I love summer. It is a time to relax and slow down, sleep in, catch up on reading, renew ourselves with family and friends. I love the lazy days of summer, sitting on my porch in the sun with a book and a cup of iced tea, watching the world go by, or strolling one of the beautiful beaches nearby.
But I also love September. It’s actually a little bit of a relief to return to a routine, to feel the renewed energy that the students bring to our little town, and to be a part of the hustle and bustle of university town life.
For those of us who live in small university towns, this is the last weekend of summer, and in some ways, the end of the old year and the beginning of a new one. Although there are many other facets to our town, because our population increases by 50% each September, our town’s heart beats largely to the rhythm of the academic year. Varsity athletes and international students arrived on campus at the beginning of last week, first year students arrived on Thursday, and by Tuesday, the first day of classes, the returning students will be back on campus and in town. And thus, another cycle begins.
At our university, we have several days of orientation activities for first year students, the “frosh.” One of the highlights is the Commencement Service. It is a service which introduces the frosh to some of the traditions of our university, and also blesses their time and activities at university. When I look around at the assembled faces, I always wonder what the next four or five years will hold for these students. Which courses and professors will inspire them? Which students will emerge as the leaders on campus, in their clubs, on the sports fields, in student politics? Which students will make a difference through their quiet inspiration? And will they leave the university with the same life goals that they had when they entered, or will they undergo a transformative experience that will flip their life plans upside down?
The frosh students are easy to pick out. They are a little bit nervous, slightly terrified, and really excited. Some of them arrive alone, others with parents and other family members in town. When it’s time for the parents to leave, sometimes there are tears, sometimes smiles and laughter, but always there is great anticipation mixed with equally great anxiety. Four years from now, when these same students graduate, we will experience similar emotions, but instead of welcoming them into our community, we will be watching them leave, and, as Jane Siberry writes, “wondering what in the world will the world bring.”
I’ve been at both ends of this spectrum as a parent, with two children who have attended Commencement as frosh, one of whom has also graduated and left home. Letting my kids go has been paradoxically one of the most difficult experiences of my life, and one of the most fulfilling. After all, isn’t this the goal that we have set as parents – to raise children who are self-confident enough to leave home, and capable enough to make their own way in the world and meet their challenges head-on, and well-adjusted enough to be happy and fulfilled wherever they are? Yes, I worry about them and where their lives will take them and all of the possible obstacles they will face, but I am more excited by the possibilities and adventures that are ahead of them.
We’ve seen a lot of amazing people come through our small campus over the past twenty years. They have become professional athletes, doctors, lawyers, clergy, entrepreneurs, moms and dads, teachers, actors, journalists, politicians, and live all over the world. It is humbling and inspiring to witness their accomplishments as professionals and as people. It’s even more humbling and inspiring to witness the lives of my own amazing children as they unfold.
So here’s to another year of beginnings, of as-yet untapped potential, of experiences beyond everyone’s wildest dreams, with lots of learning and exploring, new relationships being made and old ones strengthened. Here’s to another cycle of football, hockey and basketball games, recitals, plays and exhibits, special presentations and speakers, and lectures, assignments, and exams. I can’t wait to see what this crop of students will achieve in our town and beyond!
Sunday, 31 August 2014
Saturday, 9 August 2014
Going Home
My husband and I have just returned from a three-week vacation. We “went home” to southern Ontario, where we spent our first eight years as newlyweds and a young family. We wanted to see people and places that were once important to us. We had a wonderful time – visiting with former students from Mount Allison University and old friends and family, going to museums and art galleries, attending three Canadian Football League games courtesy of our son (including the first ever home game of the Ottawa RedBlacks in their new stadium), shopping, and eating various ethnic foods that we just don’t have access to in our small town. We were tired when we arrived home, but in a good way.
I really miss the variety of life in southern Ontario. I love driving on back roads, and where we live now, we have a very limited number of back roads. To drive to Moncton, we have basically two realistic routes. It gets old pretty fast. I love shopping (not necessarily buying, but browsing and looking), and Moncton is full of chain stores, but really has very little in the way of unique and different shops. Halifax is a little better, but it still can’t beat the sheer number of quirky, funky, interesting, artsy, independent little shops and markets scattered throughout the towns of southern Ontario, and the dizzying variety of ethnic foods represented there. Although I love the architecture of old Maritime homes and towns, the old homes and buildings of rural Ontario also speak to me.
At one point, we discussed whether we could ever live in southern Ontario again. We have been gone for over twenty years, and in that time, the places we once knew like the backs of our hands have changed considerably. The little country road where we used to live is now advertising a subdivision, the closest major town to us has monster homes and townhouses and condominiums way out into what used to be countryside and farmland (I was completely disoriented even though we used to drive down those roads frequently), and even our favourite little conservation area, which used to be isolated and underused, has undergone improvements and beautification (and now charges $12 for day use!). The major highways have been expanded, box stores have sprung up in places we wouldn’t have dreamed of putting box stores twenty years ago, and the population of the area has exploded.
I was reminded of the saying that you can’t go home again once you’ve left. Thomas Wolfe, an early twentieth century American writer, wrote a novel called You Can’t Go Home Again, and he wrote "You can't go back home to your family, back home to your childhood ... back home to a young man's dreams of glory and of fame ... back home to places in the country, back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed everlasting but which are changing all the time – back home to the escapes of Time and Memory."
In many ways, that is true. Life moves on, people and places change, our dreams and goals undergo revisions and transformations, kids and families grow up. But near the end of our trip, we stayed with a family that “adopted” us when we were young newlyweds far away from our own extended families. They made us part of their extended family which included themselves, their children, and their children’s children. We spent many Sunday afternoons at “The Farm”, became good friends with their daughters and their families in particular, helped out once or twice during maple syrup season, and spent a memorable Christmas Day with them when I was pregnant with our first child. Although we haven’t lived near them in over twenty years, it was like no time had passed. We immediately felt the way we used to when we drove up the lane – that we were “home.” Yes, a lot has changed at The Farm. They have retired from raising cattle, the trees in their front field which were mere babies when we left are now almost forest-sized, and their grandchildren have children of their own. But the love and friendship which was so much a part of our lives back then is still there. That is what makes a “home”, and it is what makes it possible to keep going back home, even if we never actually live there again.
We have a lot to be grateful for, friends who are our family, warm welcomes and emotional farewells, and the promise of “next time.” At the end of our vacation, we were glad to be home again, but I left a little bit of myself “back home” in Ontario too. Till next time.
I really miss the variety of life in southern Ontario. I love driving on back roads, and where we live now, we have a very limited number of back roads. To drive to Moncton, we have basically two realistic routes. It gets old pretty fast. I love shopping (not necessarily buying, but browsing and looking), and Moncton is full of chain stores, but really has very little in the way of unique and different shops. Halifax is a little better, but it still can’t beat the sheer number of quirky, funky, interesting, artsy, independent little shops and markets scattered throughout the towns of southern Ontario, and the dizzying variety of ethnic foods represented there. Although I love the architecture of old Maritime homes and towns, the old homes and buildings of rural Ontario also speak to me.
At one point, we discussed whether we could ever live in southern Ontario again. We have been gone for over twenty years, and in that time, the places we once knew like the backs of our hands have changed considerably. The little country road where we used to live is now advertising a subdivision, the closest major town to us has monster homes and townhouses and condominiums way out into what used to be countryside and farmland (I was completely disoriented even though we used to drive down those roads frequently), and even our favourite little conservation area, which used to be isolated and underused, has undergone improvements and beautification (and now charges $12 for day use!). The major highways have been expanded, box stores have sprung up in places we wouldn’t have dreamed of putting box stores twenty years ago, and the population of the area has exploded.
I was reminded of the saying that you can’t go home again once you’ve left. Thomas Wolfe, an early twentieth century American writer, wrote a novel called You Can’t Go Home Again, and he wrote "You can't go back home to your family, back home to your childhood ... back home to a young man's dreams of glory and of fame ... back home to places in the country, back home to the old forms and systems of things which once seemed everlasting but which are changing all the time – back home to the escapes of Time and Memory."
In many ways, that is true. Life moves on, people and places change, our dreams and goals undergo revisions and transformations, kids and families grow up. But near the end of our trip, we stayed with a family that “adopted” us when we were young newlyweds far away from our own extended families. They made us part of their extended family which included themselves, their children, and their children’s children. We spent many Sunday afternoons at “The Farm”, became good friends with their daughters and their families in particular, helped out once or twice during maple syrup season, and spent a memorable Christmas Day with them when I was pregnant with our first child. Although we haven’t lived near them in over twenty years, it was like no time had passed. We immediately felt the way we used to when we drove up the lane – that we were “home.” Yes, a lot has changed at The Farm. They have retired from raising cattle, the trees in their front field which were mere babies when we left are now almost forest-sized, and their grandchildren have children of their own. But the love and friendship which was so much a part of our lives back then is still there. That is what makes a “home”, and it is what makes it possible to keep going back home, even if we never actually live there again.
We have a lot to be grateful for, friends who are our family, warm welcomes and emotional farewells, and the promise of “next time.” At the end of our vacation, we were glad to be home again, but I left a little bit of myself “back home” in Ontario too. Till next time.
Thursday, 3 July 2014
The Lupin Lady
Recently, my mother and I drove to one of my favourite spots at this time of year – a “secret” place (okay, it’s not really so secret, but it seems a little more mysterious if I think of it as a secret place!). I think it is an old quarry, and at this time of year, it is filled to overflowing with wild lupins of every shade of pink and purple you could imagine, with a few white lupins thrown in for good measure. A few days later, my husband and I drove to “the shore” to spend time with some co-workers and friends. On the drive, we marvelled at the many lupins we saw, and at one point, I was left almost breathless as we passed a field which must have held millions of blue flags (wild irises).
This, I think, is my favourite time of year here in the Maritimes, maybe even more this year than usual. We have long hard winters here, very different than the prairie winters where I grew up. It can get very cold, and the northeast winds are bonechilling and penetrating. It thaws, then freezes, leaving the world coated with a layer of ice, beautiful and sparkly in its own right, but not really very pleasant for the outdoor activities that I enjoy. We wait so patiently for spring to arrive, and this year, we waited even longer, enduring a cold, wet, windy, and pretty unpleasant spring after a long, cold, unpleasant winter.
Now, all of a sudden, the trees are in full leaf, the lupins are blooming, and the wild roses are opening. This early summer world in the Maritimes is breathtakingly colourful. It almost hurts the eyes to take it all in. The marsh grasses range from deep green to the lightly shaded greens of hay grasses, highlighted in places with reddish yellow marsh grass and dotted with daisies and buttercups. The blue of the irises is so subtle that you can easily miss them unless you are looking for them; once noticed, they add a rich layer to the colours of the marsh. Pink and white sweet rocket, creamy white heliotrope, and the minute flowers of bedstraw punctuate the lush greenness of the landscape and leave their sweet scents lingering on the air.
Barbara Kingsolver, in her novel Prodigal Summer, calls this time of year “the season of extravagant procreation,” and the most extravagant procreators of the early Maritime flowers are the lupins. I am constantly amazed at how different each lupin is from the other. Some are dark purple; others are deep pink. Once I was fortunate enough to find a lupin that was almost a lavender blue. I haven’t seen one like it since. And then there are the bi-coloured lupins – dark purple on top and white inside. Or pale pink with fuchsia highlights. So much variety, every one different, and just when you think you’ve seen every shade of purple or pink imaginable, you find yet one more.
There is a children’s book called Miss Rumphius that my kids used to read. In order to make the world more beautiful, Miss Rumphius spreads lupin seeds all over her town, and becomes known as “The Lupin Lady.” I have aspirations to become another “Lupin Lady” and spread lupin seeds in ditches where they don’t already grow.
Soon, the lupins will give way to fireweed and devil’s paintbrush, and all too soon, they will give way to the burnished colours of autumn. I guess in some ways it’s the shortness of the season that makes them all the more precious. Already, since we visited the lupin quarry last week, they are starting to go to seed. But what beauty they give every year. Happy lupin days!
This, I think, is my favourite time of year here in the Maritimes, maybe even more this year than usual. We have long hard winters here, very different than the prairie winters where I grew up. It can get very cold, and the northeast winds are bonechilling and penetrating. It thaws, then freezes, leaving the world coated with a layer of ice, beautiful and sparkly in its own right, but not really very pleasant for the outdoor activities that I enjoy. We wait so patiently for spring to arrive, and this year, we waited even longer, enduring a cold, wet, windy, and pretty unpleasant spring after a long, cold, unpleasant winter.
Now, all of a sudden, the trees are in full leaf, the lupins are blooming, and the wild roses are opening. This early summer world in the Maritimes is breathtakingly colourful. It almost hurts the eyes to take it all in. The marsh grasses range from deep green to the lightly shaded greens of hay grasses, highlighted in places with reddish yellow marsh grass and dotted with daisies and buttercups. The blue of the irises is so subtle that you can easily miss them unless you are looking for them; once noticed, they add a rich layer to the colours of the marsh. Pink and white sweet rocket, creamy white heliotrope, and the minute flowers of bedstraw punctuate the lush greenness of the landscape and leave their sweet scents lingering on the air.
Barbara Kingsolver, in her novel Prodigal Summer, calls this time of year “the season of extravagant procreation,” and the most extravagant procreators of the early Maritime flowers are the lupins. I am constantly amazed at how different each lupin is from the other. Some are dark purple; others are deep pink. Once I was fortunate enough to find a lupin that was almost a lavender blue. I haven’t seen one like it since. And then there are the bi-coloured lupins – dark purple on top and white inside. Or pale pink with fuchsia highlights. So much variety, every one different, and just when you think you’ve seen every shade of purple or pink imaginable, you find yet one more.
There is a children’s book called Miss Rumphius that my kids used to read. In order to make the world more beautiful, Miss Rumphius spreads lupin seeds all over her town, and becomes known as “The Lupin Lady.” I have aspirations to become another “Lupin Lady” and spread lupin seeds in ditches where they don’t already grow.
Soon, the lupins will give way to fireweed and devil’s paintbrush, and all too soon, they will give way to the burnished colours of autumn. I guess in some ways it’s the shortness of the season that makes them all the more precious. Already, since we visited the lupin quarry last week, they are starting to go to seed. But what beauty they give every year. Happy lupin days!
Sunday, 29 June 2014
My Dad
My dad died unexpectedly almost three years ago. He was 82, and had suffered from Parkinson’s Disease for several years. His condition was progressively getting worse, and we were facing some difficult decisions about his care. So while his death was shocking and unexpected, it was also somewhat of a relief.
I think about my dad a lot. He was a quiet man, and as he got older, he was more content to sit in a chair and observe life going on around him. He loved sports, and was always active when I was growing up, playing Oldtimers’ hockey, curling (once his team got an 8-ender!), baseball, pickup football, cross-country skiing, camping, canoeing, hiking, and enjoying manual labour. He built two houses for us over the years, a cedar-strip canoe which now resides in my shed, and beautiful furniture for his family, including a rocking horse for his first grandchild (my son) which has been well-used over the years, not only by my children, but by dozens of others who have visited my home. He also built for my children a replica of an antique Quebecois cradle which was given to my parents when I was born.
Dad grew up in a family that struggled at times with poverty, like many others on the Prairies during the Dirty Thirties. They moved a lot until they finally settled in the Lower Mainland of BC when Dad was in his teens. He didn’t finish high school, but he was the first person in his family to receive a university degree. I think that his experiences of being unsettled and unrooted gave him great sensitivity to those who were seeking to belong. He was the fourth of six children who lived to be adults, and although most of our life as a family was lived far from most of our extended family, he was close to his siblings, and there was always lots of laughter when they were together.
Even though Dad was quiet and was unable to fully participate in our activities at the end, his presence was large in our lives. He loved children, and I have a sneaking suspicion that he actually enjoyed being a grandfather more than he did a father. He had the freedom and the time to watch his grandchildren play, learn and grow. My kids were lucky – they remember him before Parkinson’s overtook him. They spent a lot of time with my parents, and I know that their memories of him are of happy times, playing hockey in the basement, and going to every playground in the town, then buying them treats on the way home; setting up a model railroad in his basement, helping them with various projects, cooking their favourite meals (breakfast for supper – Poppa’s porridge and pancakes), and building sandcastles on the beach. I can’t even imagine how proud of them he would be now if he could see all that has happened in their lives in only three years.
Dad had a deep reserve of patience. I honestly can only remember him losing his temper once, and that was after my brother and I were adults and had left home. He always had time for us. He was a minister, and usually worked from home, so there were many times when we would disturb him with questions or showing him things we had found. I often wonder how many great sermons he never preached because one of us had interrupted his train of thought and he hadn’t been able to pick it up again. He never begrudged us the interruptions, and never attempted to rush us through whatever it was we had to say.
More than anything, my dad was wise. He was a great listener, and seldom “advised.” But somehow, he always knew what questions needed to be asked, and he was able to gently guide us when we asked for advice. I know that in his role as a minister, he was compassionate, caring and non-judgmental, and I am aware that he probably made a huge difference in the lives of many of the people he served without anyone else ever knowing about it.
He had a hidden but very active sense of humour. We always knew that if we could get a chuckle out of Dad, we had found a truly funny joke. Many times, we would be sitting around the table with all four of us laughing uncontrollably at some funny pun or joke. His favourite joke had to do with toilet paper and airplane wings, but I’m sorry to say I don’t remember the whole thing.
My husband and I got engaged while we were both working at a summer camp in Manitoba. We did not have telephone access, and we decided that we would wait to tell anyone about our engagement until we were able to tell our parents all at the same time. Dad was volunteering at the camp that week, but the problem was that my mom had stayed at home. To this day, I don’t know whether Dad somehow knew that something momentous had happened and was teasing us, or whether it was a coincidence, but the very next morning, he invited us to join him in an early morning canoe trip around the shores of the lake. So there we were, the three of us, two of us bursting to share our news, and my dad. We managed to keep it in, but I imagine my dad chuckling to himself through the next couple of days, watching us sweat until we finally had the family together and broke the news.
For the past several years, I planned to plant a crabapple tree – not one of those showy pink decorative trees, but the kind that produces edible fruit, like the ones that grow in the prairies. My dad loved crabapple jelly, and my plan was to grow enough crabapples to make him at least a couple of jars. But I never followed up. This spring, we finally planted one. Every year when it blooms, around Father’s Day, I will think of my dad, and when we finally get some fruit on it, I’ll dedicate my first jar of jelly to him.
Even though my dad was not the kind of man who was larger than life and boisterous and loud, his absence leaves a hole, a figurative empty chair at the table that will always be there. I miss his quiet gentleness and wisdom, his chuckles, and his ability to revel in the small joys of life. I miss his presence, and I am so thankful for all that I learned from him.
Tuesday, 17 June 2014
What is it about PEI?
It’s our last night on Prince Edward Island. We have enjoyed five days of rest, relaxation, peace and quiet. Calmness has returned to our souls, at least for the moment. My husband has had his annual meal of mussels, and we have spent time walking the beach near our rental cottage.
I love PEI. I don’t know what exactly it is about the Island that keeps bringing me back. I’ve heard some people say that there is a certain mentality about being on an island. I’m not sure if that is the case. Maybe it’s the intensity of the colours: the red soil, the blue sky, the intense greens of the trees in June. Or maybe it’s the fact that you can’t ever be more than 15 minutes away from the ocean. Or a lighthouse. Maybe it’s the sheer number and variety of beaches and all their treasures (the beach at our cottage has starfish of all sizes). Or maybe the rolling hills and river vistas. Or the myriad of small fishing harbours.
Maybe it’s the Island architecture. I love driving the back roads, looking at the homes and yards of the people who live here. People on the Island seem to take particular pride in beautiful homes and neat yards, although, as anywhere, there are those places which are a little rough around the edges. But there is something special about the old farmhouses of PEI. I don’t know exactly what it is, and I’m not knowledgeable enough to identify different features. But there is a particular blend of large verandahs, gables, and sea-facing windows which calls to me. If had the money, I would buy one of those deserted old homes and restore it, and I would live there forever.
Or maybe it’s a soul connection with my childhood hero, Anne of Green Gables. When I was young enough to have the time, I read the entire set of Anne books every summer. There was something about that spunky, red-headed orphan, who wanted more than anything to belong to someone and somewhere, that connected with me, and with so many other girls and women. I wanted to know her, and I wanted to know the places she loved. Place is intricately connected with Anne and her identity. As someone who moved around a lot when I was a child, I envied her connection to this place, and to her natural surroundings.
Since I’ve become an adult, I’ve read a lot about her creator, Lucy Maud Montgomery, and her love for the Island. I have to admit, I am a bit of an Anne snob. I don’t enjoy the kitsch of Cavendish (where all the touristy Anne stuff is located), and I have no desire to go to the musical. But Anne is so inextricably linked with PEI that they have created an entire tourist industry around her. Anyone who has read and loved Anne of Green Gables would surely feel at home the moment they stepped on the Island.
Whatever it is, I have enjoyed this peaceful time. Thank you, PEI. See you again soon!
I love PEI. I don’t know what exactly it is about the Island that keeps bringing me back. I’ve heard some people say that there is a certain mentality about being on an island. I’m not sure if that is the case. Maybe it’s the intensity of the colours: the red soil, the blue sky, the intense greens of the trees in June. Or maybe it’s the fact that you can’t ever be more than 15 minutes away from the ocean. Or a lighthouse. Maybe it’s the sheer number and variety of beaches and all their treasures (the beach at our cottage has starfish of all sizes). Or maybe the rolling hills and river vistas. Or the myriad of small fishing harbours.
Maybe it’s the Island architecture. I love driving the back roads, looking at the homes and yards of the people who live here. People on the Island seem to take particular pride in beautiful homes and neat yards, although, as anywhere, there are those places which are a little rough around the edges. But there is something special about the old farmhouses of PEI. I don’t know exactly what it is, and I’m not knowledgeable enough to identify different features. But there is a particular blend of large verandahs, gables, and sea-facing windows which calls to me. If had the money, I would buy one of those deserted old homes and restore it, and I would live there forever.
Or maybe it’s a soul connection with my childhood hero, Anne of Green Gables. When I was young enough to have the time, I read the entire set of Anne books every summer. There was something about that spunky, red-headed orphan, who wanted more than anything to belong to someone and somewhere, that connected with me, and with so many other girls and women. I wanted to know her, and I wanted to know the places she loved. Place is intricately connected with Anne and her identity. As someone who moved around a lot when I was a child, I envied her connection to this place, and to her natural surroundings.
Since I’ve become an adult, I’ve read a lot about her creator, Lucy Maud Montgomery, and her love for the Island. I have to admit, I am a bit of an Anne snob. I don’t enjoy the kitsch of Cavendish (where all the touristy Anne stuff is located), and I have no desire to go to the musical. But Anne is so inextricably linked with PEI that they have created an entire tourist industry around her. Anyone who has read and loved Anne of Green Gables would surely feel at home the moment they stepped on the Island.
Whatever it is, I have enjoyed this peaceful time. Thank you, PEI. See you again soon!
Sunday, 15 June 2014
Moncton
About 10 days ago, something truly shocking happened in Moncton, New Brunswick. A young man shot five police officers, killing three of them and injuring two. After a manhunt which lasted about 30 hours and involved the lockdown of a major part of the city, the shooter was captured.
As I write this, I am sitting wrapped up in a blanket with a book and a cup of hot tea in the screened-in porch of a cottage at Murray Harbour, Prince Edward Island. It is cool and foggy and there isn’t a breath of wind. The only sounds I can hear are the crows, songbirds, and gulls and other shorebirds, the occasional hum of the hummingbirds as they hover at their feeder, and the gentle rain. I have been watching the resident Canada Goose family, with four little fluffy babies, swimming and eating the new grass in front of the cottage. The tide has been coming in since I got up a little after 6 a.m. It couldn’t be any calmer or more placid, and right now, the events in Moncton seem a world and a lifetime away.
I don’t want to make what happened in Moncton any more tragic by claiming that I am personally involved. I didn’t know any of the Mounties who were shot, I don’t know the shooter or any of his family or friends.
Yet somehow I feel as if I were personally involved. Moncton is the city where I shop, eat out, have medical appointments, and go to sports and cultural events. It has been our city centre for the past 21 years. We recognized almost every location that was shown in footage and photographs, and we know exactly where the shooting occurred, and which area was locked down. Some of the RCMP officers from my town were among those who responded after the shooting, and we have friends across the country who are officers in the RCMP and other police forces. We know people in the area which was locked down, and others who live in other Moncton neighbourhoods. Moncton is a small city. This isn’t supposed to happen in a small city. It isn’t supposed to happen in Moncton.
And yet it did. And the truth is, it could happen again in Moncton. It could happen in the small town where I live. It could happen in your neighbourhood, town or city. We are not immune from the issues that contribute to violence and tragic death. We feel as if we are, because we know our neighbours and we live in small, “safe” communities. Things like this only happen in big American cities.
Right?
Each time there is a tragic event like this one, especially in Canada, we feel sad and shocked, and ask questions about our society and our collective values, and wonder how this could ever happen. We Canadians pride ourselves on having a more caring society than our American neighbours. Is the fact that we are still so shocked by inexplicable real-life violence proof of that? I’m not sure it is.
The tragedy of the Moncton events is that three men are now dead. Their families have lost their sons, brothers, husbands and fathers. The deeper tragedy is that even in our supposedly “safe” small towns and cities, there are people who are so hopeless or so angry or so unwell, that shooting someone with the intent of killing them is somehow the only action they feel they can take. These people live among us. Do we see them or hear them or even notice them enough to be concerned for them?
Last weekend, I attended a lecture by a psychiatrist who works in the Emergency Department of the regional children’s hospital. She told us that what children in crisis need most from the adults around them is to be present, and to be heard. Later, I came across a quotation in a crime novel I was reading. The Swedish detective was trying to find answers to a crime that involved South Africans, former Soviets, and other immigrant and foreign nationalities, and was getting frustrated with the different ways that other cultures have in expressing themselves. He realized that "...people... have to be allowed to tell the story their own way... They are often put off by the hurry we're always in, and they think it's a sign of our contempt. Not having time for a person, not being able to sit in silence with somebody, that's the same as rejecting them, as being scornful of them" (Henning Mankell in The White Lioness – emphasis is mine).
We all have moments when we run into someone, and we instinctively know they want or need to talk. It’s almost impossible most times to interrupt our schedules and stop what we are doing and take the time to really listen. I think it’s also frightening. I have my own issues and priorities and problems, and it is risky to get involved in other people’s affairs. And yet, as part of a community that is supposed to care, isn’t that exactly what I am supposed to do?
I wonder how many more shootings, stabbings, suicides and beatings it will take before we collectively have the time to sit in silence with our neighbours, and take the time to hear their stories. I wonder how many it will take before I have the time.
As I write this, I am sitting wrapped up in a blanket with a book and a cup of hot tea in the screened-in porch of a cottage at Murray Harbour, Prince Edward Island. It is cool and foggy and there isn’t a breath of wind. The only sounds I can hear are the crows, songbirds, and gulls and other shorebirds, the occasional hum of the hummingbirds as they hover at their feeder, and the gentle rain. I have been watching the resident Canada Goose family, with four little fluffy babies, swimming and eating the new grass in front of the cottage. The tide has been coming in since I got up a little after 6 a.m. It couldn’t be any calmer or more placid, and right now, the events in Moncton seem a world and a lifetime away.
I don’t want to make what happened in Moncton any more tragic by claiming that I am personally involved. I didn’t know any of the Mounties who were shot, I don’t know the shooter or any of his family or friends.
Yet somehow I feel as if I were personally involved. Moncton is the city where I shop, eat out, have medical appointments, and go to sports and cultural events. It has been our city centre for the past 21 years. We recognized almost every location that was shown in footage and photographs, and we know exactly where the shooting occurred, and which area was locked down. Some of the RCMP officers from my town were among those who responded after the shooting, and we have friends across the country who are officers in the RCMP and other police forces. We know people in the area which was locked down, and others who live in other Moncton neighbourhoods. Moncton is a small city. This isn’t supposed to happen in a small city. It isn’t supposed to happen in Moncton.
And yet it did. And the truth is, it could happen again in Moncton. It could happen in the small town where I live. It could happen in your neighbourhood, town or city. We are not immune from the issues that contribute to violence and tragic death. We feel as if we are, because we know our neighbours and we live in small, “safe” communities. Things like this only happen in big American cities.
Right?
Each time there is a tragic event like this one, especially in Canada, we feel sad and shocked, and ask questions about our society and our collective values, and wonder how this could ever happen. We Canadians pride ourselves on having a more caring society than our American neighbours. Is the fact that we are still so shocked by inexplicable real-life violence proof of that? I’m not sure it is.
The tragedy of the Moncton events is that three men are now dead. Their families have lost their sons, brothers, husbands and fathers. The deeper tragedy is that even in our supposedly “safe” small towns and cities, there are people who are so hopeless or so angry or so unwell, that shooting someone with the intent of killing them is somehow the only action they feel they can take. These people live among us. Do we see them or hear them or even notice them enough to be concerned for them?
Last weekend, I attended a lecture by a psychiatrist who works in the Emergency Department of the regional children’s hospital. She told us that what children in crisis need most from the adults around them is to be present, and to be heard. Later, I came across a quotation in a crime novel I was reading. The Swedish detective was trying to find answers to a crime that involved South Africans, former Soviets, and other immigrant and foreign nationalities, and was getting frustrated with the different ways that other cultures have in expressing themselves. He realized that "...people... have to be allowed to tell the story their own way... They are often put off by the hurry we're always in, and they think it's a sign of our contempt. Not having time for a person, not being able to sit in silence with somebody, that's the same as rejecting them, as being scornful of them" (Henning Mankell in The White Lioness – emphasis is mine).
We all have moments when we run into someone, and we instinctively know they want or need to talk. It’s almost impossible most times to interrupt our schedules and stop what we are doing and take the time to really listen. I think it’s also frightening. I have my own issues and priorities and problems, and it is risky to get involved in other people’s affairs. And yet, as part of a community that is supposed to care, isn’t that exactly what I am supposed to do?
I wonder how many more shootings, stabbings, suicides and beatings it will take before we collectively have the time to sit in silence with our neighbours, and take the time to hear their stories. I wonder how many it will take before I have the time.
Sunday, 25 May 2014
Happy anniversary!
29 years ago today, on a cool but pleasant prairie day, my husband and I got married. It was a church wedding, relatively small and simple. I wore my mother’s wedding gown, the groom wore a new suit, and we each had two attendants (I had my best friend and my cousin, my husband had his best friend and his brother). Our fathers (both Baptist ministers) both took part in our ceremony and there were several other ministers in the congregation (so we were well and truly married). Lilacs from my mother’s garden and ivy from my aunt’s west coast garden, which she brought on the plane, were our flowers. We were surrounded by family and friends. After afternoon tea, served by the church ladies, we left for our honeymoon in the nearby national park. It was a beautiful time, full of joy, love, hope and promise.
Now, 2 kids, 4 homes, and several cars later, here we are, on a cool, grey, Maritime morning with not even the suggestion of a lilac in sight. We are older, hopefully a little bit wiser, have a few more pounds and lot of grey hair (or in my husband’s case, a lot less hair...) and we definitely have moved way beyond that first mad blush of romance. We have had disagreements, we have acted rashly, we have made some really bad choices. We have faced serious house problems, and the resulting financial issues, we have experienced major health challenges and death, and we have definitely had times when we weren’t feeling the love.
We have also raised two incredible children, and worked hard to create a home which is welcoming and comfortable. We’ve had amazing adventures (spending four months in Japan when the kids were younger is just one) and we have met so many incredible people who have become part of our extended “family.” We have experienced the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat through our involvement with our university sports teams, and in other more personal experiences.
So what has brought us this far together along the road of marriage, when statistically half of all marriages end in divorce? Is it because of the centrality of faith in our lives? I know others whose faith is just as strong as ours who have been divorced. Is it because we have the perfect marriage, with just the right amount of give and take, and we’ve figured it all out? I think anyone who knows us would laugh at such a notion. (My husband and I certainly would, and our kids would blow a gasket). We definitely have our own interests and opinions, which are not always compatible, and our personalities often clash.
I don’t know why we’ve made it this far together. We are no longer the young, idealistic lovers we were then. We are no stronger or no wiser than many others who haven’t made it this far. Is it just a case of “there but for the grace of God”? I wonder, if we could have seen then how our life together would unfold, would we have made the same decision to walk down that aisle? Is our life together better or worse than we once imagined it would be? I don’t know. However, I do know that I can’t imagine having the adventures and facing the challenges that we have had with anyone else. And I know that whenever I have needed him, my husband has been there for me. He has been my strength, my source of comfort, my encourager, my shoulder to cry on.
There is a song by Dan Fogelberg from the 1980s called “Longer.” It is a love song, and part of it goes like this:
Through the years as the fire starts to mellow
Burning lines in the book of our lives
Though the binding cracks
And the pages start to yellow
I'll be in love with you.
I love that image. Our book isn’t finished yet. The binding has started to crack, and the pages are not as pristine as they were 29 years ago. But there are a lot of empty pages left to fill, and I am looking forward to finishing the story together. The story thus far hasn’t always been happy or pleasant, and I am sure that we will face more challenging chapters in the years to come. But I am pretty confident that when the last word is written, it will be “love.” Happy anniversary, to my best friend, my confidant, my husband. Here’s to the book of our lives.
Now, 2 kids, 4 homes, and several cars later, here we are, on a cool, grey, Maritime morning with not even the suggestion of a lilac in sight. We are older, hopefully a little bit wiser, have a few more pounds and lot of grey hair (or in my husband’s case, a lot less hair...) and we definitely have moved way beyond that first mad blush of romance. We have had disagreements, we have acted rashly, we have made some really bad choices. We have faced serious house problems, and the resulting financial issues, we have experienced major health challenges and death, and we have definitely had times when we weren’t feeling the love.
We have also raised two incredible children, and worked hard to create a home which is welcoming and comfortable. We’ve had amazing adventures (spending four months in Japan when the kids were younger is just one) and we have met so many incredible people who have become part of our extended “family.” We have experienced the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat through our involvement with our university sports teams, and in other more personal experiences.
So what has brought us this far together along the road of marriage, when statistically half of all marriages end in divorce? Is it because of the centrality of faith in our lives? I know others whose faith is just as strong as ours who have been divorced. Is it because we have the perfect marriage, with just the right amount of give and take, and we’ve figured it all out? I think anyone who knows us would laugh at such a notion. (My husband and I certainly would, and our kids would blow a gasket). We definitely have our own interests and opinions, which are not always compatible, and our personalities often clash.
I don’t know why we’ve made it this far together. We are no longer the young, idealistic lovers we were then. We are no stronger or no wiser than many others who haven’t made it this far. Is it just a case of “there but for the grace of God”? I wonder, if we could have seen then how our life together would unfold, would we have made the same decision to walk down that aisle? Is our life together better or worse than we once imagined it would be? I don’t know. However, I do know that I can’t imagine having the adventures and facing the challenges that we have had with anyone else. And I know that whenever I have needed him, my husband has been there for me. He has been my strength, my source of comfort, my encourager, my shoulder to cry on.
There is a song by Dan Fogelberg from the 1980s called “Longer.” It is a love song, and part of it goes like this:
Through the years as the fire starts to mellow
Burning lines in the book of our lives
Though the binding cracks
And the pages start to yellow
I'll be in love with you.
I love that image. Our book isn’t finished yet. The binding has started to crack, and the pages are not as pristine as they were 29 years ago. But there are a lot of empty pages left to fill, and I am looking forward to finishing the story together. The story thus far hasn’t always been happy or pleasant, and I am sure that we will face more challenging chapters in the years to come. But I am pretty confident that when the last word is written, it will be “love.” Happy anniversary, to my best friend, my confidant, my husband. Here’s to the book of our lives.
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