Friday, 24 June 2022

Grace and Lynn - In Garments Made of Love


It's been a long time since I have posted here. All I could write about was grief, and I decided to stop a while. 

This wasn't meant to be a blog post. It was to be a short note that I would stuff in with the clothes I am sending Lynn. But it got longer, and more intense. When I was done, I wanted to share it with you.

                                                                                                                    24 June 2022

Precious Lynn,

I have hung onto these clothes for many years, since the original owner, my sweet and elderly friend Grace, died and left her husband Bill and I bereft and sorry.

I want you to have them. I hope you or Lee or someone you love can make use of them. If not, they are yours to pass on or hang onto as I have.

Grace died about thirty-five years ago, and these were old then, archived in drawers and closets.

Grace and Bill rented the main floor of a large Victorian house set back against the alley. There were three plum trees, an apple, a vast rhododenron, and many smaller plants in our big front yard at 1663 Frances Street, just off Commercial Drive.

Grace couldn't leave her floor. There was a long, steep staircase at the front preventing her, and a good verandah where she would sometimes stand and take in the air. Her cussing, grade three educated husband, Bill, had a complicated relationship with the world, but Grace assured me he was a good man, so I persisted until I could finally be his friend.

Many years before, when Grace was a waitress at a workers' café on Hastings Street (The Milo), she and another waitress , and a fellow her friend knew, went to Ambleside Beach on their day off. The friend and the fellow went into the bushes, leaving Grace alone for awhile.

Grace raised the resulting boy.

At some point Bill, one of her customers, became angry at how her boss treated her, and told the man she was quitting and coming to live with him.

Grace was one of the gentlest women I have ever known. Her dream, never realised, was to one day travel by car all the way across Canada, to see it all.

You would have loved her.

For many, most, of the years of my life I suffered great emotional pain and despair. I would cry my heart out and curse, hoping they couldn't hear me through those old timber floors. I asked her once if my crying bothered her. She lied, said she couldn't even hear me. It was a safe harbour to live through my grief.

I'm telling you all this so you can know, in a small way, the woman who bought these clothes so many years ago. I loved her, and I love you. May you be safe and loved as Grace was with Bill. Imperfect, loyal, and kind. It's all we need, and all we need to be.



Monday, 6 December 2021

Another Fine Day in Dreamland


A lot of people, when they lose someone, encounter them again in dreams or visions or words spoken in their ear when unexpected; a touch, a warm rush of air, a knowing that they are present although they are gone. This is not the situation with me. I have very, very rarely in my lifetime encountered a lost one in a dream and I have never simply felt their presence. But last night the clouds parted for a moment.

I’ve been feeling beset by grief again. It came up late one night — very late — and I said to it, I’m sorry, this is not the right time for you. 

Never say that to your grief.

So my grief retreated and I went to sleep and the next day and the day after that and the day after that I had a weight inside me that drained my energy and made it very difficult to go through the motions of the day. It took me a while to realise that this was my rejected grief, which retreated when commanded but simply stood behind the curtain and found its way into my consciousness in the only way it could.

Yesterday morning I had a co-counselling session with a friend of mine. Co-counselling is a slightly more elaborate form of peer counselling, where two people or three people or a whole group of people take turns as counsellor and as client. In my time as client I spoke of the many things that have been coming up that I am grateful for and happy about. Maybe halfway through I finally said, "You know, I think I may be getting a little depressed and I think it’s because of this grief that I told to go away." My friend said, "Well, do you want to talk about it now?"

So I started to talk. About Vic, of course. I just  told her how the grief was hitting me and why. I talked about having known him almost all my life, so that every part of me, every stage and condition of me, has known and loved him. And that I have loved every time of him, from the baby with the bright yellow hair that seem to be catching the sun and illuminating his beautiful face. His smile, which came so soon and so easily and so often and which again lit his entire face and lit my heart with love. I said that we all loved him, all of the family. We just loved him. So much.

I began to cry, much as my eyes are threatening to do now. Talking about my love for Vic, talking about how beautiful and wonderful and loveable he was allowed me a few moments of feeling my grief directly, in a gentle way, and allowing those tears and those sobs the attention and the expression that they need.

When I was sleeping early this morning I dreamt that I was in my physio office and they were moving things around me and I was puzzled by what was going on. Until I remembered that they’re moving down the hall to a larger location. I said, "Oh, are you moving this weekend?" And suddenly I noticed one of the people who was moving the equipment. He was a young man in his early twenties. He was looking at me as he manoeuvred the equipment to take it down the hall. His whole body was relaxed and his face was lit up with a lovely, humorous smile — just like the one you see in the picture above. To my astonishment, it was Victor. He was here, he was alive, and I thought, "Oh, my God. He’s actually feeling well enough that they’re letting him help with the move." I was so happy.

That was my whole dream. There was no conversation between us. There were no hugs, or tears, just awareness. Contact. Love and the joy of being alive, and being well enough to move.

What a wonderful gift.

Image: Victor James Arnott with our mother, Lorraine Arnott. Photo by the author, circa 1980 something.

Sunday, 28 November 2021

Watching Birds with Vic


I was entering my data for Project FeederWatch today, and they asked, again, that we submit our stories of bird-loving and participation in the project. This time I decided to try it, knowing I had no good stories, but just feeling like giving it a whirl.

The question was about what gets us most excited about participating in the study, or what got us watching birds in the first place, or some such thing. This is what came out:

For me, it isn’t a matter of excitement. It’s a matter of peace. I much prefer the latter over the former, and there is nothing like sitting with the birds and looking out at the garden to find that peace.

This season it is more important than ever that I have FeederWatch to force me to sit down in one place for an hour and just be quiet. My very beloved younger brother, who suffered with cancer for the past two years, died last month. He lived in Manitoba and I was here in Vancouver, unable until this summer to go to him because of COVID-19. Instead, I would talk with him as often as he was able in the time before his death. He didn’t want to think about anything upsetting for the most part, and because I am also (less worryingly) ill I’m not doing a whole lot to report on, so much of our conversation dwelt on the birds in the garden and what the plants were doing, or what his cats were up to, or some animal story he'd seen or read.

Now that Victor is gone I am coping with my grief. Sitting here right now with my computer on my lap, the glass door open and the screen door shut, I can hear the sounds of the goldfinches and bushtits and the nuthatch at the feeders just outside. The Anna's hummingbird is drinking nectar a metre away, and hundreds of crows and dozens of gulls are crying out as they travel the sky.  Now a flock of Canada geese are flying overhead, also giving voice. These are things that Victor would have loved to share with me. I can’t help thinking of him as I sit here, trying not to wish he had ever been to my new home, or that I had spent more time at his, but to stay with the gratitude I have for what we had … and what I still have.

I believe that I will always miss my brother and always grieve his passing, but, even in the midst of the worst of my sadness, seeing the birds, hearing their voices, watching them scuffle with each other over food, I remember the joy that Victor and I shared while he was alive.

So, thank you, FeederWatch, for getting me to sit down and do (almost) nothing, for reminding me to simply be.

Image: Victor and his cat. Photo by Casey.

Monday, 25 October 2021

Grieving A Brother


"I say not this to them that be wise, for they wot it well; but I say it to you that be simple, for ease and comfort: for we are all one in comfort."

 Julian of Norwich, Chapter IX


In the numbness of grief, snatches of thought bring me back to my sadness. These words of Abbess Julian remind me of the comfort I felt in the days leading up to Vic Arnott's memorial service, and on the day itself, that the love and sorrow that I was awash in were equally shared by the others who loved him most, particularly his son, and my sisters and brothers and our mum, but also the many young people whose lives he touched.

This is my cri de coeur. With all its errors and inconsistencies.

Thank you, love that persists despite all obstacles, all failures, all flarings of rage and blame, that you carry me through the darkest hours of life. Thank you, brother, for your existence, for your comforting effect on my scorched soul and heart.

Let every word I write for you be a leaf fallen on a quiet stream. Let it move smoothly along the flow, leaving, let go by my sad fingertips, and may those silent, skimming leaves be prayers of acquiescence, of acceptance turned to joy, some day, some distant day. May the sun's eye glance on them as they travel, catch on snags and windfall, enter the waters again and journey on. May each word, each leaf, each prayer be reflected back to you, brother, your soul a butterfly, moving on, moving on.

I am steeped in sadness unfathomable. I am sorrow, resting on this bank. My beloved brother gone, gone, gone.

May I find my sisters resting on this bank. There, one behind that screen of osier, and one below, stretched out on that rock, and my brothers and our mother and his son — so many voices leave their own words dropping into this stream, rising on soft spray into the air, disappearing into the sky as they are sipped up by the sun.

This comfort is incomplete. It is a beautiful raft, but it cannot bring you back. We live with our chests torn open, Victor, by your loss. Like storm-blasted trees with ribs and heart laid bare. We will live this way, forever, until time softens us again.

I wonder if you ever had the slightest inkling how much you were loved.


Monday, 23 August 2021

Let the Leaves Fall as They May

I love this time of year. It brings out a peacefulness, a gentleness in me. There are so many luminous strands to the web of autumn. The parting of great heat. The sensible but slow transition to a cooler, slower fashion of being. The departure of certain birds and the gradually building gathering of honeybees at every little trough throughout the yard where water can be found, and on the porous plastic domes that cover the hummingbird nectar.

Friends come to mind who I long to talk to. Autumn classes ask for my participation, bringing into my memory, into my entire body, the excited anticipation, the joy of a new school year and all the adventures, all the possibilities in me that it would open up, that it would manifest.

This year, I have to hold back from phoning close friends, from signing up for these older adult classes that are giving me the come hither look. There will be no writers workshops for me with my dear friend Eileen. A little more time putting my book to the fore and everything else to the margins.

But I can’t help, nor do I want to, this feeling of beauty and belonging and joy, in love with every spider, every falling leaf, every cry of a crow, every word in the book I’m reading, everything.

I feel so grateful to the land I live on for its perpetual commitment to change. I am grateful for each season as it comes.

Yesterday, in a moment of poor concentration, I made a table wobble and my favourite teapot fall, breaking off its handle. Of course it is an antique and can’t be replaced. Not worth much money, but an enduring pleasure for me. It’s shape, it’s colour, the tiny details, almost of movement, in its glaze, and the many pleasant moments in it’s company.

Unlike the last time I broke a favourite dish, although I regret my actions and my small loss, it doesn’t feel like a problem that needs attention, or a hurt. It's just a little sad; it just is.

I think I have the fall to thank for that.

Monday, 21 June 2021

Pictures, But Not in an Exhibition

 One of the things that I love to do is to take pictures of whatever catches my attention and makes me go, "Ooh. I like that." Mostly plants or shadows or bits of broken light. Maybe a texture that I like, or an insect. Unfortunately I can’t really do insects very well.

I don’t have a working camera, so I am forced to use either this iPad or an old Samsung phone. I can’t really control much, but that’s kind a like life, isn’t it? The iPad and Instagram, for instance, offer all sorts of filters to change the look of your photo. You can crop it, too. But mostly I don’t do either. 

Sometimes I really like the pictures I take, even if I don’t think they’re spectacular or all that well executed. But there’s something about them that pleases me. So I’m going to put a couple of those in this post to share with you, since otherwise they mostly just hang around on this iPad, waiting to be wiped.