Gratitude – Post 129 – Summer

I am grateful for summer, August specifically, though it comes with mixed feelings.

It was warm today, the sun persistent, but trying not to be hot, surpassing that threshold without intention. August is ending, as I write this, the calendar waiting for lift-off, for the checkered flag that says – August is over.

I have noticed that conversations have shifted from planning backyard picnics to discussing the return to school and what that means for children, for parents, for teachers. Nights are cooler, the air through my open window is fresh, making me sink deeper under my blankets. Darkness settles in earlier, as if I hadn’t been paying attention to its approach and it seems to pounce on me. “How can it be dark already,” I say, looking for answers on my watch. My watch says nothing about the darkness or anything else really, other than how many steps I performed today, ready to applaud and send out virtual fireworks when I step past the pre-determined destination and it tells the time, but not the darkness.

As I found my enthusiasm to crawl from bed this morning, I was remembering an August 30th many years ago. It was late afternoon, my new baby was asleep on the bed beside me, her arms over her head, the sign that she was in definite sleep mode and I could rest my weary body beside her. The curtain was lifted almost parallel to the floor, an August breeze eager to get inside my house. I was new to this mothering thing, not quite sure of myself yet, though I had six weeks under my belt. Six weeks seemed to be the mark of survival. Mothers used to be obligated to return to work six weeks after they gave birth to a child, as if easing into motherhood was similar to running the hundred-metre dash. How hard can it be, “they” said. Get to six weeks and you’re home free.

On this particular afternoon, John Denver was in my radio singing Season Suite. One of the verses went like this – It seems a shame to see September swallowed by the wind – And more than that it’s oh so sad to see the summer end – And though the changing colors are a lovely thing to see – If it were mine to make the change I think I’d let it be. Before the song had finished, I was in tears, sobbing into my pillow so as not to wake my baby and I couldn’t stop. The image of August heading into the sunset, with merely a wave over her shoulder seemed a greater sadness than I could bear. Those with more mothering behind them nodded knowingly at my confession. Postpartum depression, they said., shaking their heads, convinced another new mother couldn’t handle the burden, the commitment, the interrupted sleep, the endless diapers. It will pass, they assured me. Steady as she goes. That was forty-one years ago, and that same “postpartum depression” hits every August 30th, with or without John Denver lulling me into sadness.

I loved everything about summer when my daughters were growing up. I loved bicycles piled at the backdoor, the wheels still spinning as they ran into the house to refuel. I loved their grass-stained knees and their unkept long hair tied up in something that resembled braids. I loved the eruption of forts in the living room on rainy days or under the swing set on hot days. I loved freezie wrappers piled high in the garbage can and snuck into cracks here and there and everywhere. I loved bathing suits that hardly had a chance to dry between swims and bare legs galloping on ponies, and giggles from the deep grass where they fell intentionally, their legs somewhere over their heads. I loved hay forts in the newly stacked hay, fresh from the field, the smell of timothy and alfalfa lingering on their hair when I tucked them into bed. I loved the freedom, the lack of order and planning, the be anything you want to be kind of days.

I bid you farewell, sweet summer. Thank you for warming the water in my lake, for your wind in the trees that allows me to hear the Reef Point cabin again, the screen banging like a starting pistol as we ran to the lake’s edge and thank you for letting me pretend to feel Rainy Lake water on my toes. Hurry back.

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Gratitude – Post 128 – A Misplaced Imagination

I am grateful for Write magazine, a benefit of membership with The Writers’ Union of Canada.

I have heard from other writers in the last several months, each expressing a sense of stifled imagination despite having more time to dedicate to their craft, time they would have spent commuting and/or at work outside the home. Worry and changes in their creative patterns have, at times, choked off the flow of ideas, blurred the images knocking on the inside of their heads trying to find their way to paper. I am familiar with the discomfort of a misplaced imagination. I would prefer to be a stranger to this particular malady, to keep a healthy distance from it as though we know each other only slightly, enough for the exchange of a benign nod, but …

I belong to the Writers’ Union of Canada and as a member, I receive the quarterly Write magazine, filled with resources, opinions, announcements, lots to feed my writerly mind. It is the one magazine, succinct and tightly written, that I read cover to cover, taking in every word, highlighting messages on various pages in the hopes I will remember them for more than ten minutes. The summer issue recently arrived in my mailbox, on a day when I was trying desperately to crawl out from under the heavy load of negative news. Lo and behold – I was rescued.

Write Magazine

Third column in, I read the wise words of Editor Rhonda Kronyk, sharing her story of consciously caring for her mental health during these uneasy and uncertain days. She and a friend have emailed each other every Sunday for more than two years, a weekly exchange they call Sunny Side Up. The exercise has helped them focus and to see the goodness in each day, not to miss something off to the side, and the spin-off is they often become part of making “good things happen”, and their exchanges have become even more essential these days for their sense of wellbeing. I exclaimed happily and loudly with a hearty YES when I was finished reading and her words were, as we like to say, exactly what the “doctor ordered”. I am, generally speaking, not a negative person. I write a blog about that for which I feel gratitude and it helps me focus on what is working in the world rather than the burgeoning inventory of what isn’t working. The idea of friends sharing their Sunny Side Up messages recharged my depleted battery.

It’s Sunday morning as I write this, sitting with a cup of aromatic coffee that I most likely will forget to drink, with photos and inspirational words in front of me, pinned to a large bulletin board above my desk, along with ideas and kind letters and memories. It all plays a role in launching me into the day with a joyful heart and to set my head into its writing mode. I turned the page in my Write magazine and read the soothing words of Ailsa Ross shared under Writer’s Prompt, where she wrote about protecting and feeding her own muse, of walks in the forest, of sitting by the creek and letting the sound of tumbling water bring her the metaphors and similes she needs, of finding stories in the night sky, of bringing back something from her walks, such as a broken alder branch that, while waiting in water in a jar on her desk, brings her new leaves that whisper words such as “hopeful, imaginative, bright.” Ailsa’s finding of her imagination fed mine. It turns out Ailsa and I both had the wonderful experience of being the Writer-in-Residence for Berton House in Dawson City, Yukon. Ailsa wrote The Girl Who Rode A Shark, and other stories of daring women, illustrated by Amy Blackwell and released in 2019, a book filled with stories of courage and adventure, stories of girls and women from around the world both historical and contemporary, a book which girls of every age would do well to tuck into a comfy chair with. My copy is at the ready. Thank you, Rhonda, and thank you Ailsa, for the sunshine and for the inspiration.

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Gratitude – Post 127 – The Village

I am grateful for Andrew and Ray, and for Abby and Ben. Let me explain.

Oran a azu nwa, translated to English – it takes a village to raise a child – is an African proverb, specifically from Nigeria’s Igbo people. The saying is familiar to many of us, but I am not sure we give it much thought. The Igbo people believe an entire village must interact with its children, to provide a safe and healthy environment to ensure the children grow into respectful and strong adults. Perhaps that proverb has greater significance now more than ever with so many families spread out across the globe, with children having less access to cousins and aunts and grandparents on a daily basis.

Many miles separate me from three of my four grandchildren and as a result, I can’t be part of their daily worlds, to share what wisdom, if any, I have worthy of sharing. I find other ways to let them know they are loved unconditionally, but it isn’t the same as being together, to pull them on to my knee when their world is difficult, to throw my arms over my head to share their joy. I find tremendous comfort in knowing my grandchildren have role models, have people who form their village.

I am thinking specifically now about four members of my grandson Linden’s village – Andrew and Ray, and Abby and Ben, my daughter’s close friends with whom my grandson spends true quality time. I am regularly in awe of their kindness, a kindness that runs to the very core of who they are, is not a costume they pull on from time to time, but rather a spirit that is firmly embedded in their character. They speak to Linden with focused intent, they greet him not as an extension of my daughter, their friend, but as a person in Linden’s own right, a separate soul. They treat him with respect and as such, have expectations of him that he honours. Each have their way of interacting with Linden, of telling him who they are and how they view the world.

Linden looks to these four to learn how to be a caring citizen of his village. They teach him by example – action has far more impact than words. Linden will form his foundation of what it means to be a man, to develop his strength of character as he watches Andrew and Ray and Ben solve problems, watches them interact with friends, with strangers, in difficult situations, in joyful moments, who laugh with him, who comfort Linden when he is frustrated or sad. Linden will grow into a man with a firm understanding that men can nurture, men can be soft and gentle, men can cry, men can be determined advocates, men can be artists/creators and teachers and stay-at-home dads; men can do anything.

I am thinking of one game night, not long ago. Linden is six years old and sometimes he gets wound up when he’s with his village, bringing on a headache. Linden’s “village” was quietly talking to Linden about choosing a game that might help him be calm and not to develop a headache. Linden had an idea. He does yoga for kids with instruction from an App on his mother’s iPad. Before anyone had a turn for that particular game, Linden asked them to bring their hands together, drop their head, close their eyes and whisper Namaste. And they did, practising intentional calmness while they played the game, without snickering and without thinking it odd that a six-year-old’s brain worked in this way. What better message can there be for a child than to be heard, to be seen, to have a voice, to think for himself. I am so very grateful for this these people and I am inspired by them. The world is a better version of itself with them in it and Linden is a lucky boy to be part of their village.

 

           

 

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Gratitude – Post 126 – My clothesline

I am grateful for my clothesline. I love my clothesline. Love love love it. I have mentioned my devotion before and those who know me, are well aware of my affection for the fifty-some feet of white “marine” cotton rope that I hung between two hemlock trees in my side yard, complete with pulleys. I built a deck upon which to stand while hanging my laundry, miscalculating the effort required to climb to its summit with two steps, again confirming my lack of credentials for building things, which never stops me from trying. That’s a bit of a run-on sentence. My apologies.

I was hanging my sheets the other day, the sun warm, the breeze ideal, and I was smiling my oh-I-love-you-clothesline sort of smile and it got me thinking, as most things do. Why do I love my clothesline with such devoted zeal? I examined the possibilities. My clothesline saves me a bit of cash on my significant Nova Scotia Power bill, which charges me 15.805 cents per kilowatt-hour, ranking 9/13 in Canada as compared to Ontario’s average of 12.5 cents per kilowatt-hour with a ranking of 4/13, according to energyhub.org, in case you wanted to know.

My clothesline creates an environmentally responsible activity, my dryer silent while the sunny breeze dries my clothes at no cost to me or the environment. The smell of my sheets fresh off the line is a fragrance like no other, that I breathe in deeply as I snuggle under my sheets at night. But surely there is something more at work here.

My clothesline always makes me think of Annie and when I hang my laundry out, she is with me and I am transported to a time when Annie tied a flour sack over my shoulders, a royal cape, while Annie did the wash, the sheets and pillow cases snapping in the wind. Annie would love my clothesline, too.

There is a profound sense of calm for me, that comes with using the clothesline, rather than the electric dryer. It is a relying on one’s self in a pure sense. It feels, in those moments, almost meditative, certainly soothing.

We, like many families, didn’t have a clothes dryer while I was growing up. My mother hung the laundry on the clothesline twelve months of the year, using a large wooden clothes rack in a spare bedroom on rainy days. She never considered this a burden, that I was aware of. It was a fact of life, simple. But perhaps she, like me, found those moments of laundry hanging a chance to pause the busy day, to reflect, to breathe deeply and forget all the ordinary chaos that swirls around us on any given day.

I hear others remind me that the clothesline doesn’t remove wrinkles and a dryer is required for that. A good wind solves that problem, but of course there are wrinkles, but I also love an iron, one that hisses and spits. My Grandma Sutherland would visit us and iron every tea towel in sight and then she would take on the pillowcases, spritzing them with lavender water to help us sleep, and then the sheets, and then my father’s shirts and then …. Ironing, to my grandmother, was a way to make sense of the world, to make parts of her life pristine and smooth and wrinkle-free.

I love laundry day. I miss the clothesline filled with soft flannel diapers and little t-shirts and socks no bigger than my thumb. I used to drive by a home of a large family and the clothesline was always busy. The clothes were hung in colour formation, like the rainbow, and every single time I drove past, I had to pause and take in the artistic expression that can only be created with laundry. I didn’t know the family living in that particular house, but the hanging of the colours never failed to brighten my day, to bring a smile and a pause. I wish I had taken the time to thank her, to have knocked on her door and said, “Well done!”

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Gratitude – Post 125 – The Soul of Nova Scotia

I am grateful for the soul of Nova Scotia, my adopted home, that has been tested in the darkest way.

I don’t often write about difficult subjects in my blog. There is no shortage of negative news swirling around day after day, the madness and greed, the ignorance and waste. It can be exhausting and draining, so I leave that to others. I try to focus on what shines rather than what harms. I can’t find my way to that place today. I feel lost in the abyss of life. Though the tragic unthinkable violence in Nova Scotia didn’t take the life of someone I knew personally, the madness touches us all across the country, brings harm to our lives, lets Evil in, allows the unimaginable to become real.

We think of our own little pocket of the world as being safe sanctuary, where we can pull the covers up at night and feel protected, our innocence intact, our hope polished to what we think is a bright impenetrable sheen. But then ….

We know madness and violence has no fixed address. It wanders and finds breath in the most sacred of places. We want answers, we want to blame, to point a finger and say, “It was you. It was you who stole our precious innocence.” But in truth, in our most human of souls, there are no answers. There is no explanation that can restore the lives devastated by loss, no words that will rebuild a community’s sense of shelter.

To quantify this act of inhumane cruelty is an added blow to those suffering. To call an act the “worst in Canadian history” reeks of ambulance chasing. We have all had our “worst” day, our greatest loss, our heart broken beyond what we think can be repaired. We need not compare, need not hold our “loss” up against another’s for measurement.

This Nova Scotia community, that I have driven through and admired its pristine quaint beauty, are experiencing their “worst” on a public stage. When the public forum and discussion has drifted away, these people will quietly go about the rebuilding of lives shattered, of putting the pieces back in some order that may look like it once did, but they are forever changed.

Evil won’t win. It never does, even when it seems mighty and too powerful to stand against. Evil can’t sustain itself, can’t be fed when acts of kindness and beauty rise up from the brokenness, hope finding new root, love having put its arms out to embrace one another, to hold each other close, to say I am here for you. Evil hasn’t a chance against love and kindness.

We light candles. We bow our heads. We reach out with money that we are able to share. We ache for each other. These seem small acts against something so violent and ugly. But even the smallest candle, even the smallest voice takes the light away from Evil and shines the path for us to follow. Refusing to give Evil a name, refusing to tell his story, weakens Evil even more.

The sun will rise tomorrow even for those who can’t bear to look right now, can’t bear to imagine that life might ever be ordinary again. One day soon they will feel the warm breath of life on their faces and will smile and will take up the path again, extending their hand and heart the next time Evil crashes through.

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Gratitude – Post 124 – Linden and Dianne

I am grateful for Linden and Dianne Swansburg and the example they make. Let me explain.

The expression “it takes a village to raise a child” has always been true, but recently I was reminded that it takes a child to show us what truly matters. My six-year-old grandson has “lost” someone very precious to him. Linden didn’t misplace his special friend; she didn’t move away and not tell him. She died, suddenly though not easily, understandably but unexpectedly. It seemed to happen so fast, as death tends to do, leaving us unprepared. Her passing has been Linden’s introduction to grief, that first difficult lesson of what life is all about.

Dianne was Linden’s surrogate grandma, the sort of person who loved him eagerly, who let Linden be himself in her presence, who picked him up from school on Tuesdays and spent happy times together until his mom picked him up. Dianne and Linden did crafts together, went on walks, visited the pet store regularly while Linden tried to convince Dianne her life would be so much richer with a hamster in her home. She made rice krispie “cake” complete with sprinkles, which is incredibly fabulous in Linden’s opinion and he suggested I adjust my recipe accordingly. I did. They played with Lego and read books and created dinosaur eggs they hid in plaster of paris. Dianne always had some activity ready to go when Linden visited.

Linden listened intently to his mother’s explanation of where Dianne had gone and why and though it filled him with immeasurable sadness, he tried very hard to understand and what his life would be like now, without Dianne in it. His immediate concern was not for himself, but for Dave, Dianne’s husband, and their family dog and would they be okay without Dianne’s love.

Linden and his mom have created the idea of performing Diane Deeds, to honour her memory and what she meant to them and to follow her example. A Dianne Deed is an act of kindness for no apparent reason, not for credit or praise, but purely for reaching out to someone, to a stranger, to a friend, to a relative, to brighten his or her day. A Dianne Deed isn’t measured in size, isn’t judged for benefit or return. It can be as simple as bumping heads with a “wild” person in the grocery store. You know those sorts of people, strangers on the street. After bumping heads with this wild person, Linden apologized and took responsibility, asking if the wild person was okay. Turns out, she was. At school, Linden tidied up the cloak room without being asked after his teacher grumbled about the mess. “Dianne Deed of the Day,” he told his mom when he got home, happily with a thumbs up.

We can never have too many people loving us; there is no such thing. Linden’s life was enriched by someone who had no obligation to love him, no duty or responsibility. Dianne loved Linden just because.

Understanding something removes the fear of it. Linden understands his sadness, but Dianne’s death is not something to fear. He replaces the ache in his heart with being kind to others and in doing so, he keeps Dianne close by.

Linden will attend the celebration of Dianne’s life and along with his mother he will invite those who attend to jot into a book a favourite memory of how Dianne touched his or her life. Linden will offer up his six-year-old conversation and curiousity, and he will help others with their grief. And he will do so because he is Linden and because Dianne’s love helped him be the person he is.

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Gratitude – Post 123 – Uncle Dick

I am grateful for “Uncle Dick”. I find myself, this morning as I sit at my desk, thinking about those people who helped shape my character when I was growing up. Not the idols whose pictures I taped to my bedroom walls. Not the athletes who inspired me to run faster and jump higher. Not the movie stars whose imaginary characters made me swoon, but those men and women who led by example, who quietly went about their day-to-day lives, their decency and integrity leaving a swath of goodness for those of us coming behind to follow.

Dick Lyons was one of those leaders, and I have no doubt he left an indelible mark on everyone he met. I was little when I came to know “Uncle Dick”, riding in the trailer behind his snow machine on what seemed like a very long winter trail to the Kennett’s cabin. He tucked us into the trailer, ensuring we were safe and warm, always with an air of this is going to be fun, as he ferried load after load of children to the cabin. A skating rink awaited us, a fire to keep warm beside, and laughter, lots and lots of laughter.

One Christmas Eve my family was invited to the Lyons’ home to enjoy a Christmas pageant put on by Kelly and Sue and the “Stewart Boys”. I don’t remember the content of that pageant, but I do remember the joy on Uncle Dick’s face, as he watched his precious girls and nephews perform, on their make-shift stage, the rest of us sitting in our pretend theatre seating, complete with popcorn. He applauded with sincere pride and that look on his face lingers with me still.

I was one of the fortunate who got dragged on an inner tube behind Dick’s boat, who got to eat wieners cooked over a fire and eaten off a stick. I was a lucky child who got to listen to his story-telling, getting lost in the sound of his voice and thinking he must have known every single person that ever lived in Fort Frances.

I was thinking of words that describe Dick and kindness tops the list, a kindness that treated everyone the same, a welcoming curiousity that made each of us feel seen and heard. Dick had the most wonderful laugh, one that if you heard you couldn’t help but join in, a laugh that chased away anything that might make us sad. Dick was grateful, found gratitude in every situation. He lived his life with humble eagerness and enthusiasm. He welcomed my daughters into his world, let them call him Uncle Dick, tied their shoes, lifted them to safety, bent down to ask them their stories.

What do each of us leave behind, what will our legacy be? If we could come but even half way to the man Dick Lyons was, then we will have left the world in good shape. Oh, how I wish I could re-visit those Sunday afternoons, could time travel to when our families shared time together. I would tell Uncle Dick how very glad I was to soak up his gentle kindness and how blessed I was to borrow him and pretend I was his real family. But I think he knows, and I think he is glad for it.

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Gratitude – Post 122 -Ahmad Meree

I am grateful for Ahmad Meree, a twenty-eight-year-old refugee from Aleppo, Syria, who found his way to Canada in 2016. He wrote and stars in his play Suitcase. The play ran in Toronto until February 1, 2020, performed in Ahmad’s native language of Arabic with English subtitles screened along the top of the stage. The play portrays the difficulty of fleeing a country being devastated by war and violence, of leaving behind all that is one’s community, all that is home and how does one pack for such a departure, what does one take, what does one need and make room for, how much of our life can we fit into a single suitcase. And it got me thinking.

If I had to flee my life what would I pack in my metaphorical suitcase. I don’t mean my toothbrush and socks, my hiking boots and running shoes, but what would I want to take with me so that I might arrive at the other end of my journey and still be myself.

I would pack sounds, the sound of my dad’s Spanish guitar, his version of Old Black Joe that I tried to play as a youngster, that would have sounded like paint drying, the long pause between chords while my fingers contorted for the next; the sound of the zing of our snowsuits against the aluminum while we slid down the barn roof, free-flying for moments before landing in the snow below; the sound of a winter bonfire, the wood snapping and hissing as it devoured the wood’s moisture; the sound of my daughters’ first words, the jumping into language and their cry at night, the soft whimper as I settled into the rocker in the half light as they purred back to sleep.

I would pack the smell of freshly cut grass and my grandma’s buns rising in the sunshine, tucked like a baby into the blankets on the sofa; the smell of a newborn calf and new born puppies; the smell of the soil coming to life after winter’s retreat; the smell of wild roses and the musty earthy smell of the creek ambling through my childhood farm.

I would pack the taste of Ishgy-Gishgy cake, the secret family recipe from my Grandma Stewart, a recipe Samantha would have me lock inside a vault to keep its secret; the salty taste of kissing away my daughters’ tears, of still being able to heal all their wounds by pulling them on to my knee and hearing their story.

I would pack the sting of my father’s Saturday whiskers across my bare back; the touch of little hands inside mine and my hand inside my father’s, vanishing inside his giant paw; the touch of the boy holding my hand for the first time that left me a little dizzy and breathless.

I would pack the choir of faces I have called friend, the ones who make my heart light up, the ones who know my real self, the friends whose hurts and joys became my own; of seeing my newborn for the first time, her face so utterly perfect and falling in love with her so completely, knowing I would never be the same. I would pack the sight of the Rainy River hurrying by my childhood home and Annie’s arms open wide in welcome as I race across the field to her.

I would pack it all, folded neatly and pressed into the space, tucked securely as I closed the lid of the suitcase, waiting for its lock to click into place. If only.

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Gratitude – Post 121 – Mathematics

I am grateful for mathematics.

There is an artistic beauty in mathematics that both calms my soul and feeds my enthusiasm. I don’t often share my opinion on the subject of mathematics with those around me, because my words are often met with harsh contrariness. I love mathematics, truly love it, and I cannot remember ever having not loved mathematics.

“The study of mathematics, like the Nile, begins in minuteness, but ends in magnificence,” said Charles Caleb Colton sometime in the early 1800s and when I read that quote early on in my education I knew he spoke for me. I had the great fortune of having Mr. Hickling for Grade Thirteen Functions and Relations and as I watched him scribbling equations on the blackboard I knew that mathematics was as automatic to him as breathing, as walking, as blinking his eyes and I do remember reveling in that awareness, a privilege to be witness to his love of mathematics, his understanding of it.

Very little of life makes sense and a lot of it is painful and frustrating and difficult and that is the very nature of being human and alive. Fairness seldom comes into play and I struggle with that fact on a regular basis, but mathematics is beautifully honest, lives within its own rules, and takes us from learning to add, to performing long division, to logarithms and polar coordinates, to “infinity and beyond”, as Buzz Lightyear would say.

Studying mathematics helps us to tell time, in that an understanding of fractions helps decipher an analog clock and the placement of its hands on its face in relation to time. The meandering ratio of a river is the relationship of the distance a river travels from its mouth. The ratio of a river’s length to the distance from its mouth approaches pi, a number that cannot be stated as a fraction, whose very expression is infinity. Bees are masters of geometry, which is the study of the size, shape, positions and dimensions of things. Bees use hexagons in the creation of their honeycombs because they fit perfectly together without waste or spaces. These are merely simple expressions of the evidence that mathematics lives all around us.

I minored in Calculus in university and of all my classes, I have to say that my Calculus lab on Tuesday afternoons for three hours, from 2:30 to 5:30 was the class I rushed to and was the class I never missed. Calculus lab was where we went to “practice” what we learned in our lectures. Calculus was brain candy, was invigorating, was soothing, was comforting, was simply wonderful and I miss it.

Logarithms are used to solve exponential equations and are used to explain earthquakes and the brightness of stars, to name just two applications. I can no longer do logarithms, can’t even remember where to begin. But maybe, like having run a marathon or having climbed Mount Everest or having swam the English Channel, it is an achievement that cannot be reduced or removed, we carry it with us always, even when we can no longer perform it.

Albert Einstein said, “Pure mathematics is, in its way, the poetry of logical ideas.” I like that. Thank you, Mr. Einstein and thank you, Mr. Hickling.

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Gratitude – Post 120 – Charles Dickens

I am grateful for Charles Dickens.

My children’s Christmas art work is up, the creations from their early childhood. Christmas lights are up. Nat and Bing are singing their versions of seasonal favourites to me. The snow comes and goes. The pileated woodpeckers are providing their background percussion as I walk. A deer bounds over the road in front of me; Gracie thinks of taking up chase, but reconsiders when I remind her of good manners. Squirrels share jokes in the trees, their voices comical. I am blessed with such a peaceful space around me. I tuck into my chair with a warm cup of hot chocolate and a shortbread cookie or two and celebrate Christmas with my favourite gift: remembering.

Every year I watch A Christmas Carol and am reminded, as we all are, of the importance of the season, regardless of our faith. The ghosts come and go and Ebenezer Scrooge isn’t transformed into something new, but rather, his soul is reconnected to the child he used to be. We are all born perfect and pure, without racism and prejudice in our genes, without judgment and unkindness in our actions. I think Christmas is meant to reconnect us all to our perfect selves.

Dickens had to leave school as a youngster and work to support his family. He knew education would help impoverished children have a better life and after a visit to a school where he witnessed the horrendous neglect of London’s poor children he penned A Christmas Carol, 176 years ago, and still this story captivates and reminds us of what matters. I think about those ghosts in Charles Dickens’ story and what they might have to say if they visited me.

If the Ghost of Christmas Past came calling on me on Christmas Eve, the first of the visitors to Ebenezer Scrooge, I would offer him a cup of something warm, tea perhaps or mulled wine. I would tell him all about my childhood Christmases, the snow sprayed from a can on to the windows’ glass in the shapes of horses and sleighs, of stars and angels; Christmas breakfast of cocoa and toast, dipping and watching the butter flow into the cocoa; my mother on the piano playing all of her Christmas favourites; Perry Como’s soothing voice reciting The Night Before Christmas on the scratchy, well-worn record; hanging my father’s work socks on the back of a chair, claiming which chair we wanted to snuggle in on Christmas morning to pull out the surprises that Santa had brought with always a mandarin orange in the toe; my sister and I certain we could hear Santa’s sleigh on the roof and the “prancing and pawing of each little hoof”. I hope the ghost could offer up some memories of mine that have slipped away, so that I might revisit them again, could hear the sound of my father’s voice, his laugh, the touch of his hand. If only he could show me the scenes of my daughters when they were wee ones and in awe of Christmas.

The Ghost of Christmas Present might have some frightening reminders for me: the environment, government that forgets its promises and its obligations, neighbours arguing over perceived differences, my sketchy relationship with vegetables.

I like to think the Ghost of Christmas Yet To Come would have a happy story for me. The ghost would pat my hand and tell me not to worry, that we will stop holding others to a higher standard than ourselves, and we will rediscover there is more than one view to any subject. I’d like to think he would say we will all be welcome at the metaphorical dinner table and will know that spending time with each other in laughter and love is far more important than what we wrap and place under the tree.

I wish you peace, joy, and love. And I hope we all find our way back to our child selves.

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