It’s like a big fist breaking down my door,
I never felt such a love before. (“After the Rain” Bruce Cockburn)
Sharbot Lake
The Civic Holiday – what a perfectly uninspired name for a holiday that’s made special by its very lack of meaning. There’s no reason for it; we don’t commemorate, remember or celebrate anything in particular; it’s just a wonderful luxury of nothingness that marks how great it is to take time off.
I’m up very early this morning. I’m always restless the first few nights in a strange bed, but it’s a gift to watch the dawn on the lake and to have the chance to write a bit. I get to listen to the finches and morning doves singing back and forth, taking the soprano and alto parts in their choir. The odd loon, cricket and cow join in with a few other sounds that I don’t recognize – the percussion section.
I’m so glad that we were able to get this cottage for the week; it’s just what I need to mark what feels – more and more – like a new beginning for me.
My “New Year” is always early September. I enjoy the newness of everything at that time of the year: books, shoes, supplies. I love the back-to-school shopping trips that I indulge in: a few new outfits and always some new plastic containers for bringing my lunches to school – I’m a big fan of lunches.
But it’s too early to feel that excitement yet; this is different, more grounded and stable, as if I’m looking out on a new phase of my life, as I watch the sun of this dawn, breaking into the corners of the bay to the east.
Finishing up my summer course last week, I was glad to have it behind me. As Danny and I took some time to go apartment hunting before the great wave of student renters hits in August, what an eye opener we had! Every apartment that we saw was either cramped and damp in the basement of a house, or required that we share with five other people to pay the rent, or was a Feng Shui abomination, in some cold glass fronted high-rise whose hallways all smelled of floral disinfectant. We decided to stay where we are. Small as the apartment is for two people, it’s so much better than any of the alternatives that we saw.
I'm looking forward to moving things around so that we can each have a work area that won’t interfere too much with the other’s sleeping (we both burn a fair amount of midnight oil.) And and it will be fun to look for some new furniture, together, to replace the larger pieces that I’ve held onto since I scavenged and collected them, in my early days of apartment living. We’re both happy with the decision.
Last Friday afternoon another area of my life received some long overdue attention and I can’t believe how relieved and peaceful it’s made me feel. Jean and I had been talking a lot last spring, about the importance of symbols and ritual to mark significant events in our lives. Jean pointed out that although I’d written of a few occasions when I’d cried for Claire, I’d also mentioned that I’d never had the opportunity to properly mourn her. She suggested that perhaps I’d like to plan some sort of memorial that would let me honour Claire and our relationship, now that I’ve worked so hard to reclaim the memories.
Danny and I spoke of this memorial quite a bit, and I’ve realized that place is very important to me. Without even realizing it, after Claire’s death I was so disturbed that there wasn’t a specific location that I could picture as her resting ground, I had to give her a place of rest inside me. I realized that I wanted to identify a memorial ground where I could visit with Claire and know that her spirit was at peace.
I arranged for a tree to be planted and a memorial plaque to be erected at the park beside the lake not far from our apartment. There’s a bench nearby and a steady stream of families, joggers and cyclists who pass there. It’s a park that changes on a daily basis with the weather and the mood of the lake, yet reflects so much of life’s stability in all of its other facets that change so little: the lake itself, the rocks on the shore, the larger than life sculptures and the trees have all remained constant in the years that I’ve been walking through this park.
I’ve also realized that ritual is important to me in so many areas of my life. Many rituals I’d simply call habits, or my certain way of doing something, the same way each time with awareness of how comforting the repetition can be.
When I approached Fr. Barrie whom I’d met at the retreat last spring and explained the situation, I asked if he could be part of our memorial/dedication. He’s a wise and gentle man who joked that he doesn’t often get called to bless trees, but he let me know that he understood the importance of remembering a loved one in a special and tangible way.
I contacted the city to arrange for the donation and dedication of the tree and was surprised at how quickly it was arranged and accomplished. They assured me that it would be in place during the last week of July; a touching coincidence as it happens – it was eighteen years ago this week that Claire died. Everything just seems to have fallen into place.
We made plans to meet there on Friday at 3 o’clock. Danny and I were dressed up in light summer clothes, more for a wedding than a funeral. Poor Father Barrie: because he was “officiating”, he arrived in a grey clerical suit and collar on this, the hottest day of the summer.
The three of us stood there, grateful for the shade of the mature trees that surrounded us and the breeze off the lake. Father spoke so gently of how important our memories of loved ones can be, and read the Beatitudes from his tattered prayer book, so precious in its signs of wear. He told us that we were all blessed, Claire, Danny and I, by the bond that unites our past, present and future. He finished with a prayer then shook our hands and left.
I’d brought flowers. I bought a large bouquet of lilies and carnations in colours that reminded me of Claire’s hair and complexion. But as it came time to leave, I didn’t quite know what to do with them. My first thought was to leave them for Claire, beside the plaque that bore her name: “Claire Jamieson, 1980 – 1984”, and the inscription: “The moon and the stars still shine in your eyes.” But somehow it seemed inappropriate, knowing that they’d lay there untended, to wilt and dry up, only to be retrieved in a few days by some city worker, along with the candy wrappers and discarded water bottles.
So I brought them home with me and put them in a vase, which I held between my feet in the car as we left the city for our week at the cottage. They cheer me every time I walk into the front room and see their explosion of copper, cream and crimson. They remind me that we share a place now – Claire, Danny and I, an experience of solidarity.
After Father Barrie left, Danny and I walked along the water. We held hands, sticky in the hot sun, as if we were glued together. The wonderful cotton smell of his shirt against my cheek was as fresh and comforting as cool new sheets on a hot summer night.
My mind’s eye watched us walking along the asphalt path. “Would you like to get married?” I asked Danny.
He stopped and turned to me, looking deep into my eyes – to see if I was serious. Finally he smiled and said: “Do you mean right now?”
I laughed and told him that I kind of thought that we looked dressed for the parts – why waste a good suit and a bunch of flowers?
We walked a bit further and he stopped again and asked: “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” I answered – strong and happy.
He put his arm around my shoulders and kissed my head. I could feel him smiling.
When we arrived at the cottage the next day, we spent Saturday afternoon just sitting on wooden lawn chairs, watching the parade of boaters and canoeists. We drank white wine spritzers and tentatively spoke of wedding plans. It was a perfect day.
On Sunday, Danny’s friend who rented the cottage to us had also given us day passes for a music festival in the next village. I hadn’t thought much about it; it seemed like a nice thing to do for my birthday.
When we approached the site and the roads were so congested with cars that we had to park at a twenty-minute hike from the entrance, it occurred to me that this was probably a bigger deal than I’d expected. At the ticket booth, we were proudly told that this was the thirtieth anniversary of the festival and I realized, with that weird sense of synchronicity arising again, that Bill and mom might have been at that first gathering if they hadn’t left Ontario when they did, and that I might have been born here, (just like the babies at Woodstock) instead of in the Okanagan Valley. What a strange thought.
Danny, the jazz fan, is used to big city music fests, where porto-potties line the closed off streets leading to a main stage, featuring international acts and gigantic, ultra-sophisticated sound systems. This was all new to him and a bizarre time travel experience for me. Everyone was dressed in full hippie regalia and there were more beads and tie-dye shirts than I’d seen in decades. I felt like I had to keep looking for mom’s cook tent, and I could have sworn that I saw Carly and Rainbow and some of the others from the old festival days.
As I got used to the surroundings, several things came to me. First, was the interesting diversity that existed among the performers and spectators alike. I saw aged hippies with wrinkles and long white beards and braids, but also there were others of the same age who looked more like retired bankers and doctors. There were many young families with pre-schoolers running around (wearing clothes! – that was different too: at my festivals, as I remember it, all the little kids were naked.) There was an amazing number High School kids as well. (What would have brought them here, to party with their parents?) All age groups were represented and joined in the square dance, called by the semi-famous Rock star who was here to honour his acoustic, country roots.
But as the day went on and I relaxed into the music and drifted into my own listening place, what amazed me most was that at my twenty-ninth birthday, last summer, I would have reacted so differently to this experience. I probably would have tolerated it long enough not to embarrass myself, then I’d have told Danny that I had a headache and gone back to the car to read my book.
On this my thirtieth birthday, however, I got to take part in a Tai Chi class, I had my tarot cards read, I heard some great blues, folk, country and even baroque music. I was free to experience all these things without worrying about painful memories popping out of my subconscious to bite me.
On the way home, Danny asked if this was the kind of festival that I’d been to as a kid. I nodded but said that there were a few differences – many more high-end vehicles and fewer converted micro busses in the parking lots, and a wonderful lack of ageism that could never have survived for half an hour in the seventies, with a community who were proud to affirm that they’d never trust anyone over thirty.
I remember when Bill turned thirty; it was the year that everything started falling apart for us. He was stressed and upset about so many things that year with Claire and mom, that it never occurred to me to think that this dreaded milestone may have played a role in his own reactions to what was happening at that time. I still remember carefully choosing a card for him with a big 30 on the front; to me, a year older was always a step in the right direction, so a decade older must be ten times better. Bill was gracious and told me that it was the best card he’d ever had. There was precious little else that marked his birthday that year. But later I heard him tell a friend who teased him about crossing the great divide, that so far, thirty was shit!
I guess that we’re different people, Bill and I, living in different times, and at very different points in our lives. At thirty, I feel as if I’m on the edge of something wonderful.
“You embrace me with serenity and courage,
and lead me to places of wonder.”
I never felt such a love before. (“After the Rain” Bruce Cockburn)
Sharbot Lake
The Civic Holiday – what a perfectly uninspired name for a holiday that’s made special by its very lack of meaning. There’s no reason for it; we don’t commemorate, remember or celebrate anything in particular; it’s just a wonderful luxury of nothingness that marks how great it is to take time off.
I’m up very early this morning. I’m always restless the first few nights in a strange bed, but it’s a gift to watch the dawn on the lake and to have the chance to write a bit. I get to listen to the finches and morning doves singing back and forth, taking the soprano and alto parts in their choir. The odd loon, cricket and cow join in with a few other sounds that I don’t recognize – the percussion section.
I’m so glad that we were able to get this cottage for the week; it’s just what I need to mark what feels – more and more – like a new beginning for me.
My “New Year” is always early September. I enjoy the newness of everything at that time of the year: books, shoes, supplies. I love the back-to-school shopping trips that I indulge in: a few new outfits and always some new plastic containers for bringing my lunches to school – I’m a big fan of lunches.
But it’s too early to feel that excitement yet; this is different, more grounded and stable, as if I’m looking out on a new phase of my life, as I watch the sun of this dawn, breaking into the corners of the bay to the east.
Finishing up my summer course last week, I was glad to have it behind me. As Danny and I took some time to go apartment hunting before the great wave of student renters hits in August, what an eye opener we had! Every apartment that we saw was either cramped and damp in the basement of a house, or required that we share with five other people to pay the rent, or was a Feng Shui abomination, in some cold glass fronted high-rise whose hallways all smelled of floral disinfectant. We decided to stay where we are. Small as the apartment is for two people, it’s so much better than any of the alternatives that we saw.
I'm looking forward to moving things around so that we can each have a work area that won’t interfere too much with the other’s sleeping (we both burn a fair amount of midnight oil.) And and it will be fun to look for some new furniture, together, to replace the larger pieces that I’ve held onto since I scavenged and collected them, in my early days of apartment living. We’re both happy with the decision.
Last Friday afternoon another area of my life received some long overdue attention and I can’t believe how relieved and peaceful it’s made me feel. Jean and I had been talking a lot last spring, about the importance of symbols and ritual to mark significant events in our lives. Jean pointed out that although I’d written of a few occasions when I’d cried for Claire, I’d also mentioned that I’d never had the opportunity to properly mourn her. She suggested that perhaps I’d like to plan some sort of memorial that would let me honour Claire and our relationship, now that I’ve worked so hard to reclaim the memories.
Danny and I spoke of this memorial quite a bit, and I’ve realized that place is very important to me. Without even realizing it, after Claire’s death I was so disturbed that there wasn’t a specific location that I could picture as her resting ground, I had to give her a place of rest inside me. I realized that I wanted to identify a memorial ground where I could visit with Claire and know that her spirit was at peace.
I arranged for a tree to be planted and a memorial plaque to be erected at the park beside the lake not far from our apartment. There’s a bench nearby and a steady stream of families, joggers and cyclists who pass there. It’s a park that changes on a daily basis with the weather and the mood of the lake, yet reflects so much of life’s stability in all of its other facets that change so little: the lake itself, the rocks on the shore, the larger than life sculptures and the trees have all remained constant in the years that I’ve been walking through this park.
I’ve also realized that ritual is important to me in so many areas of my life. Many rituals I’d simply call habits, or my certain way of doing something, the same way each time with awareness of how comforting the repetition can be.
When I approached Fr. Barrie whom I’d met at the retreat last spring and explained the situation, I asked if he could be part of our memorial/dedication. He’s a wise and gentle man who joked that he doesn’t often get called to bless trees, but he let me know that he understood the importance of remembering a loved one in a special and tangible way.
I contacted the city to arrange for the donation and dedication of the tree and was surprised at how quickly it was arranged and accomplished. They assured me that it would be in place during the last week of July; a touching coincidence as it happens – it was eighteen years ago this week that Claire died. Everything just seems to have fallen into place.
We made plans to meet there on Friday at 3 o’clock. Danny and I were dressed up in light summer clothes, more for a wedding than a funeral. Poor Father Barrie: because he was “officiating”, he arrived in a grey clerical suit and collar on this, the hottest day of the summer.
The three of us stood there, grateful for the shade of the mature trees that surrounded us and the breeze off the lake. Father spoke so gently of how important our memories of loved ones can be, and read the Beatitudes from his tattered prayer book, so precious in its signs of wear. He told us that we were all blessed, Claire, Danny and I, by the bond that unites our past, present and future. He finished with a prayer then shook our hands and left.
I’d brought flowers. I bought a large bouquet of lilies and carnations in colours that reminded me of Claire’s hair and complexion. But as it came time to leave, I didn’t quite know what to do with them. My first thought was to leave them for Claire, beside the plaque that bore her name: “Claire Jamieson, 1980 – 1984”, and the inscription: “The moon and the stars still shine in your eyes.” But somehow it seemed inappropriate, knowing that they’d lay there untended, to wilt and dry up, only to be retrieved in a few days by some city worker, along with the candy wrappers and discarded water bottles.
So I brought them home with me and put them in a vase, which I held between my feet in the car as we left the city for our week at the cottage. They cheer me every time I walk into the front room and see their explosion of copper, cream and crimson. They remind me that we share a place now – Claire, Danny and I, an experience of solidarity.
After Father Barrie left, Danny and I walked along the water. We held hands, sticky in the hot sun, as if we were glued together. The wonderful cotton smell of his shirt against my cheek was as fresh and comforting as cool new sheets on a hot summer night.
My mind’s eye watched us walking along the asphalt path. “Would you like to get married?” I asked Danny.
He stopped and turned to me, looking deep into my eyes – to see if I was serious. Finally he smiled and said: “Do you mean right now?”
I laughed and told him that I kind of thought that we looked dressed for the parts – why waste a good suit and a bunch of flowers?
We walked a bit further and he stopped again and asked: “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” I answered – strong and happy.
He put his arm around my shoulders and kissed my head. I could feel him smiling.
When we arrived at the cottage the next day, we spent Saturday afternoon just sitting on wooden lawn chairs, watching the parade of boaters and canoeists. We drank white wine spritzers and tentatively spoke of wedding plans. It was a perfect day.
On Sunday, Danny’s friend who rented the cottage to us had also given us day passes for a music festival in the next village. I hadn’t thought much about it; it seemed like a nice thing to do for my birthday.
When we approached the site and the roads were so congested with cars that we had to park at a twenty-minute hike from the entrance, it occurred to me that this was probably a bigger deal than I’d expected. At the ticket booth, we were proudly told that this was the thirtieth anniversary of the festival and I realized, with that weird sense of synchronicity arising again, that Bill and mom might have been at that first gathering if they hadn’t left Ontario when they did, and that I might have been born here, (just like the babies at Woodstock) instead of in the Okanagan Valley. What a strange thought.
Danny, the jazz fan, is used to big city music fests, where porto-potties line the closed off streets leading to a main stage, featuring international acts and gigantic, ultra-sophisticated sound systems. This was all new to him and a bizarre time travel experience for me. Everyone was dressed in full hippie regalia and there were more beads and tie-dye shirts than I’d seen in decades. I felt like I had to keep looking for mom’s cook tent, and I could have sworn that I saw Carly and Rainbow and some of the others from the old festival days.
As I got used to the surroundings, several things came to me. First, was the interesting diversity that existed among the performers and spectators alike. I saw aged hippies with wrinkles and long white beards and braids, but also there were others of the same age who looked more like retired bankers and doctors. There were many young families with pre-schoolers running around (wearing clothes! – that was different too: at my festivals, as I remember it, all the little kids were naked.) There was an amazing number High School kids as well. (What would have brought them here, to party with their parents?) All age groups were represented and joined in the square dance, called by the semi-famous Rock star who was here to honour his acoustic, country roots.
But as the day went on and I relaxed into the music and drifted into my own listening place, what amazed me most was that at my twenty-ninth birthday, last summer, I would have reacted so differently to this experience. I probably would have tolerated it long enough not to embarrass myself, then I’d have told Danny that I had a headache and gone back to the car to read my book.
On this my thirtieth birthday, however, I got to take part in a Tai Chi class, I had my tarot cards read, I heard some great blues, folk, country and even baroque music. I was free to experience all these things without worrying about painful memories popping out of my subconscious to bite me.
On the way home, Danny asked if this was the kind of festival that I’d been to as a kid. I nodded but said that there were a few differences – many more high-end vehicles and fewer converted micro busses in the parking lots, and a wonderful lack of ageism that could never have survived for half an hour in the seventies, with a community who were proud to affirm that they’d never trust anyone over thirty.
I remember when Bill turned thirty; it was the year that everything started falling apart for us. He was stressed and upset about so many things that year with Claire and mom, that it never occurred to me to think that this dreaded milestone may have played a role in his own reactions to what was happening at that time. I still remember carefully choosing a card for him with a big 30 on the front; to me, a year older was always a step in the right direction, so a decade older must be ten times better. Bill was gracious and told me that it was the best card he’d ever had. There was precious little else that marked his birthday that year. But later I heard him tell a friend who teased him about crossing the great divide, that so far, thirty was shit!
I guess that we’re different people, Bill and I, living in different times, and at very different points in our lives. At thirty, I feel as if I’m on the edge of something wonderful.
“You embrace me with serenity and courage,
and lead me to places of wonder.”
Copyright 2003
