knee pops and chest pops.  Waves and rotations of isolated body parts.  No cutesy twirls.  No smiles or wispy looks.  There is an « attidude » that you have to have to do hip hop.  Hip hop is street dance, Emilie explained.  You gotta look tough.  You gotta be tough.  It wasn’t exactly Glee.  And it was one thing to learn and follow the moves.  It was another to dance to them with the music which was always fast.  

 

A the end of the class, Emilie asked me if I was going to come back.  “I don’t know, “ I said honestly.  “I had fun, though.”  And I was really tired.  

 

I felt a huge high when I went home.  And though the class had been really hard, I went back the next week, and the week after that.  I signed up for the full session.  The class got harder.  Because at every class, we would learn new steps to add on and it was hard to remember the sequence.  You had to have concentration.  

 

Many times in the last year, I lacked concentration.  When a symptom triggered anxiety in me.  When I had an upcoming doctor’s appointment or test.  The whole month of May, when I was going through my biopsy, is a blur to me.

 

There were times when it would have been easier not to go.  Cold nights when I just wanted to bundle up at home or wasn’t feeling well.  When I should have been helping my kids with their homework or should have been prioritizing my kids’ activities.  When I should have gone to see my parents or finished my work or made a better dinner or cleaned the house.  

 

But I kept going back.  Over and over again.  Every time I went, Emilie cheered and clapped just because I had come.  And in time, I started to get a hang of the steps.  I started to get to know my classmates.  I still didn’t remember very much of the sequences.  But then I started to practice, and that helped me to remember.  

 

My teacher looked at me this week and said, “I get very emotional at performances.  I see students who didn’t know their right from their left when they first came to me.  And now they can do whole routines!”

 

Now, a year later, this is one of my favourite hours of the week.  When I am in my class, I forget about cancer.  I simply have fun.  I focus.  I live in the moment.  

 

And this is why I love to dance.  

 

 

 

 

Raise Your Hopeful Voice You Have a Choice

It started like any other Wednesday.  I walked Amrita to the community centre for Breakfast Club, and I hugged her and said, “Have an awesome birthday!” We both giggled because I had meant “Have an awesome day, not birthday, but her approaching birthday and party were on my mind.

 Later in my office, I wondered why I didn’t hear the sirens.  My window faces Elgin Street.  I would have been able to see the War Memorial had I been a couple of floors higher up in our new building.  I guess I was engrossed in something.  Around 10:00, I heard a couple of our managers coming around to all the offices telling people not to leave the building.  My manager looked at me and understood that I had heard her speak to the others, though she did not say anything to me.  A few minutes later, my Director came to my office to look out the window.  I asked him what had happened.  “A soldier has been killed,” he said.  I was grateful for his presence in my office for a few minutes.

I went to the Globe and Mail site.  Breaking news.  A gunman had shot a soldier at the War Memorial and was tearing through Parliament.

What?

I stepped into the hall, hoping to make human contact, to make sense of what was happening and what we were to do.  People were scurrying but not gathering.  I called Jaime.  He hadn’t heard anything.  Hearing nervousness in my voice, he said, “You’re okay.”

An e-mail soon came, instructing us not to leave the building.  We were on lock-down.

Should I call my parents, I wondered.  They might hear the news and worry.  I decided to call them.  They, of course, had heard the news.  I told them we were on lockdown.  I told them not to leave their building in the Market either.  For some reason, I wasn’t convinced that they wouldn’t step out.  They didn’t say, “OF COURSE NOT!”

Then I remembered that Aveen was allowed “off property” from his centretown school, so I called the school, and made them reassure me that they would not be allowed off property today.  “We’re dealing with a very serious situation today,” they said, a bit grumpily.  “Yes, that’s why I’m calling,” I said.

I tried to work a bit but I couldn't concentrate.  I felt disconcerted.  I tried to chat with people, but others seemed to be working.  Only later would I find out that everyone was feeling the same way I was.

Although I knew Amrita would be safe in her school, I decided to call anyway.  I think I just wanted to be with my family.  After a couple of tries, I got through, and the office assured me that they were fine and in secure school mode.  Hearing the warm voice of Amrita's school made me feel better.

I got an e-mail from my friend asking if I was in lock down. She was too. We started e-mailing back and forth.

I started to hear people saying that we should stay away from windows.  Then we got an e-mail instructing us to stay away from them.  Right.  That made sense, but where would I go and what would I do? We had laptops but I had not been able to connect online with mine.  Nonetheless, I took my iPhone and my laptop and went to a boardroom.  I expected all my other colleagues who also had window offices to join me, but I remained there, alone and cold, the whole day. 

We had no food.  It would have been a good day to bring my lunch.  But I wasn't hungry.  I was feeling stressed.  I was worried about my children.  What were they doing?  Were they scared?  Stressed?  What would happen at the end of the day?  I was also scared that the gunman would come into our building. 9/11 was on all our minds.  It was in the realm of the possible. 

I didn't dwell on it, though.  I was anxious, but I was conscious of the fact that it was a different anxiety than what I felt at the depth of my illness and ever since.  I was able to acknowledge that we would most likely all be okay.  And even though I was alone in the boardroom for most of the time, I knew I wasn't alone.  We were all in the same boat.  (In the same building.)  With cancer, I feel alone.  

Still, I wondered what would happen.  How this would end.  It wasn't until later that my thoughts turned to Corporal Nathan Cirillo, the soldier who had been gunned down at the War Memorial.  That would come later.

A lot of friends e-mailed and texted to ask if I was okay.  I passed most of the day e-mailing and texting, even though at some point we were instructed not to.  Communication seemed important, and I had not much else to keep my mind occupied, since it was not possible to work with the tools I had available in the boardroom.  Sometimes, people in the office came together and talked, but not very much.  

Mostly, I wondered who would pick up my kids if Jaime and I were still in lockdown and they were released.  The schools had no answer.  Then, my friend, whose kids and mine are the best of friends, texted me that she was working from home that day, and would pick up the kids if they were released.  Relief flooded through me.  An angel. 

Eventually, the kids were released and my friend picked everyone up and took them to her house.  They were safe!  But I still wondered how long I would be in the building. Aveen texted me, "Are you still in lockdown?"  I think he was worried.

At some point, I wasn't scared anymore.  I just really wanted to get out of there.  At 4:30, we were suddenly told that we could leave, using the south side entrance only.  We were all happy, but at the same time, scared to leave.  Was it safe?  After all, what had suddenly changed that made it safe now?  

We decided to leave in pairs, using what we knew from kindergarten, the buddy system.  It made us feel better. It seemed a grand ceremony to leave the building, gathering our things, making sure everyone was paired up.  We squinted when we finally reached the outdoors.  It had been a nice day!  Sunny for  a change.  It felt strange to be outside, almost surreal.  Everyone was regarding each other suspiciously.

I met Jaime along the way and we picked up the kids and walked home together, happily reunited, chatting away about the day.  We made a good dinner, and stayed inside, huddled together, squished together in bed, not wanting to separate.  I let them stay up later than usual, feeling certain that we wouldn't be going back to work the next day.

But early in the morning, we got the message that it was business as usual.  What?  How could it be business as usual?  How could we go back there to the building next to the War Memorial after we had been locked in there for so long?  I was still scared something would happen again.  It wasn't clear if there had been more than one gunman.  At the very least, I needed a little break from the building. 

But we are professionals (another phrase I hate).  I reluctantly let my kids go for the day and I hauled myself back to work.  Back to duty.  Hardly an acknowledgement of what had happened the day before.

The following day, one of the managers at work arranged a discussion session so that we could talk about what had happened.  A small group of us went and we talked and shared our thoughts and feelings.  We were not alone.  We went home for the weekend, feeling better having talked and connected. 

That weekend, Jaime and I had tickets to see Once, a beautiful Irish story about love and music, at the NAC. It was a wonderful performance.  At the end, the actors talked about the shooting, and dedicated the performance to Corporal Nathan Cirillo.  They said that they would be taking up a donation to set up a trust for the Corporal's young son.

In the crowds, as we were leaving, I spotted the main actor.  I had only seen him and the other actors from a distance, their faces fuzzy.  Up close, I saw how handsome he was.  I dropped some money into his box.  Jaime said, in a clear and commanding voice, "Excellent performance."   The actor's face turned and found Jaime, like a moth turns to the sun.  He beamed with appreciation, as though he had never heard such a compliment before.  "Thank you, Sir."  I wish his attention had been to me.

I walked out of the NAC feeling good.  The words of the powerful main song in the performance stayed with me long afterwards.

Raise your hopeful voice.  You have a choice.

Falling Slowly

by Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova

I don't know you, but I want you
All the more for that
Words fall through me and always fool me
And I can't react

And games that never amount
To more than they're meant
Will play themselves out

Take this sinking boat and point it home
We've still got time
Raise your hopeful voice you have a choice
You've made it now

Falling slowly, eyes that know me
And I can't go back
The moods that take me and erase me
And I'm painted black

Well, you have suffered enough
And warred with yourself
It's time that you won

Take this sinking boat and point it home
We've still got time
Raise your hopeful voice, you have a choice
You've made it now

Falling slowly sing your melody
I'll sing it loud

Stillness

In the last couple of years, I have been in search of stillness.  Stillness of my mind.  I have been searching for it for many reasons – so that I may have peace of mind, so that I may sleep soundly through the night, so that I may understand.

 

I have been getting better at it.  Finding ways to still my mind, though I have a long way to go.

 

In the very early days, I could still my mind by focusing on the sweet sound of the singing bowl that Jaime gave me and its vibration.  It is difficult to quiet the mind from the noise and the chatter of daily life and anxieties.  It is hard to meditate.  But to have a sound to concentrate on helps enormously.  I played the singing bowl often in those early days to calm and sooth myself.  I let myself believe that the sound would heal me, cure me, protect me.  When I felt most alone, I went to the singing bowl.  When I felt most scared, I turned to it.  I even slept with it sometimes.  

 

I still believe in its magical properties.  I go to it for peace and balm, still.  To still my mind.

 

Other things also still my mind.  Nature is a wonderful way to do this.  That is why my fall walk in the Gatineaus is so treasured.  I treasured it even before all this happened.  I didn’t quite know why it was so important, but I listened and did it.  Now it is almost sacred to me.  Hearing the rustle of leaves beneath our feet.  Breathing the crisp, fresh air.  Taking in the burst of fall colour. All this, within minutes of my home.  

 

Swimming in a lake is also my temple.  Being immersed in tranquil waters cannot but still one’s mind.  Reset the body.  If not a lake, an outdoor pool will do.  This summer, I discovered swimming on my back.  With the perfect view of the sky.  And my hearing muffled by the water to block out the noise and clutter of the world.

 

Motion also stills the mind.  I turn to yoga, which is all about stilling the mind.  And even my dance class is a different kind of stillness as my mind focuses on learning the moves and their sequence and does not wander to other things.  And I am filled with endorphins leaving the class.

 

Gardening stills my mind.  I am an amateur.  But feeling the soil in my bare hands makes me feel close to the earth.

 

There are other ways to still the mind in an ordinary day, being lost in honest work, caring for your children, cooking a wholesome meal, reading a book.  

 

Nonetheless, I struggle with achieving stillness.  I have trouble sleeping.  I am still anxious.  I sometimes don’t understand.  There are many things that make me waver.  Any kind of conflict or misunderstanding throws me off my kilter and makes me unhappy.  Worry about my family, especially my parents.  Different symptoms in my body, sometimes fleeting, sometimes lasting.  The screens that surround me all day – my two computer screens at work plus the little screen of my iPhone that demands attention, leaving us just a little bereft.

 

I try to go back to the basics.  Eat, pray, love.  Still my mind.  Open my heart.  Try again tomorrow.      

 

 

 

 

The Thing About Luck

In Paris, I started to read a book to Aveen and Amrita – The Thing About Luck by Cynthia Kadohata.  The book is about a 12 year old Asian American girl named Summer who comes from a harvesting family.  Every summer, the family goes to work at wheat fields to harvest the crop.  Summer’s job is to assist her grandmother cook meals for the harvesters.  

 

The book is set during one particular summer when Summer’s family just isn’t having any “Kouun” (good luck in Japanese).  Her parents have gone to Japan to take caring of ailing relatives, her grandmother has unexplained and excrutiating back pain, Summer had contracted (but has recovered from) a fluke case of malaria from being bitten by a rogue mosquito in Florida, and her brother’s best friend moved away, leaving him alone and, furthermore, somehow “invisible” (even his cousins seemed to just not see him).     

 

When I started to read the book to them, Aveen and Amrita found it hilarious.  They roared with laughter with each sentence.  

 

“We got seven flat tires in six weeks.”  Gales of laughter.

 

“I got malaria, one of 1500 cases in the United Sates that year.” Gales of laughter.

 

“Random bad smells emanated from we knew not where.”  Gales of laughter.

 

“And my brother Jaz became cursed with invisibility.  No one noticed him but us.”  Gales of laughter.

 

Aveen said, “I don’t think the book is supposed to actually be so funny.  I think we are just tired and need to laugh.”  It was true.  It was our first bedtime in Paris and we hadn’t slept on the overnight plane.  The kids were drunk with fatigue.  But we were so cozy and I was so content to be in bed reading a book that both my children were enjoying and we didn’t have to worry about anything just then.

 

The next night when I read, Aveen and Amrita did not find the book as hilarious and Amrita was finding the harvesting details a bit boring, but I had fallen in love with the book.  I felt I could relate to Summer and Jaz on so many levels.  They were second generation kids in an immigrant family.  That was me growing up.  And the grandparents in the story (Jichan and Obachaan) were just like my own parents, even though they were Japanese rather than Indian.  Obachann talked in short practical sentences, leaving out articles and prepositions.  Jichaan told stories of his childhood that seemed unrelated to anything.

 

I could also relate to just not having any Kouun for a long time.  I could write a my own narrative. 

 

“My bad luck started a few days before Christmas in 2012. Before I had time to finish my shopping and Christmas preparations, I got the flu and had to spend the days leading up to Christmas in bed.  Just as I was recovering, I started feeling this terrible pain in my abdomen which I ignored for a few days, thinking it was related to the flu. After I could ignore it no longer, I went to the Emergency Room and they told me not to freak out but I had a very large fibroid.  A week later, I had any ultrasound, and they told me not to freak out but it could be cancer....Went to a yoga retreat to learn how to meditate but fell off my bed and hurt my back...."  

 

What I really related to in the book was the effect that having had malaria and almost dying had had on Summer.  It had left her obsessed with mosquitoes.  She studied them and drew the various kinds in her spare time.  She had a special notebook for them.  She found summers especially terrifying with mosquitoes coming out at night.  She applied DEET continuously, like a tick (no pun intended), even though she realized that so much DEET was bad for her health.  She felt terror rush through her if a mosquito landed on her. One evening while on harvest, she realizes that she had forgotten to apply DEET.  It made her feel like she would throw up.  

 

The book wasn’t about this.  It was about the summer on harvest and the people that her family worked for and the challenges faced with having to do the work and a boy that she had a crush on and how he kisses her and then moves on to another girl.  But the after-effects of the malaria were interspersed throughout the book and made Summer who she was.  

 

I saw myself in Summer.  I had contracted and recovered from a fluke cancer.  I am generally high functioning.  I go to work every day.  I take care of my family.  I help out my neighbours.  I feel happy when someone is nice to me and hurt when someone is not nice. Just like everyone else.  I feel and want the same kinds of things that most people do.  But I feel the way Summer feels when she sees a mosquito when I feel I have some sort of “symptom”.  I feel a terror go through me lie a lightning bolt but longer lasting.  Sometimes, I feel like I will throw up too.      

 

I was so grateful to meet Summer, someone who felt the same way I did and whose mind I could enter.  I felt that she understood me and I took comfort in that.  Even though she is a 12 year old fictional character.

 

Jichan told Summer that the malaria had made her body sick and though her body had recovered, her mind had not.  I think that is the same way with me.  It sometimes takes longer for the mind to heal.  Jichan told her that the only way to make her mind recover was through yoga and meditation.  That resonates with me too.  And I too will heal my mind through yoga and meditation.

 

Oouch, by back….  

 

 

 

Green Paella

 

This evening, I made paella, which I ate almost every day for my mid-day meal in Barcelona, in memory of our recent trip.  Piping hot saffron rice with salty lobster and other seafood.  I decided to make a slight variation of it, using what was in my fridge.  I decided on a green theme - green onions, celery, green tomatillos, peas, fresh basil and green chillies.  I still used saffron (of course) and jumbo shrimp and a taste of chicken.  

 

There was something for all of us in Barcelona.  

 

The Train

 

The train from Paris to Barcelona was an experience in itself.  The taxi took us from our hotel to Gard du Lyon, giving us a little tour of the city, where I wondered if Paris was the most beautiful city in the world (though I decided that that was a little bit like wondering who is the most beautiful person in the world).  The train station was confusing.  We didn’t know where to go.  When we finally found the boards listing the trains, it didn’t tell us which track to go to.  The board didn’t give this information until minutes before the train was scheduled to depart and we had to then quickly find the right track and walk the entire length of the train (and they are long) to get to our car.  We had to walk fast, each of us pulling suitcase.  Thank goodness, Amrita is old enough that she can do this now!  There was no time for hesitation or children’s meltdowns!  We finally boarded the high speed train.  I was worried that the high speed would make me motion sick, but it turned out that I barely noticed the speed and thought the train could go faster!  It was a long journey, six hours, through the French and then the Spanish country side.  We passed the time reading and listening to music (fighting over the good headphones) and ordering food in the food car.  I wanted a romantic encounter like in the movie Before Sunrise, but that is not so much possible when you are travelling with your husband and children.  Our biggest excitement was watch two young girls, clearly backpacking through Europe, get interrogated by security as they had not purchased train tickets and then had no money.  (They were escorted off the train at the next stop and taken to the police station.)  The conversation was very calm and educational for Aveen (note to self:  Do not get on a train without having purchased a ticket!)  

 

Futbol Club Barca -  Més que un club (More than a Club)

 

We had agreed to hide from Aveen that there would be a Barca soccer match while we were there, since the tickets were so expensive.  Of course, the cab driver blew that within minutes of our arriving.  Aveen wanted to arrive wearing his Barca shirt.

 

"Oh, you like futbol?  You like Barca?" the delighted cab driver said to Aveen.  "Match tomorrow!"

 

"Really???"  Aveen said to the cab driver and then to us.  "There's a game!!!  We HAVE to go."

 

During our walk that evening, Aveen spotted the Official Barca store (the first of many official Barca stores) and was enchanted by all the Barca merchandise.  And of course, they were selling game tickets.  

 

"No," Jaime said.

 

"Well, we came all this way.  We might as well spend just a little bit more and take him to the game.  He'll never forget it."

 

It turned out that the game was a late one, starting at 9:00 p.m.  Too late for Amrita.  Which worked out well, since buying two tickets was more affordable than four, and much easier to find two good seats than four.  So Jaime and Aveen went to see the Sunday night match, while Amrita and I had a girls' night at home in our Barca apartment.  We did full beauty regimes and chatted about girl stuff while Jaime and Aveen watch Messi play and the Barca team win 3:0.

 

We also had to take a tour of Camp Nou, the Barcelona stadium.  It was both really cool and really boring for me and Amrita.  Aveen loved it, of course.  An obligatory stop.  Aveen also just loved seeing boys in little squares or school yards playing their own games of football.  (I found there to be a lot of boys in Barcelona, with soccer everywhere.  Where are the little girls?)  The interesting thing about Camp Nou and football in Barcelona, though was that was  more than sport, but the heart and identity of the city.  And footwall was the way that political activism was expressed, the only form that it could take.

 

Architecture

 

If Aveen was in soccer heaven, Jaime was in architecture heaven.  The Gaudi architecture was also interesting for the kids - funny shapes and sizes - buildings and churches and parks and trees and random objects were all subject to the Gaudi curves, no corners.  It reminded us of Dr. Seuss.  We hid in the trees at Guell Park to keep cool.  I kept expecting to see monkeys and parakeets in the gardens and structures – Doric columns, the famous Gaudi lizard,  a serpentine bench, tiled mosaic ceilings, panoramic views and musicians but no exotic monkeys or birds.  We wandered through the beautiful Sagrada Familia, our faces illuminated by the light streaming through the stain glass.  We went up the elevator to the Nativity Tower and to our surprise was told we had to walk down.  Through steep, narrow, spiral steps, down 65 metres.  At places, we could stop and view the city through windows with nothing barring us from plunging to our deaths.  Not for the elderly or for those with claustrophobia or vertigo or heart conditions.  How had I missed all those warnings?  Fortunately, I had none of those conditions. Still, I walked down slowly, thankful I had not worn my sandals with heals, and my knees shaking by the time we reached the bottom.

 

The Mediterranean

 

After two days of looking at architecture, we decided to hit the beach for Amrita.  We found the beach equipped with umbrellas that you could rent to sit under (6 euros).  They were even serving "Fresh mojita.  Sangria." The Mediterranean was blue and picture perfect, like the cover of the book Tender is the Night.  But the waves were strong and the beach was rocky.  Not really a swimming beach.  The kids were a bit disappointed, but was still amazing to be by the sea, so close to the city.  And, yes, it was a topless beach.  But only about 1 in 10 were actually topless.  And it was very discreet.  The kids didn't even notice it.  Many of the topless were just doing it for a few minutes to say they had done it.  A couple of giggling girls beside us took topless selfies and then put their tops back immediately.  We finished with a lovely tapas lunch of potatoes with spicy sauce, garlic shrimp, and beer at the beach restaurant.

 

Food

 

The food in Barcelona was always amazing and it suited me well to eat a bigger meal for lunch.  Usually, a late and leisurely lunch in an outdoor terrace after a several hours of sight seeing.  Paella or tapas. Every single lunch was fabulous!  Usually, we had to ensure that the restaurant we chose would pass the “Amrita test”, offering something that our sweet but fussy 8 year old could eat.  But by the end of the week, even Amrita was eating tapas – squid, tentacles and all.  The only food I objected to was breakfast, which was hard to find, with most cafes offering only super sweet baked goods.  Even the croissants were covered in an unidentifiable, sticky syrup.  Entirely unnecessary.  I finally made peace with having multi-grain croissants, sipped with small cups of expresso (which is just called coffee in Europe). 

 

Walks

 

Our long lunches were followed by a few hours back in the apartment to avoid the hottest part of day, which would make sightseeing intolerable.  Then we would make a light evening supper of sandwiches and salad, not bothering to learn how to use the stove.  Around 7:00, we would emerge for our evening stroll, sometimes to the Ramblas to see the spill of humanity, the city centre for some shopping at the Zara’s multi-level store, or  the narrow, winding streets of the Old City with stores and restaurants, churches, Picasso art galleries, and street musicians playing Ava Maria.   I watched an American architecture student doing a sketch of a beautiful church.

 

My Hair Cut

 

Somewhere in Barcelona, I decided I needed a hair cut.  Especially because I knew that I would not have time to get my hair cut back in Ottawa before going back to work, and I decided that I could not go back to work, after three weeks of holidays, needing a hair cut.  This was going to be interesting, but I also thought it would be a good way to experience something “local”, if a little risky.  But it was only hair.  So, we scoped out a  couple of hair salon studios, and there seemed to be a good option near our apartment.  There was the problem that I didn’t speak Spanish, so Jaime would have to be my interpreter.  This was true throughout our trip, and towards the end of the week, I was starting to get a bit tired with having Jaime speak for me on everything.  Not knowing the language meant relinquishing control.  Not a big deal for ordering food and seeing sights.  But getting a hair cut was more complex, more personal.  First, in Barcelona, when you make an appointment, you get an “estimate” on how much it will cost.  There seemed to a rather long conversation about this when all I wanted was a trim.  After what seemed like 15 minutes of a lot of talking, Jaime looked at me and said, “Do you want a perm?”  A perm?  Have I ever got a perm?  What is this, the 80s?  Who gets perms anymore?  Why would I choose to get my first perm in Barcelona? Wouldn’t I have mentioned that before?  Anyway, I quickly said, “No.”  Firm, succinct.  Followed by another several minutes of conversation.  How long does it take to say, “No, thank you.  Only a trim, please.”  Anyway, this continued throughout the appointment-making process and during the hair cut itself.  I did get a lovely and long scalp massage, and the hair cut turned  out to be fine.  But having your husband as interpreter for your hair?  Depends on your husband, of course, but not necessarily recommended, unless you are willing to come out with a perm. 

 

Home Sickness

 

Barcelona was a curious and wonderful blend of Paris meeting Latin America meeting the United States meeting India.  The city was huge and densely populated, with everything that you could want, yet the streets were not that always very clean, it wasn’t advisable to drink tap water, and you could get killed on the sidewalk, being run over by a bike or motor bike or bitten by a dog.  Some afternoons, back in the apartment, I would get pangs of homesickness and long for my familiar bed and kitchen.  I usually called home when I was feeling sad, hearing my mother’s voice and hoped for an e-mail to come in.  At the same time, I loved the intesne time we spent together, just the four of us.  No work or school or camps.  No soccer practice or dance lesson.  No playdates to organize or obligations to fulfill.  We were just there together.  Playing cards or Uno.  Before bed, I read to them (a wonderful book called the Think About Luck – more on that in another post).  They were more willing to hear the same book and snuggle together while were on vacation.  Our family vacations are so much more than seeing new places and getting away.  They are a time for us to be together.       

 

Magic Fountain

 

On our last day, we wandered through the city park and took a last ramble through the Old City, buying little gifts for our family and friends back home.  During our afternoon rest, we packed our bags.  There was one more adventure we wanted to have, but were nervous about undertaking something late at night, the night before we needed to catch a plane back home.  But everything was done, and we had read about a “Magic Fountain” which offered a spectacular light and water show, starting at 9:00.  It would mean another ride on the Metro and getting back late.  After being indecisive, we decided to go and what a treat we had!  The Magic Fountain was in front of the National Art Gallery in Barcelona, which, like many of the structures, in Barcelona, looked like a palace.  We arrived around 8:20, when the sun was just starting to fade.  There were crowds of people camped on the steps of the Gallery in order to secure their view of the Magic Fountain when the show started.   We found our own spot and we watched the crowd and the buskers and the city beyond fade into the dusk.  At 9:00, when it was finally dark, the fountain, including all the fountains in front of the Gallery and those lining the wide boulevard in front, started to turn on, one by one, until there was water everywhere.  Teenagers standing closet to the fountains squealed in delight, as they got sprayed and then drenched by the fountains.  Then began an amazing light show, the fountain springing water in pinks and purples and blues and greens.  Different types of sprays with different pressures.  And music!  Contemporary songs and classical music.  It was a show, dazzling like fireworks and music like Cirque du Soleil.  We watched, transfixed, mesmorized, taking everything in.  The show went on and on, and we could have stayed all night.  Eventually, tired, we reluctantly started making our way back, stopping to buy an ice cream cone, then back along the boulevard, looking back at the fountain, back to the metro station, crowded and lively at night, back to our neighbourhood, back to our apartment, and into bed, in anticipation of the journey back home, tired but happy and satisfied that we had fit in one last adventure, which was the most magical of all.

 

For 6 euros, fresh squeezed juice and a song

We are in Europe now. We arrived in Paris, bleary-eyed from the night plane, last Wednesday morning. The day was cloudy with some sun, warm and cold at the same time. We tried to accustom our jet lagged bodies by walking through the Tuilleries, casually looking at the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe as if we saw these structures everyday and that it was no big deal to have them as our backdrop.

Paris was as stunningly beautiful as I remembered it from our trip five years ago. Almost too much beauty to take in all at once. Too many croissants and crepes. I wish that I could spread it out in my life.

We walked back to our old neighbourhood, our apartment on Rue Vavin, the Luxembourg Gardens, the place where we would get gelato. 

Then we tried to fit in as many new experiences as we could. We had dinner in St. Germaine, we went shopping on Rue Coomerce, we visited Sacre Coeur in Monmartre, and we strolled the streets of Canal St. Martin.  Everything is expensive in Paris, but our best 6 euros spent was for a bottle of fresh squeezed juice in Monmartre where the vendor sang while he made juice for us. "Chante," he said to Aveen.

 Our trip was completely different than the one five years ago because this time the kids can walk a lot. So we walked and walked and soaked Paris up as much as we could in less than three says. It was too short. I could definitely live in Paris. Maybe one day, we will stay for a month.

A Letter to Robin Williams

Dear Robin,

I have been thinking a lot about you this week, as has everyone else.  Like everyone else, I was surprised that you had suffered severe depression and took your life last Monday. 

Surprised and not surprised. I had not really given much thought to whether you had been depressed or not, but if I had, I might have guessed that you were.  After all, you have, at various points in your life, abused drugs and alcohol (I would never characterize you as a drug addict or an alcoholic as that would debase you to only the negative parts of you and why do that when there were so many wonderful parts to you?), and generally people do those things when they are unhappy and want to escape something.

So I wasn't really surprised, but I was sad.  I was sad that you felt such despair that you would take your life.  I am sad that you did not have someone you felt you could turn to or that you saw no way out.  I was sad that even someone so funny could be so depressed.  You had a kind face.  You must have had people who loved you.  And yet you took your life.

I can't say that I don't understand that.  I mean, I have people who love me, and yet, I have been depressed at various times in my life, especially in the last two years.  I have had good reason, I think, at times in the last two years to be depressed from time to time.  I don't even think it is considered depression if you have a good reason to be.  I think that is called being normal.  Then, again, maybe it isn't.  After all, I had good reason to be anxious, yet my psychologist said I had an anxiety disorder.  (Yes, I know it probably has to do with the degree to which you are anxious or depressed about difficult things in life.)

Today, I felt a bit down.  It was the 5th day of cold, rainy, gloomy weather.  Oh, and it's not October.  It's the middle of August.  The weather network is calling it Augtober.

And we have been going through a difficult time with my father.  Not in the cancer sense.  But still, we are waiting for results of imaging.  And I so love doing that.  (Read this last line in a sarcastic or ironic.)

It rained and rained today. And there was nothing to do all day.  And I felt so lonely.  I wanted to call a friend to go for coffee.  But I didn't.

Did you call a friend to go for coffee, Robin?  I bet you didn't either.  Because people often don't reach out when they need to.  I wish I had been your friend.  I wish I could have gone for coffee with you.  Not that I am narcicistic and delusional and think that I could have saved you from killing yourself.  (No, I'm just a bad speller and can't figure out where the spell check is on this blogger.)  But I just think we might have had a good talk.  In fact, I could have used a coffee with you today.  I'm sure you would have made me laugh.

Don't worry about me. The forecast is for sun tomorrow.  I'm sure I will feel better as soon as I can get out for a bike ride or a swim. 

It's just that it's too late for you.

If it rains again, tomorrow, I'll ask someone to go for coffee.

Rest in peace.

Sunset Salads

It is the middle of August.  The summer is slipping past me, too fast.  I can't hold on to it.  It's over before it's over.  A particularly cold and wet week - the week I am OFF work - gives us a preview of fall.  It gives us time to be cozy, to sleep late, clean the house, bake cookies.  We even went shopping for school supplies and fall clothes, before November this year!  But really, I would take a messy house and be ill-prepared for back-to-school for cheerful, sunny days. 

I can`t say that we haven`t had our share of sunny days this summer.  We have been swimming and eating our dinners outside.  Almost every evening, we take our salad to the second floor balcony and eat watching the sunset.  Every night, we go to bed too late.

Despite summer slipping by fast, the world seems to tilt slowly on its axis.  My father`s torn leg muscle has covered our summer in a blanket of slowness, reflecting the slowness of his movement and his progress. So slow that he wonders what is going on and has asked his doctor to do an x-ray.  The results are slow to come in.  We have spent slow-moving visits at my parents` apartment, talking and arguing, providing company and not much help.  Hoping to see improvement.  Then being happy to leave.

My father`s leg has taken my mind off, ever so slightly, of my own health.  Yet, I notice subtle differences in myself.  I feel ... changed.  I have difficulty relating to the world.  I have lost interest in certain things, it seems, permanently.  I sometimes feel impatient.  I sometimes don't understand and feel that others don`t understand.  How can they?  It doesn`t mean anything, except that I sometimes feel alone. 

I have been less scared.  Though I still replay the events over and over in my head, it is less often.  Though I still have he same symptoms repeating, they are less severe.  The experience is fading, somewhat, in my memory.

Yet, sometimes, I will react to things in a way people don`t understand.  The cleaning lady comes at a different hour than the one that we agreed on, and I realize that Aveen has been at home, enveloped in the fumes of cleaning supplies, for over an hour.  I am panicked and angry and get Aveen out of the house urgently. 

No one understands why.

I am kept waiting for dinner.  And I don't eat until late.  And it makes me too full, and I can`t sleep that night.  I lie awake, and everything hits me.  And I wonder how I could have spent the day not scared.  At dawn, I finally sleep for a couple of hours.  And when the sun comes up, things are less dramatic and I wish I could have just let myself sleep.

But.  The memory is fading.  Ever so slowly.  But fading.  Like the sunset.  The memory is fading into darkness. 

Moving on is a slow and gradual process.  Little by little, new experiences replace older ones.

And I have sunrise to look forward to.  And a new day. 

Parents, and parent-like people and places

Part 1

 

I would never tell my mother, but my father has always been my favourite parent.  Partly, unjustly, since I saw my mother all the time (since she was a stay-at-home mom) but also because I have more in common with my father than my mother, a love for reading, going for walks, and reaching for academic fulfillment and success.  At the same time, it has always been my parents, together, that have given me balance in parenting.  I can talk to my father about more intellectual/philosophical things.  But my mother is generally more cheerful and social.  To this day, I prefer to have them both on the line when I talk to them on the phone.

 

Last Sunday, on Father’s Day, I ended up spending the Day in the ER with my father.  For my father, this time, not for me.  We were supposed to go to Merrickville that day to celebrate Father’s Day.  But a few days before, my father had said he would prefer if we just went over to their house for dinner instead.  On Sunday morning, my father called and said he had hurt his leg a little.  It turned out that he had not been able to walk in days.  It surprised me that my mother hadn’t insisted that he go to the hospital, as she is generally wont to do, but there was a logistical problem in getting my father to the hospital, given that he couldn’t walk.  An ambulance was an option they were keeping in the backs of their head. 

 

My tolerance for uncertainty has not increased, so I insisted they go to the hospital right away.  Jaime was able to skillfully manoeuvre my father into our car and get him settled into a wheelchair in the hospital.  Several hours later, an ER doctor decided that it was a muscular pain (possibly a torn ligament), gave him some painkillers and a cane and sent him home.  I felt unsatisfied, because they didn’t do any tests to confirm that the issue was muscular, and they didn’t provide anything really helpful, given that he couldn't walk.

 

I was unable to sleep that night.  I kept thinking that if my poor, beloved dad woke up in the middle of the night, he would not be able to just get up and go to the bathroom or get a drink of water.  As if to compensate, I kept getting up.  I thought how awful it was that your life can change just like that – even if it just just temporarily.  That, one day, you can wake up and you can’t walk, or you have a broken wrist or you are sick – and your life changes.  It seems like everything can change in a day. 

 

And I wondered if the opposite is possible, whether it is possible for your life to suddenly take a turn towards the wonderful.  I couldn’t think of when that happened to me.  I asked Jaime, who doesn’t have this cloud hanging over him the way I seem to lately, and he said that, aside from maybe winning the lottery, your life can’t just change for the better in a minute.  Anything you do to make your life better, like getting a better job or achieving better health, happens over time and takes a lot of hard work.

 

It brings me back to something my father used to say about friendships, that good and true friendships take a long time to build, but they can be destroyed in a minute, with a betrayal or a few harsh words.  Just like a ceramic or a beautiful flower – anything good takes effort and a long time to blossom but can be broken with no effort in no time at all.

 

My dad was right.  And though his summer has been changed in the blink of an eye, I hope that with time and nurturing, good things will happen and he will be walking again.

 

Part 2

 

I tell my kids that they can tell me or talk to me or ask me about anything.  Boys (or girls, whatever the case might be), friend troubles, school troubles, questions about drugs and puberty and science and skin care.  I want, more than anything, to be the trusted adult in their lives.   

But over the last couple of years, I have also tried to teach them that I am not the only trusted adult in their lives.  Of course, they have their father.  But they also have access to so many other adults that they should feel they can turn to – teachers, parents of their friends, coaches.  As I faced my mortality, I really wanted them to know that they would have many more people to take care of them than just me.  I even gave up my prized position of being “favourite parent” over to Jaime.  They used to love me more.  But now they love Jaime more.  And I did that consciously, for them.  That hurt me to do, but it also makes me feel better that if anything should happen to me, they will be all right.  And, in any case, the more people in their lives, the better their lives will be.

 

I know this, because I have had many people in my life that were not my parents, but parent-like.  Mostly they were teachers.  Sister Murphy, Ms. Pronowitz, Mr. Kyte.  They were all really wonderful teachers who saw something special in me and cared about me and were influential in shaping my life – my love of writing, my extra-curricular activities, my eventual study of economics.  When I started working, I had bosses like that too.  Bosses that became parent-like to me.  To this day, those relationships have sustained me and helped me get through the most difficult periods of my life, with complete selflessness and generosity. 

 

This week, I felt sad, saying good-bye to one of those people in my life.  At the same time that I had to start more of a caregiver role to my father for the first time.  I know that I should be a grown-up now and not need parents and parent-like figures in my life.  I should be one.  I am one.  And, yet, I feel sad and vulnerable and inadequate.  Though I know that I am strong, resilient and up to the job.  I know, because all these people in my life have nurtured and taken care of me, taught me and shown me about studies and work and life, and, most of all, to stand on my own two feet.  I have to be able to show them that I can do it, that they haven’t wasted their time.

 

There are parent-like places too.  Schools, jobs, places that grow you up.  As I stood in one such place yesterday, listening to speeches at the farewell reception of a colleague at my former workplace, I was flooded with a rush of emotions.  I had worked at this place for 15 years, and I had spectacular ups and downs there.  And all those ups and downs came to me, like water unleashed from a dam.  I was conflicted, and just wanted to go back to my new job, which is a bit boring right now, but is steady and even-keeled and in many ways, more grown up.  I was in my old job for so long.  I grew up in that job.  In my new job, I don’t have parent- or mentor-like bosses.  My bosses are now younger than me.  And getting younger by the minute.  It doesn’t matter what my position or job title is, I am the adult in my new job. 

 

Next week, I will attend my son’s school-leaving ceremony.  After 8 years, he will be finished elementary school, and moving on to middle school.  There will be no more supervised walk-overs or after-care programs.  He will leave the relatively safe confines of the Glebe, where trusted teachers and parents of friends are everywhere.  He will be crossing the boundary into centre-town to go to middle school there.  At times, he will be able to walk with friends.  But there will be times when he will be by himself.  And he will have to rely on his judgement and good sense and everything we have, as parents, and as a community, taught him about traffic-safety and stranger-safety.  He will have to stand, as I have to, on his own two feet.

 

And, finally

 

If life came with a sound track, this would be the song of the moment:

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qFrsT9sc_B0

 

 

 

 

 

Marking the Day

Once again, I was brought to the brink of disaster and, once again, saved.

My doctor called me with the news that my results came back negative (which is positive news) – a fibro-something.  I prefer his technical explanation that it was “completely boring” (though the nurse told me I would have to have a repeat mammogram in a year to see if anything has changed and apparently now I am in a higher risk category). 

In the first few days after I received the good news, I felt alternately grateful and angry.

Grateful, because: 

I am doing fine, for the moment, after ovarian cancer, (which, my ovarian cancer specialist said,  will kill you), minus a number of organs and a serious case of PTSD.

My body healed itself after scares that I might have to have a nephroscopy bag or might lose a kidney because of my complication from surgery.  It turns out I didn’t even need further surgery. 

I  didn’t break any bones falling off my high bed at the yoga retreat even though I have osteoporosis.

This latest scare turned out okay.

Angry, because:

I have to be grateful not to have had two cancers in as many years and to not have a nephroscopy bag, etc. when no one else around me does either and they don’t have to feel grateful about it.

Others seem to receive congratulations for getting a new job or promotion but I get it for not having (another) cancer.

And, really, just because.  I had to spend another 6 weeks on tests and a biopsy (which was not fun, says the girl who thought the mammogram was actually okay) and had to wait, suspended in time, to find out if I was going to have cancer again or not. Because, to cope, I took Ativan again, and the withdrawal (decided to go cold turkey, just because I couldn’t make myself take another one of those pills) even after a few weeks is tough.  And just because.

I guess I really felt that somehow the world should change after I got the good news.  And it didn’t.  Just as when I was going through the tests and waiting for possibly life-changing news, I was expected to go to work, co-ordinate my children’s activities, cook the meals, after I got the news, I was expected to do exactly the same thing.  When I expected the world to somehow mark my news.

I told Jaime that I wanted to mark the event somehow.  He suggested a trip, which I would have loved, but I let practical considerations get in the way (though I am trying not to let those get in the way more often). 

Instead, I said I wanted to do a hike around Pink Lake in the Gatineaus in the early morning.  I love the Gatineaus and thought there would be something sacred in an early morning walk there.  My kids were not happy.  What?  A hike?  We don’t like hikes.  Early?  Why?  We don’t like to wake up early.  And when we do, we like to sit in front of the T.V.  Well, somehow, I got there buy-in, and by 8:00 on Sunday morning, we were packed and on our way to Pink Lake, even knowing to take an alternative route because of the bike race.  Well, wouldn’t you know, that alternative route was also closed because of Sunday morning bike rides.  We turned around and headed to Meach Lake instead.  When we got there, things looked okay.  But when we started the walk, about a million mosquitoes started to attack us, getting in our eyes and mouth and biting us.  Poor Amrita was getting the most bitten, though at least I had made her wear long pants.  To keep the mosquitoes away, Jaime swatted at his face and his glasses flew off, landing somewhere in the piles of leave, where we couldn’t see.  We started looking for them, getting eaten all along.  I finally spotted them.  We walked faster.  We ran, and ran and ran, all the way to the clearing and a lake, where there was a brief respite from the bugs.  At the lake, we stopped for a bit and I tried to really look and to really see and really breathe and really be grateful.  We saw butterflies.  We saw fish.  We saw ripple in the water. After a few minutes, when we were ready to do the run back, we set our watches to see how long it would take.  10 minutes.  We ran back in 10 minutes.  It used to take us 40 minutes to do the walk.

So the walk didn’t go exactly how we planned.  But for me, it was the beginning of being able to let this latest scare go.  The beginning of being able to breathe again.  The beginning of being able to think about my life again.  I don’t expect the world to change anymore. I marked it.  And now I can go on.

And my kids said it was the best hike we’ve ever been on!

 

 

 

 

Learning from Sri Chinmoy

Almost seven years ago, when I spent a few weeks in the summer in language training, I had a teacher who knew Bengali.  Unusual for teachers training hopeless civil servants to get their required C-levels in French.  But this teacher asked me if I could speak any other languages, and after he learned that I knew Bengali, he would intersperse a few words of Bengali here and there and make comparisons between French and Bengali.

J'aime.  J'amais.  Ami bhalo bashi.  I love.

French has two ways of addressing "you".  Tu and vous.  Bengali has three.  Tui, Tumi, Apni.

Jomoge.  Jumeau/Jumelle.  Twin.

He didn't tell me until after the course was done why he was interested in Bengali or why he would run in a marathon every year that didn't seem to have any purpose - not raising funds for any reason, not to see who would win, none of the typical reasons.

After I had passed my test and had just come back to say good-bye to him, he said he had something for me.  It was a poster for a play that he was going to be in.  Two Spiritual Lions.  He said he had directed it and was going to be acting in it.  I promised I would go to see it.

Before the night of the play, I looked it up.  It was a play written by Sri Chinmoy, a Bengali spiritual leader who promoted peace and harmony through sport.  One of the many things he had done was to start the World Harmony Run, a global torch relay, seeking to strengthen international friendship and understanding.

I was so taken by the play, I started to read more about Sri Chinmoy, who also taught meditation.  I found his words comforting.  I kept The Wings of Joy on my night table and read it again and again, and uploaded Flute Music for Meditation on my iPhone.    

In the last few weeks, I returned to Sri Chinmoy for comfort.  I bought a book of his meditation techniques.  One of my favourites has been this:

Remain unaffected by the waves.  Meditation is like going to the bottom of the sea, where everything is calm and tranquil.  On the surface, there may be a multitude of waves, but the sea is not affected below.  In its deepest depths, the sea is all silence.  When we start meditating, first we try to reach our inner existence, our true existence - that is to say, the bottom of the sea.  Then, when the waves come from the outside world, we are not affected.  Fear, doubt, worry and all the earthly turmoil will just wash away, because inside us is solid peace.  Thought cannot touch us, because our mind is all peace, all silence, all one-ness.  Like fish in the sea, they jump and swim but leave no mark.  So when we are in our highest meditation, we feel that we are the sea, and the animals in the sea cannot affect us.  We feel that we are the sky, and all the birds flying past cannot affect us.  Our mind is the sky and our heart is the infinite sea.  This is meditation. 

The things happening to me are the waves and I am trying to be unaffected by them.  I am trying to remain in the depths of the sea and my inner existence. 

It doesn't always work, but it helps.  And when I am scared, I read a few more of Sri Chinmoy's words.  He also helps me to understand why suffering is necessary.  It is a purification of the soul.  Suffering can be to atone for sins in a previous life - Dharma - but it can also be to allow one to understand humanity better, an experience that God wants to have through us.

Sri Chinmoy passed away just a few days before I went to see my French teacher's play.  But he did not consider death to be the end, just part of the spiritual journey. 

And I never saw my French teacher again.  I think he came into my life to introduce me to Sri Chinmoy (and help me get a C in French).  Who would have thought that it would be a Franco-Ontario who would bring a Bengali spiritual leader into my life?

Clouds and sunshine

Amid the storm of my feelings this weekend, a few rays of light….

 

….Amrita’s friend who tells her mother she can so come to our house hungry because we are practically like family.

….Dinner at a friend’s house where everyone is nice and I am able to just enjoy myself for a bit.

….Amrita who falls asleep with my arms tightly wrapped around her.

….A friend who is moving away who gives Aveen her old guitar (a beautiful guitar) because he loves to play.

….A plunge in the pool which is freezing but exhilarating and makes me feel good for a few minutes.

….Being close to the earth as I pull out the weeds in my garden.

….The warm night wind as I make my nightly pilgrimage to the Blessed Sacrament.

 

 

 

 

 

A Tree Grows in the Glebe

Many lifetimes ago, when Jaime and I lived in Centretown, we would often go for walks to the Glebe in the spring.  We loved the Glebe because it was filled with flowering trees in the spring  – lilac, apple and cherry blossoms, magnolia.  All stunning pinks and purples and whites, some with beautiful fragrances, some with just pure visual beauty.  The flowers were short-lived, often for just a few days in the month of May.  And then with a rough wind, they would disappear, re-integrating with the earth.

I always loved those trees.

When we finally bought a house in the Glebe, there was a beautiful, old apple tree in the backyard.  For a few days in May, it would flower. One year, I was lucky enough to have a cold during the days the tree flowered and I stayed home for two days, just looking at it.  I cried when the blooms were gone.  And I was sad about the tree when we sold that house.

Last spring, as I was waiting and healing and wondering what the universe was trying to tell me and wanted me to do, I remembered a favourite book I had read in childhood – A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.  One of my favourite teachers Sister Murphy gave me a copy of the book when I was in Grade 6.  I loved that book.  I loved Francie!  She had such indomitable spirit, growing up in poverty and learning about love and life.  I read the book again and again.  Last winter, I picked up the book again for comfort and came upon the afterword written by the author Betty Smith.  She wrote that to have a truly meaningful life, one must: plant a tree, raise a child, and write a book.  (She explained that she didn’t necessarily mean these things literally.  For example, writing a book could be a metaphor for working industriously at anything.)

However, I do want to do those three things, so I decided that, if I lived, I would try to follow Betty’s path for a meaningful life. 

I am blessed to have two beautiful children to raise, so I think I am well covered for that.  I wish I could have or adopt another - I really do - but I can't. So I did what I can do. Sponsor a little girl Nandini in India. Maybe I am making some difference in her life.  Maybe one day I will meet her.

I have always wanted to write a book, and writing has always been part of my life.  In school, I would always be writing short stories and pestering my teachers to read them.  I had a notebook filled with stories about my fictional character Julie Anderson and her crush on “Brian”.  In high school, my English teacher told me that I was the most talented student he had ever had in his 40 year career, and he wrote on my work “This could and should be published.”  And yet I did not continue to write enough or try to get published.  A friend reminded me the other day about a literary journal I started years ago when I published lots of other writers and I got to know all kinds of writers from Ottawa and beyond.  Yet, I still haven’t published anything or written my novel.  I have plans to change that.  Bold plans.  If I live. 

Last spring, Jaime and I decided we would plant a tree.  A magnolia.  The only problem was that our house faces north and we can’t plant anything in our south-facing backyard because there is no grass or soil there, only asphalt and an enormous, ugly quadruple garage that we can’t do anything about because it is a structure shared with our neighbours (who like the garage).  A gardener friend and I walked all the streets of the Glebe last year and noticed that none of the magnolia trees were on the south side of the streets.  Nonetheless, on Mother’s Day last year, we went out to Knipple Nursery and picked out a baby magnolia.  We asked if it would survive facing north.  Preferably, it would face south, but the Glebe has a micro-climate, so maybe, maybe, it would survive.  So we planted the tree, our baby, on the cold and windy Mother’s Day of last year.  Though we do not know much about gardening or planting trees (or apparently even that you are supposed to get a permit for planting a tree!), we watered it and we nurtured it and we loved it.  We planted a little garden around it, planting bulbs for spring flowers last fall, in the dark, Amrita and I, with a flashlight, our hands freezing.  In the cold of winter, we wrapped the magnolia and we talked about it often all winter, wondering and hoping that it would survive.

After a long winter, and a cold and rainy spring, this Mother’s Day, the very first blooms burst out from our Magnolia.  By the end of the week, the tree was brimming with beautiful white flowers with a deep pink inside.  So beautiful.  Everyone who walked by smiled and told us how lovely it was.  Every chance we got, Jaime and I admired our tree and took pictures of it.  Our tree.  Planted with our own bare hands. 

Our magnolia survived, against the odds, on the wrong side of the street, blessed by a fortunately and unlikely micro-climate, nurtured with our love.  And bloomed.     

Now the blooms have already started to fall from the tree.  The rain is supposed to come in tonight, and rough winds with it.  The flowers will be gone, maybe by tomorrow, but will leave green leaves of life for the rest of the summer.  And then those too shall fall.  Another winter will come.  Another threat.  We will wrap it again, and pray for it and hope.  Hope that it survives another winter and another threat.

And blooms again.