Dancing With Silence

WELCOME READERS!

2008-05-05T09:21:00.003-04:00

Please come and make yourself at home as you read Dancing with Silence. I have done what I can to make it simple for you to follow the book by listing an index of sections at the left. If however you have difficulty bringing up any of the posts, please let me know and I'll look into it.

Please note that this material is protected by copyright and although I am thrilled that you would want to spend some time reading the book, I would ask that you respect that and contact me by email if you would like to discuss using the material in any way.

Also please recognize that I have not had the benefit of a professional editor. That being said, I have done my best to keep glaring spelling and factual errors and grammatical irritations to a minimum.

I welcome any comments and would love to hear from you. Please feel free to contact me at wooltyme@kingston.net or through the comment feature at the bottom of each of the posts.

So if you are ready to begin, please go to #1. JOURNAL, Tuesday, Oct. 2nd .

Welcome to Starla's world.

EPILOGUE, JOURNAL, Monday, Aug. 5th

2008-05-02T07:44:00.002-04:00

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.”

JOURNAL, Wednesday, April 24th

2008-04-30T07:59:00.003-04:00

The world breaks everyone, and afterward
Many are strong at the broken places. (Ernest Hemingway)

Well, that’s it then.

I’ve just reread the last letter to Jean: seventeen years summed up in eight or nine pages – wasted years that needed to be borne to get from there to here. When I mentioned this to Jean, she says not to judge those years too harshly, that there was healing going on under the surface, years of preparation for the work of the past few months.

Q: How many therapists does it take to change a light bulb?
A: One, but the light bulb has to really want to change.

I didn’t know it when I stumbled, figuratively speaking, into Jean’s office and her care seven months ago, but I did want to change – and I was ready for it. What called me to her? How did I know that I was ready?

Whatever. . . – as the kids say when we ask them a redundant question, or questions without answers. The origin of the change isn’t so important as the need to stay on course. I can continue to feel valuable, and strong, and peaceful. Now I have tools and new memories of healing to sustain me.

So much has passed between us, I’m surprised at what I didn’t tell Jean of the years after Claire’s death: the events that added to the confusion and made me close in further upon myself. The Protector in me is still in full command of what I share with others. I show the letters that I write to Jean, Sophie and Danny, the people I trust, but I’d never show these, my journal pages, to anyone. Here my Protector allows me to look at those events that stand behind the deeper levels of pain.

Here I can remember the shock and revulsion I felt when I heard of Dale’s diagnosis – Did any young, gay men survive the eighties and nineties? His dreams, so firmly within his grasp when he left Vancouver for the National Theatre School in Montreal after High School, were as crushed and mangled as his body was by AIDS. Dale – the most beautifully dazzling butterfly of all - flew right into the bug light. I’m so ashamed of how I couldn’t bring myself to visit him in his last few months. Where was my so-called courage then when he lay dying in the arms of such a monstrous disease?

Here in this journal I can also feel the horror of the last time I saw Ariel. She had arrived unexpectedly and waited for me on the sidewalk in front of my High School. It was a beautiful day in late spring with nature in full explosion, and she stood there, dark, like some menacing specter come to claim me once more. I know how a cat feels when she arches her back and extends her claws in a defensive posture. I too bristled – a reflex action in response to threatening stimulus.

“Hello, Starla,” she said. It occurred to me that until then, I’d never heard her speak my name; we were always just “the kids”, Claire and I.

“What do you want?” I asked, my tone cool and even. I’d worked hard on even tones.

I remember noticing that she’d let her hair grow a bit and the dark and silver waves did much to soften the lines and angles of her face, which had aged.

“It’s your mom,” she said. “She asked me to come and see you. She’s been looking forward to coming to your graduation next week – planning it for months now…” She hesitated a moment, looking away from me and down to the ground.

I was stunned – What did this mean? Who had invited her? Who wanted her?
No. She couldn’t come and spoil my day. NO!

“You’re mom’s in the hospital again. That’s why she can’t come next week.”

You’re bloody right, she can’t come! I wanted to scream at her. But then I saw, through the shield of my fury, Ariel’s eyes, so tired, almost defeated. And I realized that she had used a softer tone than I had ever heard from her, asking for understanding – probably not forgiveness.

“What’s wrong with her, anyway?” I shot back, knowing the answer.

“They’re having to rework her meds; she’d been doing so well with the Lithium, it really saved her life. But now it’s not working as well as it used to…Maybe it’s her hormones. I don’t know.”

And though I wanted to spit on her and slap her face, at that moment I could see that Ariel loved mom. She worried about her and had stood by her.

We had heard stories, Bill and I, of how Ariel had called the police and an ambulance one night when they were visiting friends in Victoria and mom flipped out, grabbing a kitchen knife, threatening to cut herself. She had finally stepped over the line where help was inevitable. Ariel cared enough for her to wrestle with her madness and her petulance all these years. The diagnosis of manic depression or bi-polar illness came as no shock, but for me it carried with it a toxic mixture of relief and terror – relief that it had a name, terror that it might someday become my name.

But on the sidewalk in front of the school that day I just wanted to get away from Ariel and all the memories that she brought with her. I turned and started to walk away from her, fast and urgent. “She loves you very much,” Ariel called after me, following behind as I threaded my way along the busy sidewalk. “She misses you.”

At that I stopped dead, turned and looked full into her eyes as the passers-by flowed around us. “Fuck you,” I spat. “Fuck you, and fuck her too.” I delivered this parting phrase deliberately, seething yet holding in the full power of the explosion that I wanted to unleash: “I don’t ever want to see either of you again – Leave me alone.” I turned my back on her and left, determined never to look back again, not at Ariel, not at the times when my mother played a role in my life.

But much as I’ve wanted to excise my mother from my memory, she haunts me – yes, haunt is the right word, like a spirit that lives its life on the edge of my consciousness, close enough to make its presence felt yet just out of sight, so the presence is always a surprise when it shows itself. And I’ve still no idea what to do with her.

Today Joan came to visit the school with her new baby; I remember how tired and immense she looked at the shower we had for her last fall. Now here she is with her four-month old baby, looking so peaceful and happy that they can spend some time together, just the two of them, before she picks up her other kids from school. I marvel at the power of a baby – or a puppy or a kitten, for that matter – to call forth tenderness and awe from the crustiest among us. Her students surround her in the hall, they want to touch the baby’s fingers, brush his chubby cheek. And I have a flash of mom – whole and happy – playing with Claire on her lap when Claire was this age. And my heart melts at the memory, and once again I ask sadly: what am I to do with my mother?

I can’t love her; I will never trust her; I want to ignore her but her memory will not be ignored.

I swear my life has a musical soundtrack that pops in now and then, to emphasize or punctuate something that I’ve been thinking about: on the Oldies station the other day, they played Boy George singing his old hit: “Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?…Do you really want to make me cry?” … And I realized that, once again, just like in the old days, George had something to say to me: No, mom didn’t want to hurt me – most of the time she probably didn’t even know that I was part of her world.

Is it forgiveness that I’m supposed to offer her? What would forgiveness bring to a relationship where it has never been sought? Does she even recognize that there might be something in our history that requires forgiveness?

If not forgiveness, then perhaps release is what I’m seeking – release for both of us. I would like to have the power to give all of those memories the freedom to allow “mom” to simply become “Sarah.”

Sarah would no longer be the mother who wasn’t there for me, or who was there to hurt me. I want to release her from all the expectations that were left unfulfilled, and all the responsibilities left untended. I want to remember Sarah.

Sarah – wounded, gifted, broken, complex.

Sarah – bewildered at the enormity of the waves in her emotional sea.

Sarah – who was so immersed in her negotiations with life that she never thought that others might need her to help steer their own ships.

And in that release, I pray that we might both find peace.

Meanwhile, I listen to Danny getting ready for bed: the comforting sounds as he turns down the blankets, my side as well as his. I hear him brushing his teeth, then talking softly to Pussywillow as he takes her from the bed for a little nuzzle before he puts her on the floor, and I realize how much of Sarah’s life was stolen from her; all the small pleasures of giving and receiving were taken away by her urgent need to devour, or be devoured by life.

And in complete peace and assurance, I go to bed this night knowing that her life will not be my life.

Daylight falls upon the path, the forest falls behind.
Today I’m not prey to dark uncertainty. (“I Think I Understand.” Joni Mitchell)

Copyright 2003

Dear Jean;

2008-04-28T08:45:00.003-04:00

The older I get,
The more clearly I remember
things that never happened. (Mark Twain)

I find it strange that despite everything that went on in my life before Claire’s death, this letter that I write you of the years since then seems to be the most difficult for me. They were difficult because they were empty years, defined more by what I did, not by who I was – for I was nothing. I wonder sometimes how I ever made it from there to here.

I remember going through the days, the seasons, then ultimately through the years by reaching from one goal to the next, from graduation to graduation: from Junior High, then from High School, from University and finally from Teacher’s College. I wonder sometimes if my graduate work, important as it is to me, wasn’t simply spurred on by a sense of having nowhere else to go and nothing else to achieve except another diploma.

I look back at the twelve-year old Starla living with her father, sandwiched in their first floor apartment in a house that also sheltered an aspiring Olympic runner and his massage therapist wife living above them, and a couple of bikers below. I recognize that that Starla is closer to the person I’ve become with your guidance, than all the other Starlas in between. She was open, sensitive and vulnerable. She was wounded and she wanted to be healed. She was looking for a model on which to build her new self but none was found. So over the years she enclosed herself: experience by experience, disappointment by disappointment, she built a wall that would sustain her in her life and protect her from further pain.

I could tell you of the years in Junior High when I was always being reprimanded for leaving the school grounds to escape the cattiness of the cliques; of girls who deliberately turned their backs to whisper to each other, looking over their shoulders as I walked by; of notes, hurtful and ridiculous, slipped through the louvered air vents into my locker, their presence invading my private space.

I could tell you about the rabbit who was kept in a large kennel type cage in the classroom, that I went to – as petitioners do in prayer – to lose myself. I would open the cage and he would come to me looking for the offered treat: carrot or celery sticks, apple cores rescued from lunch clean-up. The other kids called me a garbage picker – I knew I only did it because I wanted the rabbit to trust me. He would hop into my arms and allow himself to be folded into my small chest where we both found escape – he, as he nibbled the day’s treat outside the bars that held him in, I, in the troughs of his silken fur as the tips of my fingers drew their path over his back and along his long, cool ears. Then the bell would ring, or someone would come upon us startling him; his powerful legs and fierce claws would push on my arms to escape the embrace. The scratches on my hands where he had drawn blood as I struggled to return him to his cage, would sting for the rest of the day.

But I’d rather focus on the positive steppingstones that helped me get through those years, the things that helped me preserve some kernel of that softer Starla who so wanted to be part of a gentler life.

My first love – perfect and unattainable – was Boy George. This infatuation had nothing to do with music or pop culture but had everything to do with beauty and being defiantly different. Are you familiar with Boy George, Jean? Icon of the early 80’s whose geisha-like make up transformed the face of this young man into an androgynous, pouty object of the most delicate beauty. I would stare into each set of those gloriously defined eyes on each of the posters and pin-up pictures on the wall in my room, and listen to what they had to tell me about reinventing yourself to survive, and about wearing masks to protect yourself.

And I will tell you of Dale: my one true friend through High School and my own real-life Boy George. His creative, exotic and flamboyant personality was strong enough to envelop us both – the sad, shy young girl and the defiantly uncertain, gay young man – and protect us both from the worst of the teen scene. Among other things ours was a symbiotic relationship in that we rescued each other from the world of dating. We were a couple; granted we were a platonic couple in our deep friendship, but in High School any pairing of a guy and a girl was acceptable, and we were usually left alone.

Dale’s homosexuality was not a big issue between us. I remember the Saturday in November when he first told me of his confusion and frustration around what he was feeling, as we sat in our booth by the window at Mario’s Pizza, watching the rain fall. He knew that he wasn’t attracted to girls in the same way as he would hear other guys talking, but the world of High School in those days offered so little opportunity for anyone like Dale to explore who we was attracted to that he lived those years in a world of sexual ambiguity. For my part, I worked hard not to be attracted to anyone – I felt that I’d already spent my quota of emotional energy in my life; I had no interest in entanglements. So we “hung out” together, Dale and I, filling all those spaces in each other’s lives that were allotted to “friends”.

Dale sang in the halls and on the stage. He jumped from high places and wore garish clothes. I marvel at the gentleness inside him that allowed me to be his friend despite his wild exuberance: I was like a moth, attracted not to a killer bug light but to a tender beam that glowed and showed me how to have fun, and accepted me with my own restrictions and limitations. But perhaps it was my very wounds that allowed him to be close to me. His brave and smiling mask of self-assurance was so firmly in place to the rest of the world, but with me he would share the place of his sadness, where he knew that he was not the son that his parents had hoped for; their disappointment in him was a pain that he carried – not knowing how to soothe or heal it.

Dale poured most of his longing and creative energy into each theatrical production with which he was involved; he was a beautifully gifted actor on stage, where he could tame his natural clown. He was so good for me in so many ways. He got me involved in his theatre group where I would go with him to watch the auditions and then rehearsals. Later, I became a prompter, and went on to learn about lights and gels, and how to work the lighting board and sound systems. Over the years in High School, then in University, I spent many hours in tech booths at the back of so many auditoria, enjoying the isolation that my job afforded me, yet knowing that mine was a skill that was needed, that my contribution was essential to the production.

Besides my time with Dale, there were other oases during my teen years. In those days, I kept a journal. Well, not so much a journal as an assortment of doodles, poems, children’s stories, and rants about inconsequential things that Bill did to irritate me. I regret now that I threw them all away when I moved to Ontario. I remember a few of the poems though they hardly seemed worth the effort. But much more important to me than the writing was my reading – as if I had so little to give, and needed to be constantly replenished by an unlimited flow of words, phrases and ideas that I would seek out and take into me. I would steal time from studies and sleeping, use time on busses, and generally make time on weekends to read. Beyond the words and stories, there was a bond that I felt with the books themselves. Owning a book was not so important to me; holding any book however, even a library book, bringing it into my collection of “stuff” that I carried around in daily life, created a connection with all the other people who had cared for that particular story and enjoyed it’s richness. I cherish each book that I’ve read in my life: the good, the bad and the silly. They all hold that special key that allowed me to escape from a world that was too real, too harsh and too full of emptiness.

Another area of my life that sustained me through those years was swimming; the hours of training and practice that went into building up my endurance to achieve another level of proficiency were a positive influence in so many ways. At the time I only knew that they were necessary so that I could make it through to the next level, to finally achieve the papers that I needed to be a lifeguard and swimming teacher.

I’ve always felt so at home in the water – the deeper, the better. Heaven must be like this: swimming alone in a pool with nothing to interfere with the deliciously rhythmic sense of power and exhaustion that comes from moving endlessly – arm over arm, stroke after stroke, the whole body propelling itself, limitless, untouched by anything but water, until finger tips meet tile, signaling a shift – turn, push off the end of the pool and continue. It was the only place that I felt completely comfortable; swimming was a pure and unexpected gift opening doors to yet another world, and a sense of being relieved for a time of any sadness or frustration. I still carry this love of water and I try to get to the pool at least once a week.

During summer holidays I worked my way through the city’s day camp system, first as an LIT (Leader in Training), then CIT (Counselor in Training), to being a camp lifeguard and swimming instructor. Six summers, seven sessions per season, five or six classes per session: so many kids, all of them eager for their time in the pool. The summers flew by.

High School finally ended and I knew that I wanted to be a teacher. I’ve always been a teacher I think; from the first days when I realized that there were other kids in the world who were just as confused as I had been, I’ve had a longing to calm that confusion and build skills that would help them move on to the next set of questions.

In applying to universities, I knew that I wanted to be near Sophie, to return to the one place in the world that I missed for what I had left behind. I knew that Sophie had given us stability and predictability, and I always associated these cherished characteristics with our time in Ontario. So I applied to UBC in Vancouver so Bill would feel that there was part of me that wanted to stay in the West, but I knew that I’d be moving East as soon as I could.

That last summer in Vancouver, as I bought a trunk and began to arrange things in it, as I dreamed of dormitory life, as I pondered the necessity of winter boots, I thought a lot about Bill and our years together. I wondered how he’d get along without me: who would see that the laundry was done and that the plants were watered? Who would see that he ate something more than pizza and toast?

Would he miss me? Would his life change in my absence? I realized with resigned melancholy, that the answer to these last questions was a firm yes – and no. Of course we would miss each other and our lives would be changed dramatically by this move. We’d grown comfortable in each other’s presence: anticipating reactions, enjoying the easy familiarity of each other’s “stuff” in our lives – we’d miss that. But we had also become comfortable in each other’s absences. Bill was away a lot with work, sometimes for a week or more. I thought that it might take him a long time to realize that we’d moved into a new phase of our lives where we’d have to make an effort if we wanted to remember each other.

Bill was an okay Dad, especially for me. I didn’t need someone to oversee my activities and look out for my safety – I’m so cautious by nature. I was safe because I kept myself safe. On the other hand, it was good for me to have a home to care for, groceries to buy, and a sack of laundry to deal with once a week. At twelve years of age, I was an adult waiting for my body and my peers to catch up with all I’d lived and seen and felt in my life. And in Bill’s home, I had the freedom to live that responsible adult life.

Bill would come home after a day, or a week, with tales of politics and red tape left tangled at the feet of some poor secretary in some government office. Bill was a clerical wild man: he delighted in the hunt, in the paper chase of arguments – won or lost, it didn’t matter. So long as there was a case to be made or a report to be presented, he did it with panache and a never extinguished sense of impending victory. He’s an amazing guy in the environmental world where real victory is virtually unattainable, and success is measured proposal by proposal, and tree by tree. They’re lucky to have him.

On Fridays, after playing hooky from his professional life for a few hours, Bill would arrive with some new style of pizza: spicy chicken, or spinach and tomatoes, or pesto and shrimp with peppers. He might have a new B.B. King tape, the product of a long, lazy afternoon in the second hand record store. He’d play it, as excited as any kid, pointing out the amazing finger work that always inspired him. We’d eat our pizza, Bill and I, and usually Dale, enjoying these small moments of what passed for family life. I wonder if he ate alone on Friday nights after I’d gone?

These were the good things of those years that I wanted to share with you, Jean. They were the people, and memories, and activities that preserved some sense of my wholeness, so that I might rediscover it now that I have this reclaimed life to live with Danny, and with myself.

Before I finish there’s one more thing that I wanted to share with you about those years. It was the most difficult aspect of my adolescence, and that which left me feeling more vulnerable and frightened than all the uncertainties of my younger life. Asthma played a very large role in shaping who I was in those days, and the ultimate caution with which I reacted to life was a direct result of my need to avoid extremes and just keep breathing.

I’m able to trace my first asthma attack to a drizzly Tuesday in the late fall, after I returned to live with Bill. A group of girls from this new Junior High had been taunting me at the bus stop after school, laughing at what they chose to point out on that particular day: my less than fashionable clothes. I turned from them so they wouldn’t see the tears that were stinging my eyes. At first I walked with an almost march-like determination to leave them all behind, but as the anger and shame grew in me I began to run. I wanted my heart to race and my skin to burn with the sting of the cold drops of rain against my cheeks, so I ran as fast as I could, holding my bag to my chest, holding myself in. I ran.

It would have been about twenty blocks from the school to our apartment, and I ran past flower shops, delis, cafes, hairdressers, and blocks of small square homes, their patches of fall flowers still shining with colour in the dullness of the grey, wet afternoon. I ran past a fire station, a playground, and a car dealership, each melting behind me as I kept pushing myself forward towards the safety of my world in our apartment. Then without warning, from behind a chain link fence came a dog, large and black, his fleshy round head surrounding the snarling mouth and rows of hard yellow teeth. The sound of his bark startled me back into the world of what was real around me, and I screamed with the last easy breath to come from my body for days.

I screamed and kept screaming as I staggered back away from the fence that held him in with all the tenuous uncertainty of a sheet of glass around a tiger. I screamed until my brain focused, grasping at the knowledge that he was enclosed. I screamed in anger that my hurt adolescent pride was being suppressed by a real threat. And when I stopped screaming, my lungs stopped working, as if in those screams I’d pushed out all the air I’d ever breathed in, and my lungs had collapsed on its expulsion.

I staggered on for the few blocks to the apartment, gasping with every step and fell inside, grateful for the warmth yet horrified at the realization that it did little to help my heaving chest. I got a drink; I lay on my bed; I propped myself up against the wall trying to keep the panic at bay. I focused on each Rob Lowe and Boy George poster on the walls of my room, scrutinizing each one, willing their perfection to help me through this crisis. I concentrated on the ceramic whale that Carly had given me before she left us that summer, which sat on the top of my bookcase and had never known the feeling of water around him as all whales should. I resolved that if I survived, and if I did not die from lack of air or lack of courage, I’d find an aquarium for my whale where he could live in water – perhaps in the company of a goldfish or two. I focused on anything that would keep me from thinking about what was happening to me. I gasped and gulped tiny little breaths at first, telling myself, through each strange sounding wheeze of my chest, that I only needed little breaths for now: like a person dying of thirst only needs a drop at a time to keep alive.

In time, as the grey outside the window became darker and the streetlights shone in, my heart slowed from its running pace to a merely agitated level. The tiny gulps of air became deeper and little pockets in my lungs began to open up, one by one, letting more air in, letting more air out – in until it hurt, out until I could push no more. As the crisis receded I became aware of the bag of school books that I still clutched to my chest, of my dirty shoes and wet clothes marring the new lace comforter that I’d asked Bill to get for me to cover my bed.

I would have given anything to cry at that moment, for the gift of wails and rants that would have emptied the anger and this new fear from where they took up all the breathing space inside me. But I dared not cry – I was too afraid that the little breath that was left to me, which was slowly ebbing back into my chest, would be claimed again.

So I sat on my bed removing one dirty sneaker and then the other, wiping at the marks of mud they left on the lace, and coughing with dry sputtering gasps through the night. When Bill got home he came to see me in my room. He asked why I was in bed so early. I told him I wasn’t feeling well. He listened to the coughs – dry and persistent – and said that he’d get some cough syrup in the morning, that it sounded like I was coming down with a cold.

I coughed for a week before I got to see the doctor who heard the wheeze in my chest and prescribed a steroid inhaler and Ventolin for the discomfort of acute episodes. The coughing wasn’t so bad, except that it attracted unwanted attention from those around me. But the memory of that feeling of helpless contraction in my chest left me terrified at the thought of it happening again. Because I was running and was upset when it first happened, I was wary of anything that I sensed would bring on another attack. So I lived my life in a world with as little threat as possible of physical exertion or emotional distress. It wasn’t until later that I realized that swimming was such good exercise for asthmatics and that it probably did as much for my lungs as it did for my emotional and physical well being. The asthma followed me through my teens but seemed much improved when I came east to university. Perhaps it was the different weather; perhaps I’d left enough ghosts behind and there was more room for me to breathe here.

University was a new world for me, with no one to care for but myself. I worried about Bill at first but realized that he would be fine, with or without me. I met Danny in my second year at school and we went through Teacher’s College together. Strangely, though I still can’t put my finger on it, he has always reminded me of the best of Bill and the best of Dale blended together. But mostly I was attracted to Danny because of his patience: with me, with himself and with life. Danny’s always been willing to wait for something good. He tells the story of desserts in his family, how he would always wait until everyone else had their piece of pie or cake before holding out his plate. I guess that his mother noticed this kind trait in him, and would save a particularly large piece for him at the end. Thus he learned that patience was more than a virtue and was often rewarded. I’m grateful that I know how lucky I am to have found him.

So there you have it, Jean; that’s much of my life until the tears started to flow and I found myself in your office. I’m ashamed to think of how little faith I had in the process that you offered, and how reticent I was to dig up the old memories. But I’ll be forever grateful for the sense of safety that you provided in which I was able to take this journey, back to those times, and forward, into the next phase of my life.

Thank you, Jean, for everything.

Starla.

Copyright 2003

JOURNAL, Sunday, April 14th

2008-04-23T08:45:00.003-04:00

You are a child of the universe;
No less than the trees and the stars
You have a right to be here. (Desiderata)

Synchronicity is such a buzzword these days, describing how sometimes our lives seem to be scripted like a movie, operating in themes with parallel occurrences that seem too well coordinated to be possible in a random world. Yet there it is: things do sometimes come along and come together at exactly the right time.

On Friday afternoon, Susan, the Kindergarten teacher, had her kids with her at school because the family was leaving for a special weekend in Montreal right after class. This is Susan’s first year at our school so I don’t know her very well. I knew that she had four kids and that the oldest, ten-year old Tracy, had been disabled by a premature delivery and very difficult birth. I knew that Tracy had a nurse who tended to her needs on a daily basis, and a team of caregivers whose coordinating schedules seemed to occupy much of Susan’s spare time, but until Friday these were just words.

The handivan arrived at the front door of the school at noon. Tracy was wheeled off the bus and into the school in her very elaborate wheelchair. Susan ran to greet her with hugs and kisses. A large terrycloth bib lay draped over Tracy’s bright red Roots jacket. Beneath her unfaded jeans were tiny withered ankles in braces fitted into ironically clean running shoes. Her head lolled from side to side, her eyes rolled back in her head and she drooled from one corner of her mouth. Her long twisted fingers seemed fused into a folded posture and waved uselessly in the air.

From the library, I watched as Susan’s three other kids and some of her students came over to join them in the entrance. I was stunned when I first saw the degree of Tracy’s disability and realized the overwhelming role that she must play in all their lives. I was intrigued by my reaction: I noticed that Tracy’s brother, Paul, was about eight-years old, just two years younger than her. How could Susan have contemplated another pregnancy little more than a year after the shock of such a terrible birth and its consequences?

Susan removed Tracy’s hat, kissing her head as the locks tumbled to her shoulders. She undid the snaps on her coat, talking in animated tones about the school and the afternoon’s activities that she had planned for them. Paul wheeled Tracy to the Kindergarten room; Susan’s other two children followed, to play with some of the kids from her class. For the rest of the lunch period, Tracy was an honoured guest as Susan and Paul wheeled her around to show her the school and introduce her to the kids and staff that they met in the halls. When they arrived in the library, I was just getting things set up for the group that were to arrive after the bell. When Susan introduced us, I bent over to touch Tracy’s arm in a gesture of recognition and welcome. Tracy didn’t seem aware of what was going on as Susan brushed a few wisps of her blond hair from her forehead and spoke of the things that she liked to do at home: watch T.V., especially the music videos, and be with her grandmother when she came over to make cookies with Tracy every Tuesday morning. Susan spoke of Paul’s soccer team that would be starting up again soon, and of how the younger ones have been nagging for a PlayStation to play the new videogames.

In the few minutes that we spent together, I became more relaxed in their presence. It was obvious that Susan saw nothing heroic or even unusual about her family; they were simply as they were. I would have given anything to be so bold as to ask her of her fears, of the pain and discouragement that they must feel at times when thinking of the future that Tracy will never have, and of the courage that it must have taken to have contemplated other children. But to bring up such questions in the face of their obvious ease and happiness with each other would have been insulting. When they left the library and I went back to my arranging, I had much to ponder, most of it to do with Susan’s three “normal” children, and how they may not have had a chance at life but for her courage and willingness to take risks.

Watching Susan’s children at our school was just the latest in a series of occurrences this week that have had me thinking long and hard about questions of having children. Synchronicity seems to have dictated that that’s to be my theme for this week.

I’m never surprised when I see myself doing something completely unexpected. I’ve grown to trust the other aspects of myself, the Protector, the Observer, the Curious One who live within me, and who sometimes appear to operate independently of each other, but always seem to act for my good. A few months ago when I went to the doctor for a check up and to renew my prescription for the pill, without expecting it at all I heard myself explaining that before going on the pill my cycle was quite erratic, and asking for a referral to see a specialist about it.

As with any specialist, it took some time to get an appointment, and as synchronicity would have it, I got to see the gynecologist this very week, when I’ve been struggling with so many questions about the gene pool that I’ve been allotted, and all the risks involved in becoming a parent that have nothing to do with conception.

I didn’t really learn anything new at this appointment. He said that based on what I told him, he thought that pregnancy could be possible, but that it would probably take time and persistence, and that he’d know more with some tests. Without realizing what was happening, I was booked for blood work before leaving the office. I came away requisition in hand, feeling a little stunned, as if someone had shot a starter’s pistol in a race that I didn’t know I was running. His assumption that pregnancy was the obvious primary goal of my coming to see him was not surprising; no doubt that’s why most of the women with strange cycles would seek his help. I came away curiously challenged, as if a new goal had been laid before me, something to achieve.

It’s a characteristic of mine that I’ve always been swept up by the excitement of new challenges, intrigued to see if I can rise to their demands without questioning too seriously how much I really want to achieve this particular goal. This time, obviously, I’m afraid to let my enthusiasm get the better of me.

It’s hard to imagine a thirty-year old woman in a warm relationship with a great guy for the past eight years, having avoided questions of fertility, pregnancy and parenting for all this time. Yet that’s the situation in which I find myself. My fears about depression and my questionable fertility have happily coexisted in my mind, supporting each other and allowing me this fantasy life where I could pretend that issues of parenthood were no more within my purview than matters of flying to the moon. Yet, since my visit to the gynecologist and the course of medical investigation that he’s set before me, the possibility of pregnancy is nudging me to look at my fears, and to question how other people deal with the overwhelming issues of having children under any circumstances.

I’m not brave and I’m not wise but I am growing in strength. Watching Susan and her kids, and thinking of the families of so many of the children that I deal with each day, I know that for everyone life is one big risk. Control is an illusion that I’ve been clinging to for many years, to maintain the balance that I needed to keep myself on track. The irony is that when I look at how I’ve changed over the past few months, I realize that it’s this desperate clinging to control in my life that has made me most unbalanced. Through the writing I’ve come to trust life more; I believe in Danny and me, and I feel more peaceful and am able to move more with the flow of my life. Is that not the balance that I’ve always wanted?

And what of Danny in all of this? Perhaps he’s been too patient with me, never pushing the difficult questions that have settled themselves between us. One thing about Danny is that he never goes looking for trouble; he doesn’t want to upset what we have, so he’s always been willing to let me be with my idiosyncrasies and my demands. Maybe I needed to be challenged more, to be more aware of what he has wanted and hoped for all these years.

In our situation, this question of parenting is so much greater than the basic desire to have children that everyone faces at some point in their lives. For us, for me, it seems to be intimately tied to our relationship. For the first time I feel that I’m able to commit to examining painful questions that unite us. It’s no longer my pain and fear that I’m wrestling with but our pain, our confusion, our decisions when facing the possibility of infertility – or worse.

Danny’s an amazing person. Because there had been so much of myself that I’d kept inside, I was always under the illusion that I was a mystery to him; I never believed that he knew me very well. Did he know me well enough, I wonder, to know that I might someday be whole? I would never have suspected it myself.

Copyright 2003

JOURNAL, Tuesday, April 9th

2008-04-21T08:20:00.006-04:00

Hush little baby, don’t say a word
Mamma’s going to buy you a mockingbird. (trad.)

It’s so depressing these days, getting up early to write. Since the clocks have changed to daylight saving time we enjoy the longer evenings of sunsets that hold back until well after supper, but we pay for it at the other end of the day, getting up in the dark. It’s as if nature is laughing at all the progress we’ve made in the last few weeks at pushing back the night to an earlier and earlier sunrise. “Fooled ya,” says the morning to our sense of accomplishment. “You have to start back where you were six weeks ago when it was dull and drizzly and it felt as if there was hardly any light at all in the world.”

I woke this morning after a dream that has me so angry that I think I’m just venting against the burden of the morning’s darkness. It was just a snippet of the dream that bothers me, a sliver at the end of a story that I can’t even remember. Someone or something is holding me facedown, pushing against my back so I can’t get up from the ground on the edge of a pond where I lay. It’s trying to push my head under the water, trying to drown me. It occurs to me, as I struggle and fight to free myself, that this is a rather ineffective assassin: the pond of water in which it wants to drown me is several inches below the earth where I’m lying, so all that’s happening is I’m getting my hair and forehead wet. But it’s the oppressive weight, the pressure against my back that bothers me most, until I realize that mom is standing beside the figure that keeps me pinned down, and she looks down at my struggling figure, laughing at me with her over exuberant laugh, always too loud and too full of anticipation.

What a pathetic piece of work I am. I’ve not seen my mother in nearly twenty years, yet I allow her to invade my dreams and take up precious emotional energy in me that deserves a more worthy recipient. She’s of no consequence to me; it’s not as if I have to live with her or deal with her on a regular basis. What’s the point of going through all the pain only to remember how betrayed and lonely I’ve felt for most of my life – I don’t want to do it…

Yet since the retreat in February, I’ve known that no matter how much I try to deny it or wish it weren’t so, her hold on me, on the little girl who used to lean against her pregnant tummy listening for sounds of the baby within, is as strong as any bond could be.

Jean once told me that it’s the therapist’s job to help people tell more optimistic stories about themselves. And she, Jean, has succeeded in doing just that in so many areas of my life. But I know that I resist talking to her about mom; I know how much work there is to do…too much.

It occurred to me the other day, as I was writing of the different people that I blamed for Claire’s death that I never really blamed mom. I think that’s because I reserved my anger towards her for my own stolen childhood: she had failed miserably at being my mother, she took me away from Sophie, she exposed me to a sense of evil at the farm that makes me shudder to this day. The wounded relationship between us was tattered enough in itself, it didn’t need guilt around Claire’s death to make it any more ugly.

But strange as it is to express it, I think that what I’ve resented the most in our relationship is that mom used herself to create me – as if knowing how damaged she was by her depression, she should have looked for more acceptable, more perfect genetic material to make me, her baby. After all, she would never have used sub-standard ingredients in her baking; am I not as important as a bran muffin, or a loaf of twelve-grain bread.

How ridiculous does this sound? Yet deep inside, I’ve always resented that she would pass on her defective gene pool to me. I’ve spent most of my adolescence and beyond, waiting for my own depression to take over. I’ve worked so hard to try and avoid this: I’ve always tried to stay in control, I never drank all through university, I seldom take drugs of any kind, even to the point of worrying about the steroid inhalers and the Ventolin that I took for my asthma. I’ve always wanted to maintain a clear mind so that I could be alert to the “signs”…when it would be my turn to face her depression.

My first year of teaching, I remember going back to work on Monday morning after the Christmas break feeling fine, if perhaps not as rested as I’d hoped to be after that first term from hell. I remember standing in the hallway watching as the kids filed into the library for the first class of the day. The bell rang; I looked into the room of agitated faces, and I had a total meltdown, not knowing what to do with all the energy that had been unleashed in them over the holidays.

I began to shake in a full-blown anxiety attack. I left the class alone and managed to make my way into the staff room where I collapsed into a gasping mass. I lied: I told the principal that I had a fever; it must be the flu. Someone, I think it was the secretary, drove me home and as I closed my apartment door behind me, I dropped to the floor and sobbed uncontrollably. I lay there crying into the old oriental rug, grimy with the dirt of previous tenants that I’d not been able to clean away. After the initial wave receded, I lifted myself and went to the bedroom where it started again. I cried for three days. I cried into towels and screamed into pillows. I’d stop long enough to wipe my face and blow my nose, then I’d start again. I had no real idea what I was crying about: nothing and everything, about life and hope and despair and fear. Mainly I cried from fear; I was anticipating that this episode signaled my entrance into mom’s world of insanity and unreliability.

Isn’t it strange that of all the things about being Sarah Burchill’s daughter that I could worry about, the one that was most ominous to me, the one that most terrified me in its consequences, even at this crisis point in my life, was that I would be irresponsible and unreliable just like her.

After three days, just like the flu, I remember waking up and feeling as if I wanted to get dressed and have something to eat. It took me another couple of days to get back to normal, but right from the bacon and eggs that I prepared for myself that morning, I knew that the worst was over. I also knew that I’d come through something very dark and powerful, but the important thing was that I’d come through it. That knowledge, however, didn’t keep me from anticipating the next time that I’d be cut down in the middle of the flow of life, and forced to empty myself in what felt like an infinite wash of tears.

I remember reading Timothy Findley’s book, Headhunter a few years ago and I was so taken by this line that I wrote it down: “I would never not be I,” she was thinking, ”But I would gladly, this night have been born some other I, not mad.” The poetry and longing of those words stunned me when I read them. They sum up the only wish that I’ve ever had for my mother, and what I would have wanted in a relationship with her. There were so many reasons why I loved her and admired her and wanted to be like the wonderful part of her. But always the madness, disguised as anger, sadness, insensitivity and selfishness would intrude upon our lives.

And so I must admit that the worst of mom’s legacy to me at this point in my life is the uncertainty. I trust myself enough now to believe that her demons probably won’t be part of my life. I believe as I approach my thirties and go beyond the usual age for mental illness to present itself, that I’ll be okay. But how can I ask Danny to commit to the uncertainty that would haunt our every thought of children, even if conception were possible? How could I live with myself, knowing that the emotional turmoil that could destroy any happiness that we would have as a family, had come from me? How can I accept that responsibility? How do I know if my longing for the wonderful family life that I see portrayed in the photos in Jean’s office is a selfish wish, or a selfless one in which I want to give of myself to Danny and our children?

I’m so afraid.

Copyright 2003

2008-04-21T08:20:00.001-04:00

JOURNAL, Thursday, April 4th

2008-04-15T07:57:00.003-04:00

Gotta let go of the things
That keep you tethered
(“Mighty Trucks of Midnight” Bruce Cockburn)

I’m drawn to reread the last letter that I wrote to Jean over and over, as if I’m still looking for some detail that I’ve missed or I’m trying to fill in the pieces that Sophie might have been able to offer me; but I have no new insights, and I see nothing more than I did before.

If I put on my teacher’s persona, and listen with teacher’s ears to what’s revealed in the letter about how Claire lived inside Starla, how they listened to the poems, how they were bound and healed, I’d say that there was something particularly bizarre and significant in the student’s perception of self, yet as I said, I had nothing to compare it to.

For the first few years I fully lived this fantasy of Claire’s existence as part of me, and her liberation from the bondage which was her body. Yet if I was so convinced that she lived on in me, and that we were intimately bound in this way, I wonder why I had such a need to list the people that I blamed for her suffering and death.

I can trace my journey to maturity by tracking those I’ve accused.

First there was Jacob and his pack of Satan’s spawn. (I have met at least one “Jacob” every year since I’ve begun working with disturbed children: a child seemingly evil, who is consumed with resentment and strikes out in anger at anything weaker than himself. I find it ironic that the one person that I’ve met in my life who instilled real fear in me was only eight years old and furthermore, like some tragic myth, I’m condemned to be his helpmate, year after year, in each of his new incarnations.)

Next I blamed Ariel. As I made my way through puberty and into the arena of awareness about sexuality and relationships, I resented Ariel and her influence on mom. I saw her as the force that “turned my mother into a lesbian” - more specifically turned her into someone who preferred to live among those strange, dark women than to be with me. I wanted to believe that without Ariel, mom would have been back home baking muffins. It was Ariel’s sharp, angular edges that I most resented: the rock hard jaw line and cheek bones, the ramrod posture, her clipped way of moving and speaking represented to me a person calculating enough to plan and execute Claire’s removal from Sophie’s home, to bring her to the Family where her destruction was only a matter of time.

When I was sixteen and going through the rebellious stage of adolescence, I blamed Bill. Whenever events of importance were happening in my life, Bill was often away saving the world by lawyering or affidavit seeking or doing whatever else it is that Bill does. I blamed him for not recognizing and dealing with mom’s depression from the very beginning; if he could save the world, how come he couldn’t save us?

But I’ve come to realize that Bill, and mom, like so many others of their circle, relied on avoidance and denial as their strategy for life: “Only that which I acknowledge, exists.” Although I resented Bill’s lack of awareness, which I believed eventually led to Claire’s death, I mostly blamed him because he was convenient and because he was my dad, and you’re supposed to be angry with your parents at sixteen.

As I went on to university and began studying psychology and sociology, I even blamed society. I resented all of their social safety nets, so full of holes that they could allow a child to be taken from a loving, stable home in Scarborough and land her on a farm in the wilds of British Columbia with a houseful of lunatics who were unable to distinguish nurturing from neglect.

But when it came right down to it, any blame I lay at someone else’s feet was simply building a wall of illusion to distract me from the knowledge that I blamed myself. So with Claire coexisting inside me, I could give her the chance to live her life while I lived the caregiver’s role that has become so much a part of who I am when I’m at my best, when I’m with kids like Claire.

Should I be embarrassed or angry that I’ve spent all these years living a life that’s been motivated by a combination of atonement and guilt? Would I have been driven in the same way to do the work with kids that has been so rewarding for me and, I hope, has helped a few of them along the way? I don’t resent how I’ve lived my life and I don’t know, given the opportunity, that I’d want to have changed its direction.

When I left Saltspring with Carly, it wasn’t lost on me that what I was leaving behind was the very best and the worst that life had offered me so far. Reliving that time, difficult as it has been, has helped me to realize that all that was good and bad in that experience is part of who I am.

I would never have met Dorrie and John Ross if I hadn’t gone to Saltspring; and who would I be without them? The relationship that we have built over the years, as they would take me to tea when they were visiting their daughter in North Vancouver, and later as we sat for hours in the wonderful garden that Dorrie nurtured so beautifully at the nursing home in Kitsilano where John Ross went to live after his stroke, taught me so much about fidelity and love. It’s probably thanks to them that I’ve been able to build any kind of a relationship with Danny over these past eight years.

My relationship with them was as extreme in its positive gifts as my time with the Family was negative; I’m sure that much of my perception of both experiences is coloured by their proximity to each other. Was the farm really as tainted with evil as I remember it? Was the cottage such a perfect haven of beauty and peace? Neither image could last in the real world where time has a way of softening the roughest crags and tarnishing the most beautiful gardens.

“Suffering insists on being taken seriously.” This is one of Jean’s favourite lines to explain some of the weird things that happen to people when they’re in pain. Since I’ve been working with Jean, I’ve learned to let the suffering flow over me and not to be frightened by it. It’s still painful as it makes its way over broken skin, stinging and burning, but I’ve come to recognize its healing properties, which help to make it much less destructive than if it was flowing through me.

There is wisdom in knowing when to deal with pain. Much as I have wished that we had talked about what happened then, I probably would have resented the intrusion if I’d been forced, at that time, to acknowledge the cold, cruel reality that Claire and I had lived.

Perhaps life has given me a gift of such timing that I didn’t recognize until now. It allowed me to build a life that was firmly founded on my desperate need to be of service to the kids that I see suffering, yet it has recognized another need at this point in my life, the need to build relationship and a loving life with Danny. Life has given me a chance to examine, evaluate and discard some of the useless bits and pieces that I’ve been carrying around, leaving us – Danny and I – room to grow together.

Finally, writing about Claire has been like composing her eulogy, a tribute to her presence here on earth, and all that she meant to me. She never had a funeral. Her passing was never marked by ritual or a special place where we can go to visit her. No wonder she needed to live inside me; she had nowhere else to go.

I can still hear her giggle now and then.

“Life is not easy for any of us. But what of that? We must all have perseverance and above all, confidence in ourselves. We must believe that we are gifted for something, and that this thing, at whatever cost, must be attained.”
-Marie Curie

Copyright 2003

JOURNAL, Monday, April 1st

2008-04-07T09:11:00.004-04:00

It’s hard to dance

With the devil on your back
(“Lord of the Dance,” trad.)

- Easter Monday, April Fools’ Day.

We got back from Sophie’s late last night and I’m still frustrated about our time there.

I brought a copy of the last letter that I wrote to Jean for Sophie to read. I wanted to speak to her of what happened. I’d finally found the courage to break the silence around Claire’s death and ask about some of the details – to try and see those days from an adult perspective, as the adult I am today, through the adult eyes that Sophie had then.

It was difficult to find the right time to bring up the subject. When I mentioned to Sophie that I wanted to talk to her sometime over the weekend of those times, she brushed it away saying that she didn’t remember much. All weekend she seemed agitated, like there wasn’t enough small talk to fill all the quiet moments that I might have taken to approach the subject with her. On Saturday afternoon Danny made plans to meet with an old friend in the city and I thought that this would be the time for Sophie and I to talk. I took Jean’s letter with me to the kitchen, the same kitchen where Sophie sat pulling the napkins apart as mom took us from her so long ago.

I told her that I’d been continuing with my writing, that the last letter I’d written dealt with the time right after Claire’s death until when she, Sophie, came to be with me later that summer. She stood up suddenly and started cleaning the lunch dishes from the table. I asked if she remembered those days and I told her how much her presence had meant to me then. She filled the sink with hot soapy water.

I said how I wished that we had been able to talk about what happened, among ourselves. She mumbled reassuring comments into the sink: “Yes, it was a difficult time,” “You were such a sensitive child,” “Bill was so upset,” – as she rinsed the dishes. I got up and took a tea towel to dry them but she shooed me away saying that I should just relax, that there was no need. I had the feeling that she wanted me to stand away from her.

I left the copy of the letter in a folder on the table, beside the stack of weekend newspapers. I told her that I’d be happy if she would read it sometime. It lay there undisturbed until we left on Sunday afternoon.

And the silence in my “family” lives on, reinforced by time and distance, powerful in its ability to keep us isolated from any healing that we might offer each other.

On the Friday afternoon, I went to a church in Sophie’s neighbourhood; a modern building with white stucco walls between dark wooden beams stretching like giant fingers to the high peaked roof. They read the story of Jesus’s last day as he appeared before the authorities who were to condemn him. And I was struck again by the evil power of silence, turning this gentle preacher and prophet into an almost willing accomplice to his own destruction.

I was so disturbed by the story, heard now in the fresh light of recent events and my examination of unnecessary deaths. Jesus was a profound teacher whose words have had the power to survive and come down to us through thousands of years. He was the child who held wise men and teachers enthralled with his arguments when he was twelve years old. Why would such a man remain silent in the face of his own demise? What could have been his intention? I wanted to slap him and yell: “Speak up! Speak up for yourself, but also for the weak, the lonely, the lost, the abused, for those who can’t speak for themselves.”

But the story never changes; he remains mute and submissive before the authorities and dies…for what purpose?

The main reason why I wanted to speak with Sophie about Claire’s death is that I’m at a point in the writing process where my curiosity and sense of self lead me to ask about certain missed details. It’s become a research question, a writer’s curiosity, wanting to fill in the blanks of what I may have missed in the narrative.

Yet there are other areas of my life that I prefer to leave in silence. Those darkest corners, the ones where my mother’s madness lurks, where her indifference and selfishness abide, I feel are better left undisturbed. Now that I’ve opened the door to my childhood and have worked so hard to clear out some of the garbage that I’ve been lugging around, I’m too exhausted to deal with that last trunk of destructive junk that sits in the attic of my psyche.

Every time I try to look at my feelings about her I can’t get past the list of hurtful things that she did to me. The academic in me wants to list what my mother did and put all these events into categories: insults, physical abuses, indifferences, pettiness, acts of omission, acts of pure evil.

And I can’t seem to get beyond rearranging them. I don’t know how to separate them from each other. I have a feeling that if I were to take out a single scene, to examine it in the process of doing away with it, it would latch on to all the other scenes and drag them all out of the memory trunk too, leaving me surrounded by an ocean of writhing bits of pain that would be impossible for me to deal with. I prefer to leave the trunk in its darkened corner, sealed and hidden.

In writing this, I understand that the frustration that I brought home from our visit with Sophie is probably tied to the anger that I have in realizing that despite all the emotional excavation that I’ve done over the past few months, despite all the things that I’ve acknowledged and accepted about me and my life, that these things are not quite enough.

But damn it, it’s going to have to be enough because I’m too tired to go on digging. I have no more energy to deal with someone who means nothing to my present life. I’m going to leave my mother and all she has meant to me locked far away, in that emotional trunk and someday, maybe, I’ll take her down to the curb to be put out with the rest of the garbage.

Dear Jean;

2008-04-02T08:20:00.003-04:00

Don’t it always seem to go,
That you don’t know what you’ve got ‘till it’s gone.
(“Big Yellow Taxi”, Joni Mitchell)

Before I started writing these letters about my life, if anyone had asked me what the most pivotal experience of my childhood had been, I would probably have said that it was when we left Scarborough to come back out West. I wouldn’t have said that my mother had abducted us, or that we had been taken from a loving, stable home to a world of danger and uncertainty. I would have looked at it simply: once we were there, then we came here…I never wanted to acknowledge that crisis played a part in my life. I wanted to believe that my existence was even, predictable.

But I realize now what I couldn’t admit for so long: that it was the crisis of Claire’s death that has most coloured how I saw myself, and the world. I’m sure that this fact would have been apparent to any sensible observer but for many reasons, most of them having to do with pain and guilt, I didn't see it.

When I left the farm on the night of Claire’s death I was not quite twelve-years old, yet I remember feeling a power within that made me unstoppable. Certainty abides in the soul of those who can focus on something as precise and concrete as putting one foot before the other. They see nothing but the road before them and in that cloistered assurance, they don’t recognize the necessity for anything as intrusive as a plan. I walked without hesitation or anxiety along the road, focusing on the light coming from John Ross’s workshop. I remember thinking of the star of metallic paper and cardboard that I had made for the Christmas mural at my school in Scarborough, and the wise men that followed a star to someone or something that might offer peace.

I remember individual scenes of what happened during the next few days; they’re clear and identifiable memories, but disconnected from each other by the minutes and hours of emptiness that were stretched out between them.

. . . In the darkness of night I lifted the latch on the gate from the road to the path that led to their front porch. I walked up the steps to the wicker settee that Dorrie usually occupied when we had our tea and lemonade in the afternoon. The crickets were pulsing and a few birds called in the still, dark morning. I curled my feet up under me on the settee and tucked Claire's blanket around my shoulders and legs. I lay my head on the pillow of the armrest, and slept.

. . . Through the fog of my sleep, in the grey stillness of the early dawn, I heard the side door open then close. Soon after I felt Toby’s soft hair under my hand as he nuzzled me to scratch him behind the ears. He laid his head on the padded cushion beside me and I think we slept like this for some time.

. . . The sun was bright and warm on my face, though filtered through the leaves of the trees. I heard Dorrie calling Toby but he didn’t move; neither did I. I wouldn’t have known what to say so I lay there until Dorrie came around to the front of the house looking for Toby. She gave a small cry when she saw me, as you would when coming upon an animal that’s injured and can’t move to scurry for cover. “Oh, my Dear. Oh, Starla!” she said, making her way up the stairs. She opened the front door on the way past and called in to John Ross to come quickly. She came to me and knelt, looking into my face as I lay with my head on the armrest; she had such worry and compassion in her eyes that it startled me. She brushed my hair back with her fingertips and said my name in the gentlest of tones. John Ross came onto the porch and I sat up, keeping the blanket close around my shoulders.

“Starla, what has happened?” Dorrie asked, taking my hand in hers and holding it as one would hold an injured bird.

I hadn’t put any thought into how I would explain my presence on their porch. I had assumed that somehow everything would be obvious, and that I wouldn’t have to say the words. But it wasn’t obvious and I did have to say them, so I spoke in the most measured and rational voice that I could find: “My sister is dead. Could you please call my father to come and get me?” I remember these words so clearly, the simplicity and rawness of their delivery has been echoed back to me so many times in the work that I do: sometimes children are so weary of living the story that is their life, they have no energy left for anything but the raw and unadorned truth.

To their credit, Dorrie and John Ross didn’t cry out or respond explosively in any way. They just sat there looking at me for some time then Dorrie asked: “Could you tell us what happened, Dear?”

I liked her way of calling me Dear. It was always said without affectation or condescension and, unlike with some people, it wasn’t used to cover up the fact that the speaker has forgotten your name. With Dorrie it was a habit, she called everyone Dear, but I liked that it made me feel cherished.

I began by telling them about the search in the woods and finished by saying: “They told me that my sister drowned in the creek. My mother’s not a strong person, I can’t stay there anymore.” Dorrie motioned to John Ross to get the afghan from the couch inside. She draped it over me, tucking it in around me with great care. I lay my head down and closed my eyes, clutching the blankets around me for warmth and protection, though I imagine that Dorrie’s intention was more to guard from shock than cold. Now and then I would open my eyes and watch the bees and the hummingbirds moving at their frenetic pace. I was reassured by such movement, it told me that the whole world had not stopped turning, and that I could just lay where I was and let it spin on without me.

. . . I sensed Dorrie’s footsteps coming across the porch; I opened my eyes. The sun had displaced the shade where I lay and I was hot under the blankets. I could hear the haunting sounds of a piano coming through the window from the stereo – I didn’t know the simple, mystical piano music of Eric Satie then, but it stayed with me for many years as Claire’s theme and always makes me think of her.

Dorrie came over to the settee. Raising myself, I made a space where she could sit beside me. I noticed that she was wearing her straw hat and was warm and moist from sun and exertion.

“Starla, I’ve been to see your mother’s friends,” she said. I was ashamed that Dorrie had been exposed to the Family. I had wanted to protect her and John Ross from any contact with that other side of my life. “I’ve told them that you are here and that you’ve asked that we call your father to come and get you.” I could hear a hummingbird by the rose trellis in front of the porch. “They said that they thought that would be a good idea.”

She paused for a long time before she went on to say that she hadn’t seen my mother. I never knew if they told her what happened to Claire or what was wrong with my mother that she couldn’t meet with her. I can only guess that no matter what the details, it was Dorrie’s judgment that I’d be better off away from the farm. As no one seemed to object to Bill coming for me, I guess she decided that was the most sensible course to follow.

We went into the house and I stretched out on the couch without being invited; it was a lying down kind of day, as if everything that was happening was within the context of a dream. John Ross brought me a glass of cold orange juice and I remember thinking as it trickled down my throat, that its rich taste was misplaced; it was like swatch of colour in my colourless world. I felt no pain, sadness, anger nor fear; I was an empty being lying in an empty world.

I couldn’t remember our phone number in Vancouver but I gave John Ross our address and Bill’s name and he went off to use the bedroom phone. When he returned, he took up his station in one of the big sitting room chairs. Seldom in my life have I had such an experience of being so unaware and uninterested in the passage of time. I remember, as if through a fever, Dorrie sitting in her chair beside the couch, her fingers gently brushing through my hair; I remember John Ross whose large body was usually in perpetual motion, watching mindless television, waiting for life to unfold.

. . . Sometime between the soaps and cartoons on T.V., Dorrie brought the familiar tray of cookies, fruit, tea and lemonade. She must have been trying to coax me to have some food by triggering the memories of happy afternoons together. I was relieved to sit up and shake off some of the layers of the emotional weight that I’d been wrapped in all day. Dorrie asked how I was feeling. I answered with sincere gratefulness: “Thank you for helping me.” Dorrie’s hand flew to her lips to hold back a cry. She put down her delicate teacup, the one with the sweetheart roses and the lily of the valley painted on it. She lowered her head and came over to sit beside me on the couch. Her arms scooped around my shoulders and she brought me to her, saying over and over as she rocked me back and forth: “Oh, my Dear. Oh, my Dear.”

. . . I felt the evening move in with the change of how the light filtered through the lace curtains on the windows and how the game shows took over from the news on T.V. Distantly, I heard a car pull up in front of the house without registering its meaning; I remember feeling that my brain was too heavy to think. John Ross went to the door and when I looked up, I was confused, knowing that this person who had come in was familiar to me, yet as I saw Carly standing in the doorway, I didn’t recognize her as the friend who had come to rescue me from the hospital when Claire was so sick, and with whom I’d spent many wonderful hours in mom’s kitchen at the collective. I didn’t move. John Ross introduced himself to her; Dorrie went over and clasped her hands in a double handshake. “You are most welcome here, my Dear,” she said. I still didn’t move and continued to stare at the television screen, but as recognition worked its way through the layers of lethargy and shock, I was glad that Carly had come and that she was sitting beside me now on the couch.

I wanted to move, truly I did, but something held me there, immobile, focused on on the T.V.

My body was frozen but my mind was racing. I was replaying the scene of Carly’s arrival over and over, each time recognizing her immediately and changing my reaction to her presence. I could see myself running out of the house and into her arms as she got out of the car, throwing myself into her pool of comfort. Then I replayed the scene, watching myself getting up in surprise as I see her through the window, going over to the door but waiting for her to come into the house before offering her a warm handshake, as Dorrie did. Another time, I could see myself wrapping my arm around her shoulder (we looked to be nearly the same height now) and quietly telling Carly that Claire was gone, and comforting her as the news sank in. Each of these scenes, I could replay in my mind but all I could do in reality was sit on Dorrie’s couch and look at the T.V. screen, clutching the small yellow blanket around my shoulders.

Then from somewhere on the evening breeze came a memory of Oreos and their crunchy sweetness that we had shared, and of Carly who took care of me before when I was alone. I turned my head and looked at her; I asked if she could take me home to see Bill. “Of course,” she said, her voice gentle and unhurried as she took my hand in hers.

. . . We spent the night in Dorrie and John Ross’s guest room.

You hear of people who wake the morning after a shocking experience and have forgotten that their world has been changed forever. On waking, when they realize where they are and what has happened, it’s like reliving the trauma in a telescoped time sequence that leaves them even more vulnerable for having suffered the experience all over again. That’s what happened to me. When I woke early the next morning, at first I was pleased to be surrounded by the lovely morning scent of the garden coming in through the window and the feeling of soft cotton against my cheek; then the look of my new world slowly took shape and I lay frozen in the fear that comes with shadows in a strange room and the realization that life can never be trusted again.

And as those who have lost too much will do, I began to worry about losing the tattered bits of my life that were left to me. Laying in the bed beside Carly, staring at the flowers on the wallpaper across the bedroom, I had waking dreams of flying witches pulling me away from Bill and lashing me to clawing trees like those in the Wizard of Oz. I jumped up from the bed and went to the window, gasping for air and willing myself to connect with the reality that was Dorrie’s house, her garden, the grass, and the fields, all in their hazy, pre dawn beauty. I was just catching my breath when the light in the sky came up enough for me to see in the distance the trees from the farm where mom was. In the haze I could see her witch’s face on every tree that surrounded me, reaching out to grasp and hold me and keep me from ever seeing Bill again.

I came back and sat down on the floor beside the bed. I buried my face in the warm cotton of the pillow that I had been laying and began to cry, quietly at first, then as I began to rock myself back and forth against the side of the bed a momentum built up that shook me all over. I closed my eyes to shut out the world, but every time I did the witch faces would come back to me. I kept my eyes open, now wild with panic and I held the pillow over my mouth, shaking in terror. I held onto the pillow as if it were Bill and sobbed into it, redirecting the pain back inside me from where it had come, moist, acknowledged but not diminished. Carly came to me and held me. I remember that she didn’t shush or console me, she didn’t say that it would get better; she just held me as I rocked myself through the sobs and into the daylight, with all my pain and my tears and my visions of witches, where I would learn to live with them.

. . . When it came time to say goodbye, Dorrie had packed us some cookies and juice for the ferry ride from Nanaimo. She handed the bag to Carly and gave me the copy of The Diary of Anne Frank that I’d been reading. She insisted that I keep it, even though it was a book that she had brought from the library; she said that she wanted me to have something with which to remember our afternoons together, and that she would replace the library’s copy. I thanked her and hugged her, holding the book between us.

John Ross kissed me on the top of my head as I wrapped my arms around his waist. His left hand came around and presented me with one of his framed photos of their cottage. He told me to keep in mind how much happiness that there is in life and that such cottages can pop up around any corner. I wrapped their gifts in the yellow blanket and followed Carly to the car. We waved as we backed out of the lane and turned down the road.

. . . On the ferry to Vancouver I stood for a few minutes on the deck, but the breeze was too strong and the sun too brilliant for what my body could tolerate. We went back inside and sat at one of the cafeteria tables where I lay my head on my arms and looked at the pattern of gold speckles on the Formica under my nose. Carly explained that she had received the call from John Ross because she had been staying at Bill’s place while he was in Clayoquot on the other side of Vancouver Island, working with the forest protesters there. She had left a message for him in Tofino and one with the organizers at the head office in the Vancouver, but she wasn’t sure if it had reached him yet. She promised the she would find him.

. . . When we arrived at the apartment, she gave me one of Bill’s t-shirts to wear. I wrapped his scent around me and waited for her to tell me what to do. She made us some popcorn and we sat on the porch curled up side by side, watching the city live its life, like spectators at a show that was only mildly interesting. I didn’t want anything to touch me.

Bill did get the message but didn’t make it to Vancouver for a few days. He had flown to Nanaimo first, where he got a car and drove to Saltspring to find mom. He spent a few days dealing with investigations, reports and arrangements. I assume that Claire is buried somewhere on Saltspring, or perhaps she was cremated. I never knew. We never spoke of what happened.

. . . I remember that I was watching Scooby-Doo on T.V. when Bill walked in. He didn’t wait to gauge my mood or my reactions as others had done during that week. He just put down his bags at the open doorway and fell to his knees. He opened his arms to me and knelt there, like pictures of Jesus in the garden, tears streaming down his cheeks. I ran to him and he wrapped both arms around me, burying his face in my neck as I lay my head against his and we cried together, never saying a word. I held my Dad for a long time; he never spoke Claire’s name.

. . . Sophie arrived a few days later. She had brought the copy of A Child’s Garden of Verses with her, the one that I used to read to Claire. Sometimes she would turn down the T.V. (I never wanted her to turn it off) and she would read to me. If I didn’t say anything about it that would upset her or make her think that I was being weird, I could believe that she was reading to both Claire and me.

For the next few weeks, she read to us for hours each day, the same poems over and over. And with the comfort of their familiar cadences, she lay a foundation on which I was able to cautiously rebuild a sense of ability and timid confidence:

“I called a little pool a sea;

The little hills were big to me

For I am very small.

I made a boat, I made a town,

I searched the caverns up and down,

And named them one and all.”

We slowly reclaimed some sense of direction and came to believe that there were things that we could do, Claire and I; but it was only as “we” that I could face my life.

“We built a ship upon the stairs

All made of the back bedroom chairs,

And filled it full of sofa pillows

To go a-sailing on the billows.”

I remember very little of the rest of that summer. I didn’t speak much and they never pushed me. I suppose that if it were today, I’d have been into counseling, and art or play therapy and survivor groups, but silence was no stranger to our “family”. And I did come back, gradually, to a place that most would call normal; I had nothing to compare it to.

I have a sense that if I had faced some of my confusion and anger at that time, I might have had a different life, but who knows? I’m happy with the life I’ve led and I’m happy that I’ve taken the time and energy to look at it.

I’m doing some research for a paper that I’m writing for my adolescent psychology class and in one of the books, I came across this quote from Sophocles that I found particularly appropriate for my situation: “Examined lives are indeed more worth living.”

Thanks, Jean, for helping me find the way to make my life more worthwhile.

Love,
Starla.

JOURNAL, Monday, March 25th

2008-03-25T08:24:00.003-04:00

This morning we made love, and in the moments that followed, as we lay in the luxury of a few more minutes in bed, the real world gently nudges me to consciousness and reminds me that I have to bring an article to school for Karen, that I have to go to the dentist before class tonight, and gently but persistently it reminds me that I’m dealing with Death.

Death – it’s like a dull ache that sometimes goes unnoticed, only to resurface when I begin to relax. I’ll be settling in to read for a few minutes before going to sleep when some word or phrase will trigger morbid and persistent thoughts of last week’s activity that stay with me throughout the night. Or I’ll be soaking in the tub after coming home from the work and I’ll close my eyes only to see Amanda and Claire, their faces blending into one single mask of suffering. I scrunch up my eyes and shake my head to dislodge the vision, but still I’m left feeling sad and lost.

It was a week ago yesterday that we heard about Amanda. That night I couldn’t sleep in our bed. I told Danny that it was because I didn’t want to disturb him in my restlessness but it had more to do with not wanting to be touched. The shock, the half told story, the violent images made me instinctively want to protect myself. I could never have slept thinking that I may be startled in the night by the sensation of skin brushing against skin or the weight of a hand on my chest. That night I wrapped myself in a fleece robe over long pajamas and cocooned into a sleeping bag on the couch, burrowing far into the crease where cushions meet.

Of all the emotions that I experienced last week, this instinct to protect myself, even from Danny, was the darkest and most upsetting. It made me question why I would turn away from him at such a time, and it made me wonder if I’d really come as far in my trusting of him as I thought I had.

I spent a lot of time during the week thinking about my reactions to what was happening and I realized with a strange sense of relief and even gratitude, that although everyone around me was grieving for Amanda, they had no way of knowing that I had also just lost Claire.

It doesn’t take a psychiatrist to understand why Amanda and Claire are one in my mind these days. Having to deal with Amanda’s passing is a morbid and urgent gift that has allowed me to feel all that was ignored for so many years, and to look at all that was left unsaid and undone after Claire was gone.

On Saturday morning, I decided that although he was fully aware of how difficult things were with Amanda’s death at school, I had to let Danny into the rest of the story that I was living. I don’t want secrets between us. I asked him to sit with me on the couch and we read the letter that I wrote to Claire about the day she died. I wasn’t embarrassed that he should know that I write letters to dead people; I wanted him to understand what I’d seen and felt

I have come to trust Danny’s love and I think that I understand now that there are times when every individual needs to shield themselves for a while, and times when they have to share, but that they are all times that will bring us back together.

Sometimes I still feel that I don’t deserve him, that I’m not capable of such unconditional love in return. When I speak of this to Jean, she tells me that baby steps are better than backward steps; she speaks of the courage that it takes to heal and to seek help in the process. She believes that I can learn to trust myself.

We read Claire’s letter together, Danny and I curled up on the new couch, and when we had finished, Danny read it over again then put the pages down. For a long time he said nothing as we sat there in the gray afternoon light, watching the cold, hard raindrops on the window across the room. Pussywillow jumped up on his lap and brushed my cheek with her tail as she padded to find a comfortable place to join us. We laughed at the intrusion. Finally, Danny pulled me closer to him and kissed the top of my head. “I wish I could have been there with you,” he whispered.

He lifted my hand to his face and kissed the tips of my fingers and held my palm against his cheek.

Danny heard this week that his contract is being extended through next year so we’ve discussed looking for a bigger apartment. I’ll be sorry to leave this place; it’s so much a part of me. But despite feeling emotionally washed out by everything that’s been going on, I’m delighted to realize that I can actually look forward to apartment hunting with Danny, and establishing a place that we can build together.

Copyright 2003

JOURNAL, Monday, March 18th

2008-03-19T20:03:00.004-04:00

Where are the footprints that danced on the beaches,

And hands that cast wishes that sunk like a stone?
(“Song to a Seagull”, Joni Mitchell)

I can’t believe this is happening.

We just got in yesterday afternoon from skiing, when Karen from school called to say that they’d found Amanda’s body in a ditch near Barrie, Ontario. She’d been beaten and left there on the side of the road.

I’ve been up most of the night picturing her tiny shoulders heaving as she sat crying in the washroom last week, feeling her head resting on my shoulder as I patted her back so hesitantly: as teachers we're always so careful these days in how we express caring and sympathy. All night my arms ached to enfold her and surround her with whatever protection I could offer.

How will we ever get through this day at school?

JOURNAL: Tuesday, March 19th

I can’t stop sighing; it’s as if no matter how much air I take into my lungs, it’s never enough.

This morning I was stopped at a traffic light when I heard the driver of the car behind me leaning on his horn to urge me on. I’d been staring at the mailbox on the sidewalk, not really thinking about anything, just staring. I have to keep shaking my head, and sighing, to bring myself back to reality. I seem to shiver when I sigh.
___________________________________

The grief counselors are in the school for this whole week, to work with the classes and any individuals who want to talk. They’ve set up a quiet room where kids can go, one or two at a time, to write a note to Amanda or her family, or to meet with one of the counselors. It’s nice in the quiet room.

Not having my own classroom to care for, I spent most of the day patrolling the halls and bathrooms, shepherding stray kids to the quiet room. The counselors had laid out colourful paper and markers for the kids to write their notes. There was a lot of hugging going on there; the counselors have more freedom for that kind of thing than we do.

Yesterday some of the parents came to pick up their kids from school as the news filtered through the community; I guess they just needed to believe that their kids would be safe if they were kept closer to home. Some of those kids didn’t come back to school today either.
__________________________________

I saw Jean today and for the first time since we’ve been meeting, I had little to say.
I brought her the letters that I wrote during Spring Break but I couldn’t bring myself to speak of Claire or of anything that mattered. The lost and lonely twelve year old inside me, who walked away from the farm on Saltspring Island all those years ago, is walking the halls of the school every bit as dazed and bewildered as all the other kids around me.

I still can’t believe that it’s true. I keep thinking that it’s like a bad script from some melodramatic “Movie of the Week”. It’s the ultimate exaggerated scenario that you would use in street proofing teens – only it’s too extreme, they wouldn’t believe that it could ever happen to one of them.

But it did. The police have pieced together parts of the story – essentially that Amanda had left home last Tuesday after a fight with her mother, and headed out hitchhiking to Guelph to be with her father.

Who hitchhikes anymore? In this age of cell phones I can’t imagine that someone wouldn’t have notified the police at the sight of this little waif hitchhiking on the side of the highway. How could it have happened?

JOURNAL: Wednesday, March 20th

We’re all learning to grieve from each other. Some cry and others can’t let themselves cry until they see the others letting go. Some write in their journals, some have to talk about it, others just listen.

I was thinking today about one little girl that I sat with on Monday. She was standing in the hallway just outside the quiet room. I asked her if she’d like to go in and write a little message, or just talk to someone. Immediately she backed away from me, shaking her head insistently. “No,” she said, “I can’t go in there.”

I tried to reassure her, to tell her that I’d let her teacher know where she was. She just kept shaking her head, her small hands clinging to her upper arms as she held herself, stealing glances into the quiet room through her long bangs. “I can’t go in there,” she kept insisting, yet neither did she make any move to leave.

I got us a couple of chairs from the library and we sat in the hallway across from the open door to the quiet room. After just a few minutes of sitting together she spoke: “My cousin’s dying too,” she said “Of cancer.”

I asked her if she got to see her cousin very much and she said no, that he lived in Calgary. He’s seven years old. We sat for a long time; I watched her as she stared into the room. In her mind, the realization of the finality of death seemed to live in that room where she dared not enter – as if in there, death might claim her too.
________________________________

A strange social interaction seems to have developed among Amanda’s friends. There has grown a hierarchy of levels of grief that the kids seem to think that individuals are entitled to feel, as if there’s a preordained order of those who deserve to feel the most pain and therefore receive the greatest consolation, beginning with her best friend, moving down to good friends and radiating out from there in descending order based on how much time Amanda had spent with each of them. If Amanda hadn’t been the bright and popular girl that she was, I wonder if there would have been as much status in their levels of grief.

No such order exists in adult life; when faced with this kind of soul numbing tragedy no one should have to justify his or her feelings. You never know what memories or fears can come to the surface when thinking of such unbelievable horror.
_________________________________

Suzie and Joni, two of Amanda’s friends, cleared out her locker and her desk this morning. Karen, their teacher, had an appointment before class and asked if I could be with them. I got them a box and we began with her desk, sorting textbooks to return to storage, from workbooks that would go home for her family to deal with.

Joni cried as she turned the pages of Amanda’s sketchbook for art class; there were lots of doodles and rough drawings of many of the kids in the class from their unit on portraits. There was an amazingly realistic charcoal study of Amanda’s own hand (you could tell that it was her hand because of the bangles and friendship bracelets that she had drawn around the wrist). With a shiver that went through my heart with the coldness of steel, I had a mental flash of that hand, bangles tinkling as she clawed at her attacker’s face, pawing and slapping in the air, never quite connecting. Later, the same hand surfaced in my imagination, lying limp in the slush and the mud of the ditch where her body was found. The suddenness and intensity of the images nauseated me and I had to run to the bathroom. I’m so surprised by how strong these physical reactions to sadness can be: the sighing, the leaking eyes, the shivers, and even the nausea come suddenly, and uncontrollably, and yet we have to maintain a strong front for the kids.

JOURNAL: Thursday, March 21st

Haiku
You were the strong one,
I thought I’d see you again.
I guess I was wrong.
(Nola)

Karen had her class write poetry about how they were feeling. She showed me some of them. This one was written by one of Amanda’s closest friends; it struck me for its sense of resignation. Thirteen-year olds shouldn’t have to feel so resigned to life’s precariousness.

JOURNAL: Friday, March 22nd

A bunch of us from school went out for a drink after work today. We all agreed that it’s been a hell of a week, in a hell of a year: two births among the teachers, now two deaths with Tommy and Cory’s father and Amanda. Let’s hope that that’s it for this year.

Earlier in the day, the older kids attended a memorial service for Amanda. The choir, which had been such a big part of her life, sang “I’d Like to Teach the World to Sing.” The principal spoke of the need to continue to support each other and Amanda’s wish that we enjoy life as she did.

One of her friends read a poem that Amanda had given her and Suzie told of the wonderful memories that she had of when Amanda went with Suzie and her family to Disney World last Christmas break.

Each member of the choir and each kid in her class received a carnation to put in a large vase with a Happy Face on the front. As the kids filed up, with the piano playing Pachebel’s Canon (which until now, they all recognized as “the Graduation Song”) the bouquet grew larger and there really was a sense of coming together and acknowledging, of remembering, and being able to let go.

Maybe I just imagined it but on recess duty, it seemed as if the play was more raucous and the running freer than it had been all week.

Dear Jean;

2008-03-10T11:24:00.004-04:00

Danny and I are on a skiing holiday during this Spring Break.

Let me rephrase that – Danny is on a skiing holiday and I’m on a chalet holiday. I stand at the lodge and look up to the summits of the hills around me, and I marvel at their beauty, but also at the feats of engineering and construction that transport people to those summits so that they can defy all the rules of what is sensible about the speed at which humans should travel – and my insides turn to mush. Danny loves it; he’s been skiing all his life. I’m happy to accompany him and spend my days writing and walking down snow covered country roads and along cross-country ski trails that let me wander into the forest.

The weather has been wonderful and I’m glad to be here. Not glad in the joyous sense, but feeling that this is a good place for me to take some time to work on the letters of my childhood.

I’m so grateful to have you, Jean, as a presence that I can picture when I’m writing. Sometimes I become so focused on understanding for the first time, from my adult perspective, the implications of what happened to us that the words all start to run together and their meaning becomes barely intelligible, even to me. Picturing you reading these letters has demanded of me a wonderful discipline, so that I force myself to treat the words with the same care, requiring the same precision that I’d give my thesis or my report writing. It pulls me out of the darkness that sometimes threatens to swallow me and gives me a reason to seek clarity of meaning.

I sit at the long, rough plank tables in the chalet with pen in hand, writing to you and to myself, and watch the skiers coming in for snack breaks or to warm up, and I wonder about the stories that are buried in each of them. Do other people have to invest this much personal energy into making sense of their lives?

I realize now that I had to come away from the setting of my regular life to write of Claire’s death. I needed the strange ambiance of safety and exposure offered by the anonymity of a public place to allow that day to come back to me. I also knew that I had to address the letter directly to Claire, to speak to her of her death in the same way that I used to speak to her of so many aspects of the world around us when we were together.

I’ve just reread my letter to Claire, and I’m trying to discern what it is that I feel about what happened. I examine the different corners of my soul and look for emotion and am surprised when I find so little of it there. I would expect to find guilt, rage, vengeance, blame, certainly confusion and deep grief, but none is present in any great abundance.

I could understand such numbness in the moment, brought on by shock, but even today I look for the switch that will colourize the stilted, black and white memories, and bring them into a reality where I can feel something about loosing my baby sister. Yet the numbness persists despite all the memories of bright garden flowers, and of “Ariel the Evil” that I try to resurrect, to coax some deeper emotions to the surface.

The numbness that I felt – that I feel – disturbs me; it makes me feel less than human, that I’ve never really mourned Claire. It makes me feel unworthy of the time we shared and the love I feel for her.

I look up from my writing and gaze around the ski lodge. I’m surprised when I recognize Danny’s back as he stands, putting coins in a vending machine across the room. My heart skips and there’s a tiny and sudden intake of breath, like I’ve been startled by his beauty and what he means to me, even from across the room. One of the songs that plays on the radio a lot these days has the line: “You take my breath away.” A rather silly and uninspired line, I would have said, yet that’s exactly how I feel when surprised by Danny’s presence. And from somewhere deep inside, a memory stirs of me on a swing – higher and higher I’m pumping. Claire is a baby, sitting on someone’s lap beside a tree in the park; they’re watching me on the swing and I’m focused on getting higher still. Then from the corner of my eye, I see Claire, delight radiating from her beautiful smiling face as she claps and giggles her baby sounds, and strains to break free of the hands that hold her, to come to me. She loves me. The sight of such pure cherubic beauty, and the joy that we find in each other, take my breath away.

I believe that this is a real memory and not a dream. The sight of Claire’s beauty often startled me in its pure intensity. I remember times at Sophie’s when, on a quiet evening we’d all be on the couch watching T.V. I’d stroke Claire’s hair and her cheeks and I’d say to Sophie: “Isn’t she precious?” And Sophie would smile at me and pet my head and reassure me that she was.

One of the reasons that I’m so grateful for the opportunity of exploring my past is that it’s given me back so many of those cherished memories of Claire that have been long buried. And in a way, those memories have given me back my sister. I sit here before this beautiful mountain, sun streaming over me, blessing me as I realize with that same breathtaking shiver of pleasure and surprise, that I’m becoming a happy person.

Thank you, Jean,
Starla

Copyright 2003

Dear Claire;

2008-03-01T07:23:00.004-05:00

Leaving no footprints when we go.
(“No Footprints”, Bruce Cockburn)

The ordinariness of the last Tuesday that I was at Dorrie’s insults me as I’ve always thought that I’m an intuitive person. I’m usually aware of what goes on beneath the surface of life.

We believe that we will suspect when monumental events will occur. On T.V. or in the movies, there are subtle clues in the light changes, a different focus or a shift in the background music. We hear with ominous foreboding, the parent whose last words to his child are harsh ones, or the fight between lovers before an accident, and we wonder how they could have missed the signs.

There are no signs when life is about to be turned upside down. I’ve come to believe that perhaps some people can pretend that there are, after the fact, but there really aren’t any signs. Just like when mom turned up at Sophie’s door in Scarborough to bring us back to B.C. with her, just as suddenly other turns in life can spring up to change things forever.

. . . . . . . . .

I’m walking on the road from Dorrie’s. I’m showered and shampooed; perhaps there’s a trace of oatmeal cookie left in the folds of my shirt and a touch of lemonade on my lips. The scent of Toby’s warmth is still on my fingers.

The road back to the farm seems too short this day. I don’t want to face the commotion just yet. The sun is warm but the breeze up from the water swirls around me, like a dancer, inviting me to sway in time to the ocean waves that I can hear in the distance. I smell the water, the salt, the cedar, the shampoo. I see the clouds, a cat scurrying into the bushes, the fields of tall grass and buttercups swaying in the wind like the golden fur of some amazing animal whose magnitude prevents me from identifying any other features but this mammoth furry back. Ordinary day, ordinary thoughts, ordinary things that I’ve seen, and heard, and smelled every other time that I’ve walked this road.

Then a voice calls, far away and muffled by trees rustling in the breeze and weakened by distance and reticence; something keeps the caller from committing to the call. I hear another voice – a single syllable lengthened with a musicality that changes it and sends it further off on the wind. The first voice again: “Claiaiaire.” Other voices join in. As I cross the road and go into the woods that we’ve explored together, I hear a choir of voices now, calling over and over, the different timbres and shapes of the word:

“Claire, CLAIRE, CA-LAI-RAH, Claiaiaire. »

They are disembodied voices that weave around the trees as if the forest itself is alerting me, accusing me, demanding of me an accounting of my whereabouts. At first I’m confused. I run to the voices to tell them: “Here I am, I’m okay!” then I realize that it’s not me; it’s not us that they’re calling. It’s you.

I see Ariel coming through the trees towards me. I’m surprised; she must be home early from her shift on the ferry. I call to her. I ask her why everyone is out here, why are they calling you, Claire? Ariel is curt, as usual; I always feel that she resents my presence in her life. She speaks to me in a firm, factual manner. She says you’re missing; the kids brought you out to the woods and now you’re missing. And at that moment I know that you are dead. As certain as I am of the presence of the tree beside me, or the earth beneath my feet, I know that you are dead. I know this because I feel you returning to me, your spirit seeping back inside me to take up your place there, beside my other selves.

I turn from Ariel and walk up the hill through the woods, absently clearing the brush before me. All the while I’m speaking to you, where you are within. I’m welcoming you back into my soul. I am tentative in my sense of release and my joy, but I feel that we are once again at peace and together.

With further steps, the details of your physical passing begin to sink in: I won’t be able to play with your curls anymore, I won’t have you to hold in my arms, but I know that it’s only my body that will miss you. You are closer to me now than you’ve been since you were born. For the first time in nearly two years, I am no longer worried for you. I hear you giggle as your squeals of laughter in my head drown out the fear that seeps in through the voices that keep calling you. I welcome you home.

The voices continue but they seem more distant, even as I approach them. Mom has noticed me and comes running, asking where I’ve been and if I’ve seen you. I suppose that I’m in my own sort of shock; I know what has not yet been revealed to the others. Mom is frantic. I can’t respond. She screams as she shakes me, trying to pry loose the information that I guard – she only thinks that she wants to know what I know. She shakes me, and slaps me, then shakes me again until her despair and fear turn her body limp as she lets go of my arms, one hand at a time. She crumples to the ground. One of the mothers, with her baby strapped to her back, comes to mom and helps her. She holds her and tries to keep her from sinking completely away from them and the job of finding you. As she wrestles with mom’s crumpling body, she asks me to go and stay in the house with the other children while the women continue their search. She’s afraid that the little ones might try to help and get lost in the process.

I make my way to the house, crossing the garden. I see the marigolds; is it possible that they are blooming brighter because they know of our secret? Are the shooting stars and the wild roses also affected by this shift in my universe? They all seem brighter today. Are they too, celebrating your return?

As I walk through the back door, the house is surprisingly quiet. I was expecting the usual ruckus with the kids being alone inside. I find Island in the living room amusing the younger ones, playing with the collection of wooden spoons and plastic measuring cups that today can serve as toys, all kitchen activity having stopped. Island comes to me and takes my hand and leads me to where they’re sitting on the floor. From the attic room, I hear the others as they talk, the odd words drifting, melding into the whisper that has settled on the house. We sit together waiting for time to pass.

One of the little ones, I don’t remember which one, climbs on my lap and lays her head in the crook below my shoulder. My body instinctively wraps an arm around her and clasps my fingers together around this child that is not you, and we wait. My body remembers your scent, your weight, your compliance to my every suggestion: come to the window; let’s get you dressed; let’s change your diaper; time to eat; let’s go outside. And one by one, I relinquish these responsibilities and release your care from that part of my brain that commands the need to protect.

We sit – probably for a long time, I don’t know – until we hear the trail of a cry carried in on the evening breeze that flows through the screen door. It’s a wail that contains the
essence of pain and loss. I assume that it’s mom’s cry and that they’ve found you. I lean my head back against the wall and let out a sigh. I can relax because now everyone knows our secret.

I contemplate the idea of going to find mom, to comfort her, to tell her that you are all right and that you are at peace, but I know that she wouldn’t understand my words. I realize that without the bond that you were between mom and me, I have no more connection to her than I have to any of these mothers who live here. I wouldn’t know what to say to this stranger who bore me then carried me into the maze of her distorted life and her own sense of reality.

So I sit and wait for her to come to me.

The piercing wails fill the early evening, tainting the sky that I can see through the jar of wildflowers on the kitchen windowsill. Mom’s cries are absorbed into the leaves on the trees as they take in the other poisons of our atmosphere and breathe out the oxygen, now infused with the perfume of suffering. I imagine her sobs seeping into the earth, robbing the garden of its sweetness and the flowers of their brilliant colour. And I hate her now for how she is destroying everything of beauty that surrounds her, as she always has, as she always will.

At dusk, the cries subside and I go to the back door. I see clusters of women coming from the woods. In twos and threes, they emerge into the field and into the world that will go on without you. They walk slowly, each woman’s head hangs down from her shoulders telling of their day of crouching and seeking, and of their evening of being seized by reality and surprised by death. One of them carries your body loosely in her arms, not tenderly. She holds you at waist height so that your face is turned towards her stomach, not her breast; your arm sways like a pendulum with each step that she takes. She lays you on the front seat of the truck; she doesn’t cover you. She joins the others as they enter the house.

Each one’s face bears the pain that is full of thoughts that begin with: “What if…”
“What if we had noticed her missing earlier?”
“What if we had helped Raven more with this odd child?”
“What if Starla had not gone today?”
“What if it were my child?”

And they carry these heavy thoughts as, one by one, they enter the house and gather their biological children to them, hugging them: some tenderly, some fiercely, all desperately, and they each find a corner in which to huddle together.

Mom and Ariel are the last to come in. I’ve returned to the living room. Ariel holds mom tightly as they come through the door and I remember thinking that I’m glad that Ariel’s a strong woman, so that mom won’t fall. Then a voice inside me says: “She will always fall. She needs someone who can keep picking her up.”

I notice that mom’s skirt is torn to shreds and her face is blotchy and red. As I stand to go to her, I have no idea what I expect of her, only that it’s my responsibility to stand before her as she comes in. They stop at the doorway into the living room. Mom raises her head and looks at me for a moment. She is empty, her eyes are vacant and lifeless and her head drops back down to her chest with a force that drags her whole body with it. Ariel must quickly bend at the knees and grasp mom’s sagging shoulder with her free hand to support them both. Ariel looks at me, our exchange as void of compassion as any that has ever passed between us. She tells me with complete directness, that you have drowned in the creek in the woods, and that she is putting mom to bed.

I stand alone in the archway, hearing the murmurs of the mothers and their children all around me and I go upstairs, wondering how long this aura of the unexpected will hold hunger at bay for the children who neither understand nor care what their mothers have witnessed.

In the attic room, the disarray of blankets, pillows and clothing covering the floor is comforting somehow in the semi darkness, with its feel of draped and silent stillness on a windless night. I look for your blanket, the one that Molly gave you; it could be anywhere. I resent, for the hundredth time that week, the communal attitude that encourages the children to take whatever they want. Your blanket is no longer yours; it’s tainted by the smells of many other small hands that don’t deserve to share in its history. I find it under a mattress along the back wall and I shake it out, trying to free it from its most recent memories, calling back your touch, your scent and Molly’s care. I bring it with me to my mattress and I lie down, rolling the blanket up under my face, against my cheek.

Late in the night, the moon is high above the house and washes the room with light. I wake up to notice that everything is different. Mothers have come up here to spend this night close to their children. Others have stayed downstairs to sleep in the corner where they settled when they came in from the woods. Each one is somewhere other than her own bed, marking the unusual nature of this night.

I get up and wrap myself in your blanket. I go over to kneel by the window from where we first saw the farm and its surroundings not so long ago. Everything is washed in a silvery brightness: I see the outline of the gardens and the flowerbeds, I see the open mouth of the barn door and the old apple tree that stands beside it, I see that the truck is gone.

I notice what is probably the glow from the light above John Ross’s workshop: a weak wash of electric light, competing with the brilliant moonlight to make its mark. I pick up my shoes and clutch your blanket around me with my other hand. I make my way down the stairs, not worrying about the sounds of the creaking stairs. I am leaving this place and I’m taking you with me, now that I can. I will find us a home and someone who will allow us to get through this time, while I’m waiting for my age to catch up with what I’ve seen and what I know.

The springs on the screen door whine as I close it behind me. I sit on the stoop to tie up my sneakers. I make my way along the lane to the road, adjusting the blanket around my shoulders like a shawl. And we set out together.

I love you, Claire.
Starla.

JOURNAL, Thursday, March 7th

2008-02-18T07:17:00.003-05:00

How difficult, the life of a thirteen-year old.

I was heading to the secretary’s office at school today when one of the younger kids came out of the washroom and said that Amanda was crying in there. (At what age, I wonder, do kids become secretive protectors of their knowledge and are no longer proud to tell what they know?)

I went into the washroom and was only a little surprised at the audience of six or seven Grade 8 girls gathered around Amanda who was sobbing onto the shoulder of her best friend, Suzie.

I sent Amanda’s friends back to class with as much gentle reassurance as I could offer them. It was nice to see that they care about Amanda, but their presence was almost voyeuristic. I believe that the greatest difference between thirteen-year old boys and girls is that the boys, no matter the circumstances, will deny that a crisis exists. The girls on the other hand will embrace any situation as if it is a crisis; they’ll hover around it and milk it for every bit of empathy, compassion, and time out of class that it can bring them.

I gave Amanda a tissue from my pocket and put some cold water on a few paper towels to help cool her face and calm her down. When one of the kids is upset like that it’s hard to know what to expect from the story behind the tears. I remember speaking with a girl once who was inconsolable about a break up with her boyfriend. As she calmed down a bit I looked for something with which to begin a dialogue: I asked her how long they’d been dating. The wails began anew as she blurted: “It would have been our one-week anniversary tomorrow.” She sobbed on.

But Amanda’s sadness seemed to be tinted with an anger that concerned me – as I say, you never know what to expect.

It turned out that when she was visiting her father in Guelph at Christmas, she met a boy and they’ve kept in touch almost daily on MSN. Plans had been made for her to return to Guelph for Spring Break and she would have left next Saturday except that her mother had become concerned about their attachment, which had grown over the months. She doubted that Amanda’s father would offer the sort of supervision that the mother believed they needed.

“She just hates me,” Amanda cried. “She’ll do anything to keep me from being happy and seeing my Dad.”

What could I say? Her mother was probably right; her father was a busy real estate agent and most likely wouldn’t have the time or the awareness to keep track of Amanda and her boyfriend. Furthermore, the world of chat rooms and Internet relationships must leave her mother with such little control. To those of us who aren’t part of that electronic world, it can appear to be completely innocuous or mysteriously dangerous depending on the stories you choose to believe. But in fact, it’s as much a part of the daily lives of kids as the telephone is, and probably no more sinister. Amanda’s mother is no doubt mystified by anything that could command so much of her daughter’s time and concentration. Poor Amanda. Poor Amanda’s Mom.

And to make matters worse, the whole school is buzzing this week with thoughts of Spring Break, of Florida vacations and ski trips just a few days away. Spring Break is a hard time of the year for many people; it’s what separates those who have much from those who have something but not enough to command a holiday at this odd time of the year. The buzz comes partly from anticipation and excitement, but there’s definitely an element of frustration and jealousy thrown into the mix.

I, for one, am ready for a break. Our lives are so busy that some days Danny and I don’t get to speak to each other until after 10 o’clock at night. We’ve gotten into the habit of having a cup of tea or a glass of wine before going to bed; it’s one of those nice little rituals and one that I look forward to when things are hectic or stressful during the day.

I’ve been getting to the pool more often too. I like my time there, it lets me work out and concentrate on nothing more complicated than regulating my breathing, relaxing my aching muscles and completing my lap goal for each different stroke. It’s a good life I have, and a good life so far that Danny and I are building together. We don’t talk of marriage; it isn’t time yet. We don’t even talk much of the future – maybe this has to do with me working out so much about my past, and Danny and I just beginning to build on our present. I have enough to think about, wrestling with two time zones of my life; we’ll let the future be for a little while yet.

Anyway, I think about Amanda, and try to send her some good thoughts. It’s so tough being thirteen. I’m glad I’m not there anymore.

Copyright 2003

JOURNAL, Wednesday, March 6th

2008-02-07T05:09:00.001-05:00

Quelqu’un danse comme une flamme.
(“Badlands Flashback”, Bruce Cockburn )

When I met with Jean yesterday, we were talking about memories and how inaccurate or distorted they can become with the passage of time. Before I started writing about my childhood my memories were haunted by images that grafted themselves to reality, twisting them into grotesquely meaningful manipulations of the “Truth”.

I remember one incident in particular that I see refracted into a dreamlike memory through the filters of subsequent experiences. It happened shortly after we arrived on Saltspring. The Family was celebrating the summer solstice; there was a great bonfire in the clearing on the back lot of the farm around which all the mothers were dancing and spinning, wearing dresses with long sleeves that trailed to their feet. The flowers that they wore in halos woven into their hair were falling to the ground in the frenzy. The children, for the most part were naked and screaming as I remember it, but here I begin to lose faith in my memory of that night.

A few years later, when I was in High School in Vancouver, our art teacher brought in a great collection of books of European art from the 17th century. Many of the paintings had dark backgrounds of heavy oil colours with a small bright focus in the foreground, as if the artists had an abundance of browns and blacks and grey pigments to use up but that the white and yellow and red were precious and scarce. They were interesting books with large reproductions so that we could really examine each one.

I still remember my reaction as I turned the page on a scene of hell and debauchery in a woodland clearing. My stomach contracted and my hands clamped over my lips in a gesture that would, I hoped, keep me from retching in front of everyone. Elements of the picture swirled before my eyes and I thought I might faint. I was horrified and mesmerized at the same time: I wanted to slam the book shut but couldn’t tear my eyes away from the scene.

In the painting there was a central fire, huge and billowing in the forest. There were many figures around the fire: some human – made hideous in their lust for sex and drink; some animal – vicious as they fight over a dead bird, ripped apart by sets of powerful jaws that drip with blood; some mythical – centaurs and gods with horns, sneering at the scene before them. The fire gave off little light but created large, grasping tendrils of shadow extending to the outer circle of activity, along the trees (where I pictured Claire and I huddled together).

It was a graphic illustration of all the blackness and terror that I felt that night on the farm. It was as if this painter, working hundreds of years ago, had preordained my hell and the world that waited for me to live it.

On that day in art class, these two scenes – the reality that I lived on that night at the farm, and the painting that exposed my buried emotions – were bound so intricately in that the presence of old Blue, the dog at the solstice fire had been overtaken by the snarling beasts of darkness that were no more real on that night when I was twelve than they were in the painting. But they’ve since been given life, and scent, and violent intention in my memory because I needed some way to explain my fear.

The naked lust that I remember from the painting was the free abandon of dancing, twirling women in a cloud of wine, marijuana and patchouli oil; the mothers were powerful because my insecurity and discomfort gave them the power of drunken rapists.

I’ve had a dream over the years; a strange recurring dream where many of the details change each time it comes to me, but I know that it’s the same dream because I always wake with a feeling that I’ve lived this before, vaguely remembering previous versions, like I’m being draped, over and over again with identical robes, each of a different colour.

My dream always begins at the solstice fire. Claire and I are wrapped together in a blanket, leaning against a log at the edge of the clearing. We’re holding onto each other, more for comfort than warmth. In my dream Claire speaks to me, she tells me that she’s tired and hungry; she asks if we can go back to the house. I tell her that I don’t know the way.

The sounds of the strange, pounding music and wild laughter get louder; the fire is larger and brighter, erratically shooting tiny bursts of sparks that come closer and closer to us. Finally, in anger and fear, I convince myself that we can find our way back to the house if we stick to the path that we came on. I take Claire by the hand and we turn our backs on the mothers and their naked children and their threatening fire.

We go into the woods but the darkness is so overwhelming that we soon lose sight of the path. In each dream, as I begin to panic realizing that we’re lost, we suddenly find ourselves somewhere different, but always relieved to be away from all the frenzied noise that we can still hear in the distance. Sometimes we find ourselves in a chicken coop, or the barn, or a lean-to that someone has erected, or an abandoned cabin, or in front of the woodpile beside the garden. Although we find ourselves in different settings, it’s always the same feeling of comfort at being alone, together, away from everyone else in the world. We wrap our arms around each other and Claire nuzzles into my neck as I hold her on my lap. I tuck the blanket in around us and Claire tells me she loves me as we snuggle down in the night. I kiss the top of her head and tell her I love her too.

Then, each time, something attracts my attention in the stillness of the surroundings. It’s a gentle call from just beyond where we are, a hint of something out of the ordinary – the soft, rhythmic bumping of an object in the breeze, the awareness of an animal scurrying over an obstacle, the fetid scent of something old and musty nearby. It catches my attention and entices me from my sleepiness to observe what’s out there.

I realize, without horror or shock, that it’s a body, sometimes hanging from a hook, gently bumping against the wall, sometimes lying close by, peaceful, as if sleeping but still and lifeless. And I slowly recognize from the hair and the clothes that it’s wearing, that it’s my body that I see so near us. It’s never mutilated; there are no signs of violence or trauma, just the empty lifeless shell that I used to live in. I’m never upset by the sight of my body, more disappointed and resigned.

In my dream, I wrap my arms tighter around Claire’s shoulders; she doesn’t need to see this. I turn away from it and all that it has to tell me about finiteness and life, and I tell myself that I’ll deal with it in the morning.

Copyright 2003

2008-01-22T08:15:00.001-05:00

Tiny woods below whose boughs,
Shady fairies weave a house.
Tiny tree tops, rose or thyme,
Where the braver fairies climb.
(“The Flowers”, R. L. Stevenson)

Dear Jean;

In an adolescent psychology class that I was taking last term, I saw a slide show presentation of pictures from a group home for teens. The pictures said a lot about life in a communal setting, and also about the individuals who lived there. Each personality announced itself in the larger than life portraits projected on the wall: defiance and charisma in the toothy smile of the girl with the shock of green hair and the row of rings piercing her eyebrow; intensity in the eyes of the boy who looked out from behind his glasses, mounds of hair held back with a bandana, Che Guevara style; commitment to each other in the embrace of two friends, laughing for the camera, bound together by a feather boa wrapped around their necks.

There were no pictures of the screaming matches, of thefts discovered, accusations made, and confrontations defused. There was no evidence of conflict, of boundaries – pushed and crossed, of dark challenges and threats made in secret by those who feel that they have nothing to lose.

If such a slide show existed of life at the farm on Saltspring, I wonder what it would have revealed. I don’t remember many toothy smiles, only loud and piercing laughter that seemed too extreme to be happy. I remember unchecked chaos around a lunch table that turned every meal into a disgusting episode of hands splashing in soup, of smeared sandwiches and sprawled children across the table. And through it all, the mothers ignored their older children and focused on breastfeeding infants, and on filling glasses of milk to be spilled and cutting fruit to be nibbled, crushed, then dropped to the floor.

To the camera, would I have appeared as the outsider that I worked so hard to be? Would my frustration and defiance have shone through in my eyes, in the curve of my lips or the furrowing of my brow? I hope so.

As I moved through those days on the farm I recognized that there were too many people in this place who frightened me. For the first time since Claire’s birth I contemplated saving myself, I allowed myself the shameful luxury of dreaming of my own escape. Is human nature really so weak that it always directs us, when under siege, to put ourselves first? Over the years I’ve come to judge myself less harshly on that front: I’ve come to believe that one of the emotional gifts that I’ve been given is a sense of inner balance – of seeking out at all cost what I need to keep me sane.

After the daily fiasco that passed for lunch, I would bring Claire to the washstand and pour warm water into a basin from the pot on the back of the stove in the summer kitchen. I would gently scrub the grime and stickiness of the meal from her face and neck, where the soup had dribbled when I tried to direct the spoon to her half opened mouth. I would take her upstairs and we would lie down together. I would tell her of the tales that we shared in the sandbox when we lived in Vancouver and of the stories that I had made up when we lived with Sophie. She would sleep and I would go to the window and look out on the activity in the yard below. The women hoed in the garden, carded the sheep’s wool from next farm over, and carried crates of jars to the kitchen shed for ladling strawberry-rhubarb jam – mundane and unthreatening tasks that made me uncomfortable to watch. They were enacted as a dance with intimate, almost sexual contact in the touching of a cheek or the stroking of a shoulder. And always there was the easy, playful exchange of gentle kisses as the mothers passed each other in the yard.

I both resented and longed for this intimacy. In my pre-adolescent frustration, I would have run screaming had anyone approached me with such tenderness as they showed each other, yet none was offered, and I so longed to trust the comfort of someone’s arm around my shoulder.

It was the Family’s routine to walk down to the beach in the late afternoon most days to swim in the ocean. I was disappointed, after our long trip without any real opportunity to wash, that we had to bathe in the ocean but I was determined to make the best of it. I put on my bathing suit under my clothes before leaving the house and brought some dry shorts and a clean diaper for Claire, and hoped that mom would bring some shampoo and soap with her. For so many hours and days in the car I had dreamed of a simple shower or bath, to regain some faith that the world had not collapsed so completely around me as to withhold the simple basic gift of cleanliness.

What I faced as we came onto the beach was a scene of such unselfconscious abandon and exuberance that it made me startle in disbelief. The mothers were in the water, completely naked and open to the world. They splashed scooping up armfuls of water to pour on the children. They would bend forward into the surf to immerse their heads, then with a powerful thrust, they would swing up, their long wet hair and arching breasts drawing giant, transparent commas of sea water before and above them. I stood on the beach and stared at those naked breasts, some swollen and pendulous with milk, others firm and defiant. I saw the children with their little protruding tummies and Jacob’s small penis, looking so silly and vulnerable. A tidal wave of disappointment crashed over me with the force of all the ocean waves put together. Every cell of my being longed to scream out that all I wanted was to be clean.

In anger and humiliation I picked Claire up and turned around, retracing the path by which we had come. I reasoned that it was a long beach; I was determined to find someplace else where we could go into the water, away from them. With Claire on my hip, I marched back along the road that followed the shoreline looking for an inlet or some hidden spot where we could be alone to set our own standards of dignity. Not far down the road, around a thicket of blackberry bushes and through a clump of young cedars, I found our haven. The surf was gentle there and some logs had washed up on shore for Claire to sit by. No one ever came to look for us.

From that day on, Claire and I went to our own little beach almost every day. Sometimes Island would join us. He was always so gentle with Claire. He would bring things for her to look at and it never seemed to bother him that she didn’t look at him or reach out to take his gifts. Island didn’t talk much himself; perhaps he understood her better than the rest of us did. He would lift her hand like a small bowl that had no will of its own, and place in it the wild flower, the rock, the salal that he had brought to her, and there it would stay until he replaced it with something else, or until we would take her by the hand to lead her into the surf.

At the beach we found a place to hide away together, but I realized that these few hours alone were still not enough to give me the strength that I needed to keep my balance within this place that I resented with such vehemence. The Family’s communal ways were bending me too far. I had to believe that the world as I had known it still existed. I longed for books, the accessories of civilization, indoor plumbing. I didn’t want to forget what it was like to live in the world of conversation and kind words, of bath salts and real beds with sheets. I was crying out for some support to help me create a barrier of perspective.

As I saw it, the only thing of value that the Family offered me was freedom, and I became determined that I would use that very freedom to find my way. It was an escape that I dreamt of, not a rescue. Yet I knew implicitly that I would come back to Claire when I had found a source that would feed me with enough inner strength to shield us, but I would go out into the world someday. It would be a quest, a truly noble quest; and I reasoned that as the universe is always prepared to help with noble quests, mine would be successful too.

I’m not sure what made me choose that particular Sunday to go on my walkabout; I’m surprised that I even know that it was a Sunday, except I remember that it was the day after the big market day and everyone was home on the farm, meaning that there were even more activities and more occasions for me to feel like the angry outsider that I was. I stomped upstairs with Claire after lunch, glad to get away from them all. She fell asleep easily and I went over to my window. But this time, I didn’t look down into the yard. I gazed instead over the treetops, beyond the farm, and dreamed of being anywhere but in this prison. As I sat there in the airless loft, surrounded by the disarray of bedding and discarded clothing, looking out to another world that I could barely believe still existed, something powerful within me stirred – like a whimper that grew, through a cry, to become a silent scream of frustration, it summoned me and demanded that I follow it away from this place.

I stood up from my window, kissed Claire on the head and went out through the back door and marched to the road, blind to everything around me but the path beneath my feet that might lead me to places other than this.
. . .

This country road that I follow is the conduit for my salvation. It is defined by each curve and hill; each bend reveals a new vista of possibilities. It rises up and turns to the left like a question mark that I’m committed to follow. I don’t care how far it is, I will walk until I find a place to be washed, in body and spirit.

I know that no one in the Family will notice that I’m gone until Claire needs attention; her sleeping defines my freedom. As I step, stride, pick up some pebbles and toss them one by one with determination I imagine that this is my freedom walk; like the civil rights activists that I had heard so much about, I will march for my freedom.

I walk in a dimension where time and distance lose all relevance – past bushes, along the shoreline, beyond the abandoned shed, beside a field of grazing sheep. I come around a bend and there it is: a cedar cottage, surrounded by a low rock wall of the kind that I imagine Peter Rabbit would have encountered, complete with brambles and bushes of delicate pink roses in full bloom. Images of Hanzel and Gretel peek in from dark corners of my brain but my need is so much greater than anything that caution could discourage.

In the yard, a woman on hands and knees reaches under a bush with a small spade in her gloved hand. Her straw hat covers her face; the steel grey braid of hair curves along her shoulder blade and falls to her side beneath her breast. A spaniel supervises her work and at times tries to coax her away from her tools by offering her a ball or a branch. The long curly hair on his ears reminds me of the hair along the back of Bill’s neck, the small wisps at the hairline that never seem to grow long enough to stay in his ponytail.

I approach her quietly; I have found my shrine. I don’t worry that she will find me strange, or that she’ll deny my request; I have been called here to find comfort and I know that this is a place of peace. I stand within its embrace and breathe in its fragrance.

I walk up the path that leads to the flowerbed where she is working. The spaniel has come to me with a stick in his mouth, hoping for a playmate. I lower my hand and run my fingers through the soft curls just under the floppy ears. He sniffs my arm and sits to better appreciate my attention. I wait for the woman to notice me but she keeps on digging, absorbed in her work.

I’m startled by a voice behind me, a gentle man’s voice infused with a chuckle. “Well, hello,” the voice says to me. Then, to the lady of the roses he asks: “Dorrie, who is our guest?” She turns her face to the man and blinks in mild confusion at my presence. She pulls herself away from her work and sits back on her heels, her small shovel coming to rest on her knee. She looks at me and laughs out loud. I recognize in her spontaneity that she’s laughing at herself for not noticing me .

“My, my,” she says, chuckling as she brushes a clump of dirt from her glove. “I certainly hope that you’re not coming to rob us. Neither Toby nor I would make very good watch dogs, would we, my Dear?” She chuckles as the shakes her head. “How do you do?” she goes on, without rising, but extending a dusty hand from which she has removed her glove. “My name is Dorrie, and that old ruffian behind you is John Ross.” I move forward to take her hand then turn to nod at the man as she laughs: “Oh yes, my dear, that’s right, just like the villain in “Dallas”, but my J.R. is much sweeter.” She rises, gathering her other tools and asks: “And what is your name, Dear?”

“I’m Starla. You have a lovely garden,” I say, allowing myself to sink into the gentle pleasure of a dog’s head against my thigh and the lush grass beneath my feet. I want to lie down beneath her rose bushes and live there – within that garden – forever.

“Why thank you, Dear. What a lovely name you have.” She waits – I suppose for an explanation of my name or the reason for my visit, but I’m absorbed in the wonder of this place. Dorrie asks where I live. I kneel down to better reach the spots under those beautiful spaniel ears. I don’t want to say that I come from the farm, as if acknowledging that I “live” with the Family would make it so, and would make me one of them in the eyes of these people.

“My mom lives at the farm down the road, and my little sister and I are visiting her,” I admit as a compromise explanation that I can live with. “Everyone there is going to the beach to swim,” I add, “ but it’s been such a long time since I’ve had a proper bath, and they don’t have one on the farm. Could I have a bath here, please?” My direct approach comes politely, but with a firmness born of certainty: I am a pilgrim seeking permission to pray at the chapel of clean towels and indoor plumbing. I bury my face in the wonderful softness of the dog’s neck and await their reply.

Dorrie rises and comes to me; she puts a hand on my shoulder and gently pats her consent: “Well yes, of course, my Dear,” she says. “You will be our guest and you can take all the time you want to clean up. Then we will have lemonade and cookies on the porch.” I stand, relieved and welcomed, and I realize how birdlike she is in her tiny frame and her crisp movements.

Dorrie leads me into the cottage where beauty and serenity flow from the garden, through the windows into every room. In the sitting room (as they call it) old tapestry covered chairs and a couch are surrounded by wood paneled walls of books and framed photographs. Delicate paintings of wild flowers and garden scenes, some bearing small stickers with a number, line the tops of shelves and the windowsills. I notice the lacy curtains rippling in the afternoon breeze.

Toby, the spaniel, follows us into the small bathroom. It enchants me. An old fashioned tub is raised on cast iron feet with a magnificent lacy shower curtain rising from its depths to a hoop around the elevated spout. A small wooden ledge just above the tub holds bath oil and a candle. Rods of luscious towels with matching hand towels and face cloths line the paneled wall that someone has painted a warm peach colour and edged with delicate stencil work. The small old-fashioned sink wears a skirt of eyelet lace to match the one from the shower. An antique mirror with swirls and acorns carved deep into its dark wood reflects it all back to me.

Dorrie gives me a towel and face cloth and shows me how to work the shower taps. I’m so grateful to be here; I tremble with anticipation, yet become shy as I recognize my boldness. I thank her trying to convey what this kindness means to me. Dorrie smiles and tells me to let her know if I need anything else as she lifts a basket of soaps and shampoos from a corner by the tub, onto the back of the toilet. She whisks Toby away with a gentle pat on his rump and closes the door behind her.
. . .

I’ll never be able to gauge how much Dorrie and John Ross’s friendship has changed my life. Every visit with them was a balm with which I soothed my battered soul and its power went beyond restoration, to lay the foundation for so many of the things that still feed me in my life: literature, classical music, art and teaching.

Dorrie and John Ross had come to Saltspring to live full time, three years earlier when John Ross retired as a superintendent of education in Vancouver. Dorrie had worked in the university library and was now volunteering at the library in Ganges for several hours a week. This had been their summer home for years and it maintained its magical quality for them in their retirement.

I would visit Dorrie and John Ross about every other day while Claire napped after lunch, leaving them only when politeness and fear of overstaying my welcome pushed me out the door and back down the road to the farm. I would take Toby for a walk or play ball with him in the garden. Sometimes, he and I would sit in the shade on the glider swing, reading one of the books that Dorrie brought for me from the library or had found within her own collection.

She introduced me to Anne Frank’s diaries, to Piggy and all of the children from Lord of the Flies, to Adam Farmer and other characters of Robert Cormier. I had loved my work in the school library at Centennial Park, but I had changed so much since leaving Scarborough – had it really only been a few weeks? I felt so much older and unwilling to accept the “kid” stories: Stuart Little and even Anne of Green Gables. I needed to know about real people, young people who were suffering, who were threatened.

Reading was not an escape for me; I was searching desperately to understand my life, to define my struggle. Dorrie seemed to understand the parameters of my literary needs and kept feeding me. As I read in the garden, I could hear music coming from the radio or the stereo, music like I’d never heard before: piano, flute or oboe layered over magnificent orchestral arrangements, creating a tapestry of sound. I couldn’t distinguish one piece, one composer, one style of classical music from another, I just accepted it as the perfect incidental music for my journey into a world of searching, instilling a peace and a sense of safety that allowed the words I was reading to teach me of myself.

During each visit Dorrie would work in the garden or at her paintings. They were her flower scenes that I had noticed on that first day, transferred through oil paints onto the small canvasses that lined the walls and windowsills. Sometimes the collection in the sitting room was large, growing four or five paintings at a time as she worked on a series of them simultaneously. Then an art dealer from Victoria would come and the collection would be pared down to just a few pieces, leaving more space to notice the exquisitely framed photographs, more subtle in their placement on the walls.

John Ross would often spend his days on the beach or elsewhere on the Island with his cameras, organizing driftwood and shore rocks, creating his haunting images of nature, washed with photographic greys. On days when he was at home in the afternoon, he would work in the wood shop where he made the frames for their work. Each frame in itself was a work of art, carefully designed and shaped, carved and stained to perfectly compliment the picture within.

I loved spending time inside their house on the few days when it was too misty or rainy to read outside. The comfort of the cottage wrapped itself around me, like a great shawl around my shoulders, and clinging to its warmth I would find another wall to examine, discovering what there was in art, beyond beauty, that attracted me.

We would take tea on the porch later in the afternoon, after I had my shower and was feeling worthy, in appearance anyway, of this lovely setting. We would look at Dorrie’s art books; she introduced me to Georgia O’Keefe and Emily Carr – the two women, Dorrie said, with whom she would most like to share her porch for an afternoon (a gathering to which she assured me that I would be invited.) She taught me to listen to my reactions to a work of art before looking at it too deeply; first reactions hold many clues and secrets, she said. I was glad that these were books of reproductions that I could touch, to lay my palm on each plate and absorb the intensity of the colour work.

The porch, the house and the garden were my sanctuary, and I treasured each visit. Dorrie and John Ross, and their home restored a balance in me that had been askew for many years. I don’t ever remember being so sure of myself as I was in their presence. They were like archeologists, slowly brushing away the dirt from around a precious object, buried in the sands of confusion and circumstances, bringing me into daylight. My time with them gave me the strength that I needed to come back to Claire each day.

When I would return to the farm, I would hide the book that Dorrie had given me to read, not ever understanding the need for such secrecy yet knowing beyond any doubt that it was necessary. The farm was an environment of mutual disinterest and distrust: they of me, and I of them.

I felt that we were under siege, Claire and I. Until this episode of our lives, I had spent so much of my time protecting her, guiding her, clearing a path before her so that she might walk in her own way. But since we had left Sophie’s, Claire hadn’t shown any signs of the fight that had always been an essential part of her. (I think that I would have rejoiced at the onset of one of her old tantrums.) I felt a drive to develop the strength that I possessed to make up for the fact that Claire had let go. Yet precisely because of her weakness, I knew that we would continue to be dependant on the Family for our basic needs, requiring a humiliating degree of compromise and acceptance on my part for her sake.

I still struggle with the memory of the push and pull of dependency and rebellion, and where they led me during those months on the farm. I wanted to protect Claire, I wanted to grow, I wanted to fight and I wanted to leave. None of these was in my power when I needed them to be. You, Jean, so many years later, are giving me the tools I need to examine each of these desires and to understand their repercussions.

Thank you,
Starla.

JOURNAL, Monday, March 4th

2008-01-10T09:07:00.001-05:00

e been“If one has only one good memory left in one’s heart,
even that may be the means of saving us.”
(Fyodor Dostoyevski)

I’ve been working on a cross-stitch bookmarker for myself, to mark this new era of peace in my life – it’s an affirmation on fine fabric in silk threads.

I’ve done larger cross-stitch pieces before: a sampler for Sophie’s dining room, and a picture of Pussywillow that I’d had transferred from a photograph to a cross-stitch pattern through the marvels of computer technology. But this is a smaller and more intricate piece than anything else I’ve ever worked on before: thirty-two stitches to the inch, sixteen colours that are often blended together to a total of forty-two possible combinations.

I found the background pattern in a needlework book that Sophie gave me for Christmas the year after I made her the sampler; she said it was her way of encouraging the artist in me. This particular pattern is like the illuminated texts of ancient writings: the four corners dripping with splendid designs and curlicues, overlaid with outlines in gold and silver. The fancy work incorporates the first letter of my name, raising the letter and the name itself to a level of magnificence that no longer embarrasses me. The bookmark says: “Starla is at Peace. Amen.” So be it.

It’s an important message to myself that, like any affirmation, need only be partially true to be of value to me. I don’t expect complete peace at all times, but there’s a new serenity that has introduced me to hope, a concept that has always been very foreign to me.

I look at my hands as I work the delicate threads through the tiny holes of the woven cloth and I see my mother’s hands at the end of my mother’s arms and I have difficulty imagining her involved in such a precise and focused task. I always imagine her hands and her arms in large, expansive movements: waving when dancing; reaching, stretching, kneeding when baking; flailing, punching and slapping when ranting. My mother’s arms were made for squeezing in a hug that was too tight; she seldom embraced with gentleness.

It disturbs me that in recognizing my mother’s hands and arms, I am forced to acknowledge that I am of her, and that there are parts of my body that feel as if they are my own, yet can repel me in what they hint at. These little spontaneous reactions are so natural that they’ve gone unnoticed for all these years. It’s time to start noticing their importance in how I see myself.

Of all the components of my genetic background, I’ve always feared mom’s fury the most. I analyze every mood that I suffer, wondering if this bout of sadness or that period of nervous anxiety is the opening act to a life beyond the borders of madness from which I’ll not retrieve myself? Without ever speaking of it, I’ve known for so long that many forms of mental illness show themselves during the teens and twenties. I look to my thirtieth birthday, just a few months away now, as a beacon of light (and again, dare I say hope), signaling that maybe I’ve made it through the gauntlet of those threatening years, sane and whole, having outrun the beast of her madness.

In my concentration and focus on the minute details of the patterned cross-stitch, I see Bill’s precision and attention to the details of his work that have made him the good lawyer that he has become. He negotiates and advises; he juggles schedules, documents, briefs and precedents in his head with calm and deliberate focus, as if they were components of a complex toy to be balanced, until he plucks one from his mind and inserts it precisely into the appropriate niche of his patterned argument.

But Bill has another side too. His heart is big and soft – perhaps too much so, and when he feels pain, it’s so profound that it takes him to places that have frightened me. At these times, it’s only by losing himself in the focus of his work that he can climb from those depths to find distraction from his pain.

It’s strange to think of them as my mother and my father; I so seldom remember them together. It’s been such a long time since they were a couple whose cosmic and genetic paths crossed to produce Claire and me.

I wonder what traits I have from other people in my past. Sophie says that I have her Granny’s eyes and hair. In this new peace that I’m experiencing, I find the curiosity and the courage to imagine Bill’s family: his parents, aunts and uncles, siblings – I see them as real people now, rising from beneath the cloud that Bill has used to shroud them since he left home over thirty years ago to avoid going to Vietnam. No doubt, he’s had his reasons for keeping us apart, but I wonder if he was protecting me, or simply nursing his own anger and the wounds that run so deep as to seem natural and necessary, even after all these years.

Of all the people that I know in my family tree, I want to believe that there is more of Sophie in me than anyone else. Sophie: stable, caring, competent, loving and balanced. Sophie: the home to which I return, the light for which I’ve been so grateful, the model on whom I’m building the image of who I want to be.

As long as I’ve known her, Sophie was my light, the one constant. No matter how far away she was at certain times of my life, she always held the directional compass that was able to point a way for me. She was the one person (until Danny) who has loved me unconditionally and believed in aspects of me that I couldn’t even see, much less acknowledge in myself.

Sophie is a gift that has been given to me. Who would I hav without her?

JOURNAL, Sunday Feb. 24th

2007-12-07T15:57:00.001-05:00

Spirituality is like a medicine.
To heal the illness, it is not sufficient to
look at the medicine and talk about it:
you have to ingest it.
(The Dalai Lama)

I don’t quite know how to write about my experience this weekend but I want to record it anyway, to confirm this new awareness in my life.

For a while now I’ve been feeling that my role as spectator at church wasn’t enough. I had an idea that faith and spirituality were somehow connected with the struggle that I’ve been working through with Jean. I’ve been looking for a way to learn more about faith, and was curious about how deeply it seems to touch some people. I spoke to Jean of a Lenten retreat that I’d heard announced at church a few weeks ago, and she thought that it might be good idea for me to go.

-I am He who comforts you; why then are you afraid? (Isaiah 51:12)

The theme and title of the retreat were “Words of Comfort”. I liked the idea of exploring my questions and feelings in an environment that set out, from its very premise, to be safe and comforting. I had no idea what to expect; I was both surprised and pleased by my boldness.

We arrived at the retreat centre on Friday evening and were given a Bible and a resource booklet of references that marked out a route of biblical verses of consolation, reassurance and trust in God’s love that we would use throughout the retreat.

In the director’s introduction she spoke of our time together as being a gift – a gift that we’ve been given, and have actively accepted. She said that it was an opportunity to learn more about relationships: with ourselves, with others and with God. The room, with its comfortable chairs and candlelight, was warm and soothing while the wind from the storm outside shook the windows and spoke of that part of me that is so desperately seeking refuge.

-I will strengthen you, I will help you, I will uphold you. (Isaiah 41:10)
-Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. (Mt 7:7)

Later that evening, we met individually with a spiritual director. She asked me what I was seeking from this time away from the world. I suppose that I could have said many things…I finally answered that I thought I was looking for some peace. As I sat in the chapel after our conversation I began reading the Bible passages identified in the booklet, and I realized that in fact what I was seeking, and what had brought me here from my stormy world, was an answer to that most essential question: “Who am I?” I’ve come so far in the past few months working with Jean, and now I dare to hope that I might find the strength to identify who I want to be: with Danny, with myself and with the work that I’m doing.

Saturday morning dawned bright but the sun had to fight its way through the filter of snow mounds banked in front of the windows high above us as we were gathered in the basement of the retreat center. The powerful wind hadn’t left with the storm; it continued to shake the windows and whistled through their frames. In leading the group discussion, the director spoke of how often the wind is used in Bible imagery to identify the presence of God. She said that it sounded like God was working very hard to come in and join the group. We laughed.

-Then you shall call, and the Lord will answer; you shall cry for help and he will say: I am here. (Isaiah 58:9)

In a group session, people talked about their personal relationship with God and how their image of God has changed over the years. Some spoke of childhood visions of the grandfatherly man with flowing robes and a beard being replaced by a friend and companion in Jesus. Others had a feeling of presence and guidance without any human representation. I didn’t contribute much; listening to the discussion made me realize that the most I had known of a loving God was that such a Being had given the community a reason to build a magnificent cathedral long ago that I cherish today, and where I go regularly to observe others in their faith.

-I have called you by name, you are mine… because you are precious in my sight, and honored and I love you. (Isaiah 43:1)

I don’t know why God would have called me there, to meet on this winter weekend, but as the day went on I knew that the time had come for me to stop observing others in their faith, their relationship with what the world calls God. I knew I was in the presence of something warm and embracing that did make me feel precious and honoured and loved.

-Can a woman forget her nursing child, or show no compassion for the child of her womb? Even these may forget, yet I will not forget you. See, I have inscribed you on the palms of my hands. (Isaiah 49: 15-16)

-I am lonely and afflicted. Relieve the troubles of my heart and bring me out my distress.
(Psalm 25: 15)

I spent most of the afternoon alone, and although I’ve lived a rather solitary existence for most of my life, I was amazed that I’d never experienced such deep silence: a quiet that was full of intention and purpose, a peace that demanded awareness of its value.

I sat for a long time in my room with a lit candle on the desk, the Bible and resource booklet open before me. I read many excerpts and passages; the language, at times beautiful and exotic, was often disturbing in its directness. These two lines kept drawing me back and binding themselves, one to the other: “Can a woman forget her nursing child”… "I am lonely and afflicted.”

I was haunted by images of the “mothers” on Saltspring and how they had indeed forgotten their children. And I understood that I was, I am, a nursing child, forgotten, left needy and open mouthed, alone in a tortured silence.

-Then he put his arms around them, laid his hands on them and gave them his blessing.
( Mk 10:16)

And I wept. I cried for all that I’ve missed from a mother who wasn’t capable of loving me. I was overwhelmed by the abandonment that has haunted me all of my life, and in the exhaustion that follows such weeping, I heard a voice, soft and gentle in its familiarity, yet shocking in its irony: “Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.”

I was incredulous. I railed at the injustice of such a demand. Why must I forgive to receive comfort? I wouldn’t have believed that my mother meant enough to me to require my forgiveness. How do I forgive actions that, by virtue of her inattention, were unintentional? They were sins of omission, the actions of a woman whose touch with reality was flawed and wounded by her own torment.

What is this challenge to forgive? I’ve tried so hard to forget; isn’t that enough?

-Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy. ( Mt 5:7)

And in the winter light of my tiny room, I thought of Danny, good, patient and kind, and of the other people in my life who have reached out to me. I could feel myself accepting their arms around me, and the loving blessings that they’ve bestowed on me throughout my life. The acceptance of their love came from a place deep inside, and I could only imagine that this was how it felt to be touched by the hand of God.

-This poor soul cried, and was heard by the Lord and was saved from every trouble.
(Psalm 34:4)

Even now, just a little more than twenty-four hours since this took place, I feel self conscious in writing about my experience. It sounds too simple, too “Praise the Lord”-ish in its telling. It would be nice to think that life was that easy: pose a question, get an answer, problem solved…”saved from every trouble”.

But it truly was an important experience for me, one that I’ll treasure, no matter what comes of it in the long term. I know that I still have much internal work to do (as Jean calls it), but I came away from the retreat with a comforting sense of peace and awareness that I treasure.

I know now that mom has played a much greater role in my life than I had ever wanted to admit. My resentment of her illness and subsequent behaviour, as well as the fear of eventually being like her, have formed so much of who I am and how I’ve protected myself – sometimes from the very experiences of life that could have given me such comfort.

But those experiences and relationships have found me anyway, haven’t they? Danny’s resiliency, determination, patience and love have survived long enough for me to recognize how much I need and want him. I accept that I must deal with mom and all the corners of my life that her influence has tainted, in order to move on in my life with Danny,

As an exercise this morning, we were invited to write our own psalm, reflecting our weekend experience or any other aspect of our lives. This is my psalm:

My soul turns its face to your light and your peace
And delights in their warmth.
You embrace me with serenity and courage
And lead me to places of wonder.
You protect me from fear and darkness
And sustain me in all ways.

As I wrote these words, I wasn’t exactly sure who the “you” was in the verse. Perhaps it was God; perhaps it was Danny. I don’t think that it matters too much. Not that I think of Danny as being God but it has more to do with trust. I’ve come to accept the faith that I have, such as it is: to believe that I can trust something or someone outside of my own sphere of control. Whether it’s my belief in Danny’s love for me, or my belief in a divine spirit, I think that they are born of the same essence and that they depend on my willingness to give them the life that they deserve.

Meanwhile, I believe that I’ve achieved a lot this weekend. I now know that somehow, my feelings about mom need to be looked at. Am I capable of forgiving her? I don’t know; forgiveness is an ongoing process and once bestowed, is not over and done with. But I have a new courage to continue my work with Jean and to look more deeply at the events that I’ve tried so hard to minimize.

-Peace, peace to the far and the near, says the Lord; and I will heal them. ( Isaiah 57:18 )

Copyright 2003

JOURNAL, Wednesday, Feb. 20th

2007-11-30T07:43:00.002-05:00

Fools, said I, you do not know,
Silence like a cancer grows
(“Sounds of Silence”, Paul Simon)

When I write of our time on Saltspring, the narrator in me shares a lot with Jean; I’ve come to trust her with the shadows that reach into certain corners of my life. But there are crevices of blackness where details have lodged themselves – and no power will expose them to another’s light.

They are the morsels of evil that transform Jacob from an irritant to a torturer as he lifts Island’s jar from beneath the steps, and raises it high above his head to send it crashing to the ground, where it meets a rock and showers glass arrows in every direction. Before the eyes of children – some haunted, some horrified, some delighted – Jacob picks up the worm from the rubble of grass and twigs, and choosing a large shard, he slices through the wriggling body, exposing its inner slime.

I once asked mom why Jacob was so mean. The question, or perhaps the fact that I had asked it, seemed to startle her. She explained that the Family believed that if you let Nature guide the children, then Nature would lead them to their true path. Sometimes the road may be a bit rocky but the Family believed that it was the only way to discover your true self. She said that the mothers who made up the Family were working to restore that true nature in themselves, the nature that had been taken from them as children, by rules and structures and discipline. They believed that only Nature could lead children to their ultimate reality and to good.

Her presentation of the Family’s philosophy never made sense to me, and it explains much of the discomfort I felt around these women. I also believe that they had to recognize the infiltration of something dark and frightening in Jacob’s unchecked leadership of the little ones. The truth is that I was used by mom and by the other mothers; practically speaking, they needed a babysitter to keep things under control while they tried to restore and commune with their own inner spirits -- and I was to be that babysitter.

Claire’s role, on the other hand, was to justify mom’s position as one of the “mothers”.

Within the Family, the word “mother” meant so much more than what the world would understand. It was used to describe a certain type of person beyond the fact that she has borne children. The ”mothers” wore their long print skirts and cotton shifts like a uniform. They produced breasts for nursing like a badge of honour that defined them. They spoke of Mother Earth, goddesses, herbs, elves and fairies in tones that suburbanites would use to discuss politics, or the price of gas. They birthed, nursed, then absolved themselves of all responsibility for their children, believing that the Great Mother/Nature would guide the little ones to discover the essence of life.

They were secretive, dark, haunting and controlling. They communed with men but did not admit them into their circle. These “mothers” fashioned the environment that held me and frightened me. Their raw earthiness, their absence of shame, modesty or privacy assaulted my soul. Their insular vision, drawing them to focus ever more on their beliefs, frightened me and made me want to claw my way out of their funnel that kept sucking me downward.

Claire legitimized mom’s presence in this world of mothers. In many ways, because of Claire’s special needs, their relationship was the same at this stage when Claire was two and a half, as it was when she was an infant. It was as if by denying everything that had taken place since Claire’s illness and hospitalization, mom could simply freeze time and relive those days of caring for the infant-Claire that she had enjoyed so much. In the evenings, mom would sit on the porch with the other mothers of infants and rock Claire until the darkness fell, singing to her, at times nuzzling her face into a breast that lay exposed and unsucked. Then she would bring her upstairs to tuck her into the nest of blankets that was her bed. Sometimes mom would remember to say goodnight to me, and she might kiss me on top of the head and ruffle my hair. And if there was moonlight to cast a few defining shadows on the walls, I could rest.

In the morning, the whirlwind would return and the house would be frantic once again with the activities of communing with Nature and each other, and preparing for sales at the market by which the Family made their living. Claire and the other kids were left to find their way through the maze of dirty clothes, unwashed bodies and unguided spirits.

My Claire, whom I had grown to anticipate and care for, demanded peace around her and for the most part she had always found a way to get it. In this place she found her peace by retreating even deeper inside herself, by abandoning all connection with us. She had had a pace that was so different from the rest of the world, which didn’t allow her to move ahead without constant coaxing and support. The freedom that this place offered as its main form of nurturing was neither coaxing nor supportive, and I couldn’t imagine how Claire would ever find her way. I’m so sure that mom had no idea who Claire really was when she took us away from Sophie.

The Family – the Mothers – the Farm – the Island: these words, always preceded by a definite article and a capital letter in the language of the commune, became singular and powerful.

I finally recognize now why I didn’t try to contact Bill or Sophie once we arrived on Saltspring. During the first few weeks on the island, Sophie’s parting words about informing Bill of our departure sustained me and kept me anticipating his arrival from minute to minute. But as the days went by and I realized that I would have to seek him out, as he would have no way of knowing where we were, I tried to imagine what I’d say to him that would convince him, and the police if necessary, that we needed to be rescued. I could still hear mom’s words to Sophie: “I’m their mother; what would the police possibly do for you?” …As if proof of ownership were the most important fact in parenting.

I wouldn’t have known how to explain my fear. I couldn’t even explain this sense of threat to myself; it wasn’t tangible. They were just a group of women struggling to make a good home for themselves and their children on this rundown farm. To me, they were my jailers: my age, my fear and my anxiety about being separated from Claire left me powerless.

Fear lived in the pit of my stomach and made the dull ache of nausea my constant companion. I worried that if I let myself believe that there was a way out, if I lined up all the evidence of neglect and cruelty and coldness and darkness and secrecy and silence, if I tried to explain my fear to someone outside, but failed to make it clear enough, real enough, that they wouldn’t see how real it was to me. Perception is everything.

I sit back in my chair at my desk, and shudder these cold, dark feelings away in the early dawn, and comfort myself by taking Pussywillow onto my lap and thinking about the lovely walk in the conservation area that Danny and I took last Sunday. The crisp air and the sunshine on new snow were cleansing, like clear running water through the murky sluice box of my brain.

On our walk we came to a clearing in the forest where a group of people stood around a large, wide willow tree whose bare branches were draped with balls of seed encrusted suet for the birds. A mother was pouring small mounds of black sunflower seeds into the tiny hands of her children who, on extending their arm, would receive a chickadee on their outstretched fingers.

The mother offered me some seeds. I don’t know what made me take them, except that I’ve been thinking so much about Claire lately and she always reminds me of a bird in her frailty. I held out my hand with its little pile of seeds for a minute or so before a chickadee came to light on the fleshy part at the base of my thumb. His tiny claws were prickly on my cold skin.

Danny took a picture of him in my hand. In the picture, I have tears in my eyes as I cried at the simple wonder of how beautiful simplicity can be – and how much of that beauty that I’ve missed out on.

Copyright 2003

Dear Jean;

2007-11-12T19:54:00.001-05:00

Kick at the darkness ‘til it bleeds daylight.
(“Lovers in a Dangerous Time.” Bruce Cockburn)

I hope you don’t mind that I’m writing this letter to you. I’ve tried so hard to think of how I would speak to Claire of this next part of our lives, of our time at the farm, but every time I try to write of these things to her, I’m overwhelmed with the fear that I carried the whole time we were there. Then on the heels of that fear comes the same slow burning anger, which built up inside me in a way that I’ve never felt anger before or since – and I realize that both of these feelings, the fear and the anger, are too dark and intrusive to be worthy of the letters that I’ve been sharing with Claire.

I’ve also realized that, more than the fear or anger, I remember that time with a profound shame that has been ebbing its way back into my life lately. In time I would like to deal with that shame and how it has haunted me, but I will never be able to speak of it to Claire. So I turn to you and trust that you understand that it’s with great respect and gratitude that I share these pages with you.

So many kids with whom I’ve worked have gone through periods of denial, of blocking out the trauma that they’ve experienced in their lives. I’m not like that; I remember so many details of every day and every night that we spent on Saltspring Island. They’re all there, intact and clear. They accuse me, in their clarity, of “faking it”: if it was all so traumatic why is it still so vivid? Doesn’t it make sense that I too would bury the memories, or hide from them? The best I could do was learn to ignore them.

I remember the darkness of the first night when we arrived at the farm . . .

Every muscle ached as I tried to sleep with all the other children on the palette of blankets on the floor of the attic room. I could hear soft snores around me in darkness so complete it made me nauseous with panic that I could barely contain.

I finally gave up trying to sleep and spent most of the night sitting up at the little window, looking out to the silhouettes that hinted at a world outside. For hours I ran my finger along the splintered wooden window frame; brittle, ancient flakes of paint fell to the sill where I arranged them into neat little piles.

I worked at finding some shreds of goodness on which I could focus to get me beyond the fear. I tried to believe, as I strained to see the outlines of the apple trees in the yard, that this place would be just like the dreams I had of Granny’s house; farm life had always sounded so warm and inviting when Sophie told us of the wonderful summers she and mom had had there as little girls. It was the only image that I had of what it would be like to live on a farm, and I fantasized about recreating it here with mom.

Earlier that night, coming over on the ferry, mom had spoken with warm excitement of this farm that she now called home. She told me of how lovely it was, nestled on the most beautiful part of the island. They had sheep, four goats and many chickens. There were barn cats and a big old German shepherd called Blue who wore a bandana. It was so dreamlike, hearing of it in mom’s voice, softer now that we were alone, and the old car wasn’t running. Mom had the most beautiful voice – like a song sometimes – and when she spoke like this, of dreams and a future, I could believe that we were waiting to be ferried to heaven.

But now and then an inflection on a certain word, or a pause before she began to speak again on a higher note, would break the spell of her soothing tones, bringing back her other voice, shrill and nervous, recalling the screams and snarls that she had hurled at us, or the mumbling soliloquies that I’d heard too often through her bedroom door when we all lived together in Vancouver.

How many times during that first night at the farm did I lay my head against the window frame and doze only to wake up, my heart racing and my body covered in sweat, startled by the absolute blackness that surrounded me? I was so grateful for the early dawn when the finest wash of light gave some definition to the room. When this first light soothed me enough, I went over to lie beside Claire and hoped beyond hope that these lumps of bedding that I could barely make out around us, would stay asleep for a while longer.

I remember the meeting the kids of the "family" . . .

I must have slept for some time because when I rolled over to check on Claire, the sunlight had flooded the room through the small window where I had held vigil most of the night. I could make out a half dozen pairs of eyes, watching us as we slept on the floor: it was like being surrounded by cannibals. It took me some time to distinguish these eyes and sort them as to gender and age.

Jacob was the leader of the group and looked to be about seven or eight, although he proclaimed himself to be “infinite”. He stood above us, bold and firm, defiantly displaying his authority in the presence of a new and older member of the pack, afraid that I would challenge his position.

His striking black hair and pale blue eyes were also found in one of the younger girls, his sister, Miriam. She was an extension of Jacob, and at six-years old she followed his every move. There were two “babies” as Jacob called the little pair who, I had guessed, were probably three-year old girls but turned out to be a girl and a boy. I was uneasy as I watched them wrestling with squeals of delight, wrapping themselves in the blanket that Molly had made for Claire.

The last two in Jacob’s band were Juniper and Island: they were twins I later found out, but were nothing alike. Juniper, a tall dark girl with hard eyes, seemed very old for her six years; Island, her brother, brushed his soft brown hair from his face and gave me a quiet smile that sealed us as allies. No one spoke but Jacob.

“What’s wrong with him?” Jacob demanded, looking down at Claire; she was still sleeping very deeply. I was sure by now that mom had given her some kind of sleeping pill when we had stopped in Vancouver. I was worried. This very deep sleep was so unusual for her.

“She’s just sleeping. There’s nothing wrong with her.” I answered and lay my hand on her back to assure myself that she was still breathing. My hand sprang from where it had touched her when I realized how thin she had become: I could see each ripple of her rib cage through the “My Little Pony” T-shirt that Sophie had put on her so many days ago.

“Why doesn’t she get up then?” Jacob shot back, nudging her leg with his foot and tossing his long, uncombed braid over his shoulder.

“We’re just tired,” I answered wiggling down a bit lower under the covers, letting him know that I was preparing to go back to sleep myself. Jacob looked at us for a few seconds then turned and grabbed Molly’s blanket from the two little ones. He pitched it across the room calling to the others to follow him downstairs. Like a military commander whose troops obeyed with differing degrees of enthusiasm and awareness, they all followed him except Island, who knelt down and stretched himself out along Claire on the other side. The three of us lay there: me, with my hand on her arm (I was too frightened to lay my fingers on the protruding ribs) and Island, stroking her fire red curls, brushing them away from her face. We slept.

I woke from a dream of large birds swooping down at me and pecking at my hair. But the place between dreaming and waking was broad that morning and it felt as if the dream wasn’t really over when I sat up. Island was gone and Claire was still sleeping soundly. I looked around the room. Its low, angled ceiling of darkened particleboard between ancient beams was stifling in the heat of the late morning; the room didn’t seem to be able to hold enough air.

I got up from the pile of blankets on the floor, noticing for the first time the musty smell and the grunginess of the scratchy, grey wool blanket that covered me and the uncomfortable itchiness of my unwashed skin and hair. I made my way over the piles of bedding to the top of the stairs where I’d seen the others go down to the main part of the house. I wanted to find mom; I was hungry and I had to go to the bathroom.

I remember the house . . .

Everything was eerily still. I went a few steps down towards the kitchen and sat on the worn step where the softwood was contoured and polished by so many feet. I ran my fingers along the ancient crack in the plastered wall, subtle under the many layers of paint. I waited for mom, for someone to come and talk to me, to take me through this unfamiliar place. No one came.

From where I sat on the step, I could see the large plank table in the center of the kitchen with its cobbled benches and scavenged chairs imprinting a feel of awkward impermanence on the room, mocking my dreams of a farm like Granny’s. There was no matriarch presiding, glorious and welcoming in her embroidered apron, surrounded by the richness of tools and memories that she had collected for years. Instead I saw paisley print kerchiefs tacked to window frames that served as curtains. The industrial sized pickle jars of flour, rice and beans were lined up where I had imagined the matching canister set to be. Jam jars of greenish water and brown edged daisies lined the rough wood countertops.

I made my way to the bottom of the stairs and looked into the room beside me that might have been the dining room in the original plan of the house, but whose floor was now covered with large pillows of all different colours and materials. The walls were surreal, like someone’s nightmare: a painted fantasy mural filled the space so completely that there seemed no room for humans, or plants, or furniture, or air. The wall were covered with shocking swirls of star-tailed comets, dark and extravagant forest scenes of unicorns, evil looking wizards and trolls with piercing eyes amid trees whose dark branches entwined over and around the window and the small door leading to a crawl space beneath the house. The ceiling/sky was midnight black with washes of some unknown galaxy spraying from the entrance to the next room. There at that doorway, all of the fantasy suddenly stopped and I walked into a different world in a room of musty, broken down, overstuffed furniture, (abandoned years ago by more discerning decorators) which was now covered with a collection of dirty children’s clothes and gardening tools. The walls of this room were overhung with at least twenty different macramé projects in-progress: plant hangers, wall hangings with pieces of driftwood and sea shells, a shelving unit incorporating three squares of Plexiglas. These thick, long, hanging ropes made the room almost cell-like, with the look of dried blood dripping down the walls.

I remember being aware of things that were missing in these rooms as I made my way through the house . . .

These absences came to me slowly over the next few hours. They weren’t strikingly obvious at first, manifesting more as something odd, something not quite as it should be: a kitchen without a sink, ceilings without lights, a hallway without a bathroom, and walls without books. But strangest of all were these rooms without people or sound, reinforcing the dream sensation that clung to me like cobwebs: a nightmare in daylight.

These absences were odd but conversely, there were many things that appeared in unusual places that seemed just as peculiar: torn polyethylene on the outside of all the windows downstairs that distorted the world beyond the walls and muffled the sounds of nature. There was an entire wall of plastic milk crates overflowing with empty jam jars and plastic yogurt containers. I passed through a dark passage on my way outside where drying herbs and hanging plants clawed at my hair and shoulders. The screen door wore patches of mesh, sewn into place to repair its many rents and holes, and wobbled on its loose hinges when I made my way outside.

In the yard, Island was sitting on the bottom step, looking across the field to where the other kids were running between the trees at the edge of the clearing. On his lap lay a large jar turned on its side; blades of grass lined the bottom and rusty, jagged holes had been pierced in the cover. Now and then, he petted the jar of grass, as if it were a cat. I sat down beside him to see if I could see any animal life inside. “What’s in your jar?” I asked. He lifted it to eye level and pointed to a place beneath the top layer of vegetation but I still couldn’t make out what it held.

The need to find a bathroom was becoming more urgent and I asked Island if he could show me where it was. He placed the jar with such gentleness under the wooden step, and rearranged the long grass that was growing there, to keep the jar hidden. He walked around to the back of the house to show me where an outhouse stood, nestled in a clump of lilac bushes. He never said a word.

Once inside, the powerful smells of lye and ammonia blocked out all my other senses and brought me back so many summers to the music festival outhouses: temporary but strangely peaceful and comforting for the privacy they offered during those very communal gatherings. As I sat there, alone in this two-holer, (would anyone really expect to share it with me?) I remember observing that it was a very solid structure -- as outhouses go. It had a proper window up high to let in the light and mesh screening for ventilation. There were pieces of patterned silky material tacked to the walls and a collection of magazines: Harrowsmith, the Farmer’s Almanac, a tract from Sri Chimnoy and an ancient copy of National Geographic with an African warrior on the cover. It wasn’t until a few days later that I realized that this was the only reading material that I ever saw on the farm.

When I came out of the outhouse Island was no longer there. I remember thinking that he was more like a spirit: coming to offer me comfort by his presence, but then returning again to his spirit world. I walked around the yard that surrounded the house, taking in the property, looking for someone besides Jacob and crew that I could talk to. I had to believe that mom wouldn’t have just left us here alone in this place. Where was everyone?

I saw the barn, weathered and gray. One of the large main doors was open and yawning its blackness from inside; it hung askew from a broken hinge and its corner was permanently wedged into the long grass. The house and barn were the only real buildings that I could see on the property and they sat at the top of a hill with grassy fields rolling down to the road. From certain points you could see the ocean peaking through the tract of forest on the other side of the roadway.

It was all as beautiful as mom had promised, but the beauty came to me with a haunting fear as I watched an owl soaring from the barn to a large cedar tree at the edge of the field. Part of me knew that I was awake: I could hear the birds and the wind, I could feel the sunshine, I even went to the bathroom. Yet in my isolation I felt the uncertain frustration of one who can’t quite put things in a context of reality, as if I was still dreaming, alone, observing, waiting for something to happen.

A movement from behind the house caught my eye: a cat, marmalade orange and therefore not well camouflaged, came from around a shed at the back of the house. As I approached I could hear the clanking of metal on metal. The smell of a wood fire came from the chimney pipe on the other side of the structure. I looked in and nearly wept with relief to see two young women, who appeared to be not really much older than I was. One of them was working over a boiling pot on a large iron stove with a baby strapped to her back; the other was putting her sleeping infant in a hammock sling attached to the walls of the shed.

I stood at the open wall that looked out over the southern field where the goats were penned. The girl, having laid her baby down, turned to the stove and in that movement noticed me standing there. She gave a quick start but went immediately back to her work placing glass jars into the boiling pot.

“Hello?” I said, surprised that she hadn’t spoken first. Both girls lifted their eyes and nodded, then returned their attention to the bottles in the pot. “I’m Starla, Sarah’s daughter. Do you know where my mother is? I’m hungry; we haven’t eaten in a long time.”

“We call her Raven here.” One of them said into the pot in a voice that was little more than a whisper.

“I’m sorry?” I said, not understanding what she had meant.

“I said that your mother’s name is “Raven” when she is in the Family,” she explained without really answering my question.

“Oh, I see. Well, do you know where she is?”

She waited for a few moments before answering, as if she was trying to decide what her answer would be. “It’s market day in town. They’ve gone to the market to set up.” She went on, never lifting her eyes from her work. The baby on her back was pulling the hair under her kerchief with one tiny fist and hitting the top of her head with the other; she seemed oblivious to his blows.

“Do you know when she’ll be back? Or is there something that my sister and I could eat?” She shook her head – in response to the first question I guessed, because she then went to a table at the back of the shed and removed a piece of cheesecloth that covered a large pot of strawberry jam, thick and dark, with swirls of pink foam around the edges. I could smell its heavy sweetness from several feet away. She spooned some into a bowl.

“There’s bread in the kitchen,” she said, handing me the bowl and turning back to the stove. I thanked them and left the shed, heading into the house.

I remember being so worried when I went back up to the sleeping loft to find that Claire was still asleep.

Having surveyed our new surroundings, I realized how inappropriate a home this was for her and her needs. How would she ever get out of diapers if she had to run across the yard to the outhouse to pee? How would she learn to feed herself in a place where you have to hunt through the house for food?

I knelt beside Claire, watching her as she slept and recognizing almost nothing of my little sister. I reached over to try and wake her; I lifted the tiny shoulders onto my arm and, sliding my other hand under her legs, dragged her limp body onto my lap, like you would hold a baby to rock her. I began to talk to Claire, I began to call to her, to try and raise some response, some sign that she would wake.

First the rhythm of her breathing changed, then I could see her eyes under their lids, moving, searching. She opened them one after the other, focusing on nothing. I spoke to her: I whispered that I was here to take care of her, that I was glad that she was awake and that everything would be alright. I remember bringing her over to the tiny window from where we could see over the apple trees, across the fields and down to the ocean. We could also see Jacob, leading his band through the trees with piercing battle cries that left me feeling cold. I told Claire that it was a beautiful place. She didn’t see any of it but sat limply on my lap.

I stood up and gently pulled at her arms, to see if she would walk. She made her way blindly across the room, holding onto my fingers as a young toddler would. I got a fresh diaper from the package that mom had left in the corner, and changed the dirty one. We made our way downstairs, dirty diaper in hand, looking for a garbage can and somewhere to wash my hands. Every aspect of living seemed a challenge in this place, so difficult to accomplish.

At first, I heard it as a low rumble in the distance, then I realized that I was hearing the sound of a truck coming up the lane and pulling into the yard. With the pounding of the diesel engine and the creaking of door hinges, my world suddenly came back into focus and my dream spell was broken. I scooped Claire into my arms and went to the screen door to see who was arriving.

Watching mom as she jumped down from the back of the pickup truck was like being sucked into a whirlwind of sight and colour and sound: in her long flowing skirt and shawl, she danced around with delight when she saw us coming down the steps. She threw her head back and twirled like a top, her hair and beads and her outstretched arms inviting us into her dance, yet keeping us away with their wild projection. We all fell on the grass, with mom laughing and reaching out to wrap her arms around us as we landed beside her on the ground.

“Oh, my angels come to meet me. How are you, my babes?” she sang into our hair, laughing all the while.

That was my introduction to the farm where my mother’s new "family" lived. I was not quite twelve years old. That scene of the three of us on the ground in a warm embrace of frenzied laughter and sunshine is mostly a pleasant memory, if somewhat painful in the unwarranted hope that it gave me. I’ve come across that memory now and then over the years and despite everything, it’s always brought me a smile.

Thanks for listening to me, Jean.
Starla

Copyright 2003

JOURNAL, Wednesday, Feb. 14th

2007-11-08T07:12:00.001-05:00

You can be happy if you let yourself be.
(“Happiness Runs”, Donovan Leitch)

“I am a happy and confident person, and I love to work with children”

Jean has had me working with “affirmations”: positive statements that you repeat to yourself whenever you think of it, and whenever you need a shot of positive energy. She says that they’re powerful tools in bringing about a change in attitude.

Since the incident with Nat, I find that I need all the positive energy I can get.

I’m surprised how much that episode effected me – how revealing it was in showing me different aspects of what’s going on inside me. I realized that I have a need to protect, and a desperate desire to see children in a pure light. I want to safeguard that which is positive about each kid that I care about. And much to my frustration and surprise, Nat became one of those kids right in the middle of my tirade.

The principal came to talk to me about what happened that day. I was embarrassed, mainly because I didn’t know how to explain to him what Nat had done. Neither did I know how to defend my reaction.

I don’t handle criticism well – I guess I never got used to it. When I was at school, the kids were either mean or dismissive – both reactions hurt equally. Bill never criticized; he always thought that everything I did was fine. Sometimes I wish we had fought more, like in other parent/child relationships. I wish he had thought more about the things that I was doing, enough to be bothered fighting about them. Mom’s criticism, when it came, was seldom grounded in the reality of a situation. She would scream that I was too stupid to remember to lock the door to the apartment, when I could clearly see that the bolt was turned to the horizontal locked position.

The only criticism that I trust or listen to is my own. I’ve worked so hard to do things well, to keep peace and please people, precisely so I can avoid having to deal with negative comments coming from outside. And now in the wake of this business with Nat, I feel angry and confused and embarrassed. So I return to my affirmation in the blind belief that it will make me feel better.

“ I am a happy and confident person, and I love to work with children.”

It doesn’t so much matter that you believe what you’re saying with affirmations; you just have to say it as if you believe it, and surprisingly, it often works. It’s quite remarkable.

Today is Valentine’s Day and as I write this, I’m looking at the roses that Danny brought me: strong stemmed, rich in colour and texture. They make me want to reach out and fondle them, believing that they could withstand my needy fingers. Their beauty is a positive in my life.

I need to identify other positives: Danny, Pussywillow, my apartment, the kids. Dreaming about the leaves coming back to the trees, walking along the lakeshore, drinking tea in the morning, wearing a fleecy jacket, decadent brownies. Thinking of these things brings me peace.

I spent some time at the Valentine’s dance after school today. The music was loud and retro: I recognized almost every second song as being a remake of music from another era. The new version of “Grease” was a remake of one that had been retro in its first appearance, decades ago.

As I stood by the gym door taking my turn at supervision, I scanned the crowd looking for examples of goodness that might help me reinforce the positive perspective I’m working towards. “Awkward” is the prevalent adjective at any pre-teen dance. Shyness, expectation, hesitation make for anxious and uncomfortable pauses between periods of frenzied activity for many kids. It’s hard to find anything of the sweet and pure in the throbbing bass and the sweaty smell of nervous anticipation.

Then blossoming from a crowd of kids who’ve been clinging to the gym wall through most of the dance, I see Todd: our school’s White Knight. Todd is in grade 8, he’s a star athlete, a good student, tall and handsome. No one has been able to convince him yet that because of all of these qualities, he could get away with being a jerk and all the kids would still love him.

Todd was one of the boys who shaved his head last month to raise money for cancer research, and he was the one who convinced two of his friends to do the same. Todd is the one who makes it cool in our school to be kind and considerate to the little ones. He was the only boy who volunteered at the beginning of the year to be a lunchroom monitor for the primary classes. He’s the one who scores the most points in all the team sports, yet is hardest to find for team pictures. And today, Todd was the one at the Valentine’s dance, animating this group of shy and awkward grade 5 kids, leading them all in “The Macarena”.

“…I love to work with children!”

Copyright 2003

JOURNAL, Thursday, Feb. 8th

2007-11-02T13:02:00.001-04:00

It snowed today – the most disruptive type of snow in the life of a school, beginning without much warning after the kids had arrived, and increasing in intensity throughout the day. Huge billowy flakes that accumulated quickly against any solid object, growing up the face of walls, fences, cars and trees, drawing everyone to the windows.

The kids long for recess when they can toss and coat themselves – and each other, defying all playground injunctions about the throwing of snowballs.

The teachers wonder how many of them arrived this morning without mitts, or snow pants, or boots. The principal wonders if he will get the call that will set the emergency phone procedure in motion notifying parents that the school is closing.

If the school had closed, I’d have had a better day . . .

Everywhere there’s an electric hum jumping like blue light from one child to the next, infusing every lesson and activity with a sense of distraction. The hallways are more alive than usual with the sounds of the most highly strung conductors of this human energy: too wound up to sit still, when those kids ask permission to go to the bathroom the teachers sigh with relief and hope that the main current of the excitement might be broken in their absence.

I have Shawn’s reading group just after morning recess. The four of them arrive: bare feet, clammy hands and cheeks streaked with red and white, defining areas of cold and colder. They jump over chairs as they come into the library, grabbing each other’s heads and rolling into the beanbag chair propped in the corner. I herd them into the office just off the library where we work while I keep watch over both rooms.

We begin our time with a quiet thinking exercise – a particular challenge today – but it helps them focus. I work on phonics with Trevor and Jason while Shawn and Peter file through their picture-word flash cards. They’re a nice group; they make me smile. They tell me how they see the world and I’m amazed at how different we are. They have a lot of courage and determination that they’re willing to put out for such a small portion of success and encouragement in return. I’m proud of my little boys because I know the cost of each new word on their reading list.

The grade 4 class is booked into the library after recess to do some research; they’re a difficult bunch. It’s remarkable how the chemistry of personalities within a group can make all the difference in the world – this group has its toxic elements. To make matters worse they have a supply teacher with them today. Their own teacher is away again. The stress of being with this particular class seems to be enough to play havoc with her immune system – she’s had every cold and flu that has made the rounds of the school so far.

The class rushes into the library. The more aggressive kids careen through the doorway, rushing to lay claim to the choicest tables (in the back corner, of course). The supply teacher attends to one who has hit his head against the doorframe as the others rushed past him.

The poisonous element in this class seems to come from a small group of girls, tarted up like sleazy, pre-pubescent rock stars, who hold the power of friendship and acceptance in their fickle and collective gaze. The obvious leader of the pack is Nathalie or “Nat” (a name which suits her well, calling to mind an irritating and carnivorous insect). Nat has the hardest eyes I’ve ever seen in a child: dark and angry, rimmed with streaked mascara beneath her dyed blond hair and its brown roots. Nat has been padding her training bra for years now.

I try to concentrate on my group and trust the teacher to keep some element of control in the library. It doesn’t work – I know this when I hear the rustle of the pages of a book, flying over two tables as it’s being “passed” from one group to another.

I leave my boys alone in their room and walk to the front of the library class to take up my post. The din settles somewhat as they notice my glare. I tell the class in a firm low voice that they’ve lost their library period and are to pack their belongings and line up, single file, along the wall.

A murmuring cloud of disgruntled comments hovers over the room as they make their way to the door. It’s a tenuous control I have over them – I plan to walk them back to their classroom where we’ll discuss the elements of the school’s code of conduct that they’ve breached and the consequences.

Before I have a chance to leave the room, I hear an odd sound from the office at the back of the library. I look over to see Nat’s gang huddled in a semi circle, ripe with excitement and anticipation. I see Nat, standing before the glass wall of the office, looking in at my little boys, seductively pulling the front of her sweater down from her nonexistent cleavage and rubbing her other hand over a thigh, blowing kisses and licking her lips in the direction of Shawn and the others. What I had heard was the sound of Shawn’s pencil case hitting the reinforced glass and falling to the ground with a dull-crisp shattering sound as it spilled its contents on the floor. He had hurled it in some sort of attempt to protect himself and his friends from her luring insults.

With a flick of her gelled and sprayed hairdo, Nat lets out a shrill laugh and shoots back at the boys: “You’re nothing but a bunch of pussy-assed retards, anyway.”

As I sit here tonight listening to Danny’s gentle humming coming from the bedroom, looking into the pristine beauty of the snow still falling in the light of the street lamps, writing about this incident in some attempt to purge myself of its stomach churning effect on me, I’m struck by the contrasts of purity and filth, of innocence and violation.

I lost it with Nat. I’m sure the headache that I’d had all day didn’t help matters but, throbbing temples notwithstanding, I couldn’t pass off what I’d witnessed as being just a bratty exhibition. I quietly asked the supply teacher to take her class back to their room while I kept Nat with me. I sent my boys back to their teachers and watched them scurry down the hall, recognizing the deliberate calmness in my voice as being that calm which comes before a storm. When everyone had left the library I closed the glass door with precise movements. I turned to Nat and was stunned by what I saw: her cool look of relaxed indifference, almost defiance, triggered a fury in me that was visceral, spontaneous, and very likely inappropriate.

As I lashed out at this nine-year old symbol of everything that is degrading and degraded, I was overwhelmed by a need to protect those little boys, to keep them from being sullied by exposure to her filth.

Then a sudden insight came crashing and intruded on my rage, deflating its power and leaving me feeling like the fool I was: it occurred to me that Nat is only nine years old. She’s a child. What is there in her story that would make her use her embryonic sexuality as a weapon to bully the vulnerable ones around her?

It also occurred to me that if Nat were having trouble in school, if she couldn’t read or couldn’t handle the math problems, she’d be one of my kids, one of the ones who need me.

But in her case, it’s a distorted sense of sexuality – brought on by who knows what personal or family history – that is her disability; and they don’t offer remediation for that in our school system.

Copyright 2003

JOURNAL, Wednesday, Feb. 6th

2007-10-24T20:10:00.001-04:00

I’m so tired these days. Holding myself up and making my fingers move over the computer keys to write these few thoughts at the end of the day seems to require every bit of energy that I have left. Yet it doesn’t feel like the kind of exhaustion that comes physical exertion. My body seems ready to collapse because my brain is too weary.

I’d never have anticipated that writing would be so consuming. Yesterday morning I was up early finishing this latest letter to Claire so that I could bring it to my appointment with Jean. When I had finally finished and had clicked on the “print” button of the computer screen, I went to the bathroom to wash my face and wipe my mouth, to clean myself as I would after vomiting. I came back to the computer and sat there, still and drained, watching the pages spewing from the printer – clean, orderly, yet containing the detritus of memories that have festered for years under a scab of defiant nonchalance.

I’ve heard it said that the Chinese believe that in order to conquer a beast you must first make it beautiful. It’s such a bizarre thought that I’ve never forgotten it; but until recently, neither have I understood it. My beast is my childhood and its memories. I make them “beautiful” by choosing the appropriate words, the most accurate descriptors and committing them to paper.

On the surface I realize that we could have looked like any other woman traveling with her friend and her children. Who would have cared, or even noticed us? But it was important that I write the episodes of our trip across the country with as much emotional accuracy as possible. I remember things not so much as they were, but as I perceived them.

I remember the secrecy of that trip – parking away from the road, keeping to ourselves, never eating in restaurants, never going into stores together, Ariel walking onto the ferry as a passenger, and hiding Claire in the back seat as we boarded. In each of these instances the precautions that were taken tell me that mom was worried about someone following us. I wonder who?

It was through those hours and days in the back of Ariel’s old car that secrecy and uncertainty became bound forever with fear and shame in my life. I live daily with the fear; I’ve learned to accept it. But sometimes the whole concept of my shame overwhelms me. I look at those times and at who I was, and I feel an embarrassment that makes me want to hide. It shames me to think of my lack of courage, of how I should have stood up to them, how I should have screamed all the way across the country. But I allowed us to be led, like lambs. I should have had the strength.

When the little girl in me begins to think of these things, I try to tell her that she did her best; that she was facing a formidable force in these two women who had planned this trip for so long, and who had each other for support. I tell her that it would have taken all the strength she had just to survive.

Sometimes she believes me for a while.

Copyright 2003

Dear Claire;

2007-10-22T15:45:00.001-04:00

I’ve been cut by the beauty of jagged mountains.
(“Northern Lights”, Bruce Cockburn)

The time sequence of my memory is strange. I remember the day that mom and Ariel came to Sophie’s as if it were in real time: I can describe every movement, recall every word, reconnect with every feeling more clearly today than I could when it happened. Yet the trip with them back to British Columbia comes to me in shattered fragments, like scenes from a Bergman movie I studied years later. Some scenes are stark and vivid, the attention focused on the characters and dialogue; other scenes are more surreal, highlighting details: sights, sounds, feelings. All the scenes are in black and white.

Scene I
Setting: A highway where the edges of farm fields are invaded by mini marts and truck stops. Late afternoon.

In the front seat of the old car, the friend looks out the window as she drives. She takes her hand from the wheel and playfully backhands the shoulder of the mother sitting beside her. “Hey,” she says. No response. She tries again: “Hey, guess what?”

“What?” the mother answers, dozing as the sunshine caresses the right side of her face.

“Hey,” the friend says, pausing one more time to taste the wonder of her thought. “We did it, didn’t we?” she says. A triumphant grin.

The mother opens her eyes, lifts herself from her semi prone position and looks at the friend. “My God, you’re right,” she says, nodding at the realization. A smile melts over the mother’s sun-freckled face. “We sure as hell did,” she hoots. They give each other a high-five salute in front of the rear view mirror.

The mother allows the reality of their situation to sink in for a few seconds then turns to the open window beside her. Triumphant, she lunges through the opening of the window almost to the waist, arms outstretched as if to embrace the fields and mailboxes as they fly by. “We bloody well did it!” she whoops, calling to the cows, her mouth wide open to the wind. She turns her body around to the front, to the direction in which they are headed and allows the wind to wash over her as the car flies down the highway. The friend, watching the road through eyes filled with tears of laughter, pulls at her through the window across the seat: ”Get back in here, you nut.” The mother lets herself fall back laughing into the car; she rolls a victory joint and hugs the friend across the seat. They laugh and sing a song about Jeremiah being a bullfrog.

In the back seat the girl rests her head on the baby seat where her little sister sits motionless beside her. She too lets the reality of their situation settle over her and she wonders.

The girl closes her eyes and lifts her fingers, delicately, to touch the memories of the life that is being taken from them. Those memories form like long, slow drops of water on the tip of a branch, building, stretching, then letting go to give way to another memory of yet another aspect of the life that she leaves behind.

She makes an effort not to think of everything all at once. She lines up every detail, every hope, every person who has come into her life, and considers them one by one – like the beads on a rosary – and cherishes them in turn: the feel of her books and toys, the smell of Sophie’s couch, the promise of camp, the wonder of swimming lessons, they all disappear like so many bubbles, popping with the touch of her finger. Sophie, Molly, new friends at school, Boots – they parade before her. She says good-bye.

Scene II
Setting: The parking lot of a general store in a northern Ontario town. Dusk.

They park the car around the side of the store, out of sight. The two women go in to get something for them to eat. The girl is sore and tired and wants to stretch her legs. She gets out of the car, walks past the phone booth and out to the road to see if she can tell which town they’re in. Along the road she sees another girl about her own age, she’s riding a bike – exactly like bike that Bill had given her for Christmas.

The sky falls in. She cries out. The sharp pain of recognition and separation cuts through her: her bike is against the wall in Sophie’s garage, and she’s being torn away – torn apart.

Her body begins to heave with the panic. She can’t breathe. There’s a choking sense of terror clutching at her throat, her heart, her lungs. She feels like a mountain climber desperately grasping at anything to freeze the fall. She lowers herself down on the curb beside a pop machine. Gasping, her body floods with a cold, clammy film that covers her skin. Her ears are pounding.

She clasps her arms in a death grip around her legs folded against her chest, her closed eyes pressed tightly against her knees: she’s trying to hang on. She feels like every good thing that she’s ever known has been blown away from her, like the images of Dorothy’s life, blown by the twister in the Wizard of Oz. She can’t bear the thought of losing anything else so she holds on to herself – she holds on for dear life.

As she rocks herself, moaning to drown out the waves rushing in her head, she’s suddenly overcome by such a strange image of her little sister and what it means to be Claire. She realizes how good it must be to be far away from the rest of the world, as Claire is, where nothing comes in that is not let in.

Then, as if an angel of mercy has come to release me from whatever it is that binds me to the little girl’s terror, I’m torn from the moment, from the panic. I’m removed. It reminds me of what people describe in a near death or out of body experience. I’m now standing away from the scene of the trembling little girl, watching her. I feel none of her wretchedness but I’m sad that I have no way to comfort her.

I see mom and Ariel come out of the store and notice that you, Claire, are sitting in the car by yourself. I see them quickly look around the parking lot for Starla; when they notice her over behind the Coke machine, crouched and rocking on the ground, mom scrambles to put down the bags that she’s carrying. She runs to Starla.

Ariel opens the trunk and deposits the packages then hurries over. Mom is patting Starla’s back, desperate to console her, to keep her quiet and normal. Starla rocks harder, harder, like the handle of a pump: priming and gathering the strength to bring out the poison from inside. Mom calls Starla’s name again; Ariel tears her away from the girl, telling her in an angry whisper to keep things quiet, reminding her not to call Starla by name – someone might hear.

Starla rocks. Starla hangs on. She peeks over her knees at her jelly shoes then quickly clamps her eyes to shut out the world of sharp stones at her feet. She tries to close it all out, to run deeper, deeper inside herself towards the place where she knows Claire is waiting for her. She must force herself to run to that place where no one can touch her, where nothing enters that she doesn’t allow in. She must be like Claire. She can see that place now; she’s nearly there.

Suddenly a band of fire seers her cheek, tears spring from the pump that was propelling her. It has betrayed her; it has ripped her from her path and has sent her back to the reality of gravel at her feet, and has left her holding the cheek where Ariel has slapped her.

Mom guides Starla to the car and helps her into the back seat. Ariel looks around the parking lot to assess any damage control that may be required. She sees an old man packing his groceries into the trunk of his car and watching the scene. Ariel smiles to him and indicates Starla with her head: “Car sickness,” she chuckles confidentially to the man. “The joys of traveling with kids, eh?” Ariel shrugs and waves to him as she gets into the car. The man stands immobile, his last bag of groceries in his arms, his gaze follows them as they drive out of the parking lot and down the highway.

Scene III
Setting: A grey prairie morning.

Starla looks into the small Dixie cup of Cheerios that she has been feeding you, one at a time, depositing them individually on your tongue, like communion wafers, until they melt and are absorbed into you. The swirls of waxed colour on the cup seem as lifeless and grey as the morning drizzle that shoots diagonal streaks along the window beside her.

The radio delivers a bland mixture of country music and farm reports that sound foreign in their meaninglessness. If a hog price falls on the prairie and no one cares to listen to it, does it make a sound?

She stares at the back of the seat in front of her, gazing at the constellations of holes where the vinyl has flaked away from the black fabric backing, creating a sort of negative sky of black stars on a golden background. A group of holes come together to create what looks to Starla like a black poodle. She calls him Fred because it rhymes with dead.

The smell of the joint, its smoke snaking seductively between the two women in the front seat, seeps into her awareness now and is accompanied by laughing, singing and caressing. Starla remembers a time when marijuana had no more significance in her life than the sweet smell of incense or scented candles. But her mother was well then and few demons had yet come to stay with them. The more her mother sank into her madness, the more marijuana invaded Starla’s world. Now she registers the smell of grass with resentment and the profound disappointment that comes when the bully returns to the playground after a prolonged absence. Starla opens the window a crack and doesn’t feel the drops of rain that flick her face.

She senses a dull pressure in her thigh and backside that reminds her of what she used to call pain. She changes her position only to let the sensation flow into the other hip.

Her stomach rumbles with something that she used to call hunger and thirst. She takes another pinch of Cheerios between her forefinger and thumb, drops a few into her mouth then saves the last one for you. She takes a drink from the sipping cup then reaches over to put it to your lips, holding a napkin under your chin to catch the dribbles that escape from the corners of your mouth.

She feels the stickiness of her fingers, the mat of her uncombed hair, the itch from her unchanged clothes and smells your dirty diaper with what would have been indignation, although she wouldn’t have known to call it so. Starla sits and no longer cares to wonder.

Scene IV
Setting: The city at rush hour.

It’s no longer easy for Starla to block out all of the stimuli that are prodding her senses. The greatest traitor in her commitment to isolation is her curiosity. She wants to see the city.

She wants to see the cowboys: she remembers seeing a poster of the Stampede in the library, and she’d like to see the cowboys.

She wants to see the dinosaurs: she remembers that they discovered dinosaur bones near here and she heard that there was a museum or something. She’d like to see the dinosaurs.

She looks out the window and sees nothing different at all that is worthy of the days they’ve spent on the road. It looks just like any other city: lanes of cars lined up on the highway, heading into town, across town, out of town.

She cranes her neck to see over the rails along the overpass into the neighbourhoods. Nothing western, nothing different. Her disappointment is added to the mound of betrayals that she’s accumulated over the last few days.

She sees the golden arches of a McDonald’s in the distance. A tiny flicker of pain lights in her longing, in her memories. It’s almost a welcome sensation: it gives warmth to her sadness. Her eyes are fixed on the sign as the car approaches the exit. In her mind she sees the window of the restaurant as they drive by, imagining the happy families eating their Happy Meals. She turns in her seat to watch the golden M grow smaller and fainter in the distance. The flicker is extinguished. She rests her head against your seat and tries to sleep.

Scene V
Setting: On a mountain roadside in the darkness of night.

The rhythm of the car changes; it slows down and the sound of gravel under the tires wakes Starla as Ariel pulls over to the side of the road.

Starla sits up, stretching her cramped spine and rolling her head on her shoulders and back, to ease the stiffness. She looks outside and sees nothing but the blackness held back by the wash of their headlights directly in front of the car. As her eyes adjust, she notices the rock face across the road and trees stretching their limbs down and out from the rock face.

There’s movement. Starla peers across the back seat, across the pavement, across the gravel on the other side of the road to where she sees a pair of big horn sheep standing just below the embankment, looking away from the car. Starla thinks that they’re posing for her. She wants the moment to freeze but of course, her wishes are of little consequence: Ariel opens the car door to go around to the passenger’s side. The sheep bolt.

Starla continues to look at the spot where they were, willing them back, embarrassed this human intrusion has caused the animals to fear.

Scene VI
Setting: Dawn in the mountains.

I remember opening my eyes that morning to a wall of uncontrasted greyness: sky, rock, road, field, mist, all different values of grey melting one into the other in the early hours. I sat up and leaned against the front seat. I said that I had to go to the bathroom and that I wanted pancakes for breakfast.

Mom was driving; she jerked the wheel in surprise when she heard my voice. I realized that it was the first time I had spoken throughout the trip. Mom looked relieved.

She pulled over on to the gravel and I got out. I walked a little way off the side of the road, toilet paper in hand, and squatted, turning my back to the car. The mist rising from the field covered the grass at my feet; I could imagine that I was sitting on a cloud that had lowered itself to earth just for me.

The light was coming up a bit more and the outlines of the mountains were visible now all around me. I felt tiny, in the hand of an infinite giant, majestic yet gentle in the dawn light. I felt as if the mountains were gathering around me, welcoming me back: I was soothed. I didn’t want to get up, I didn’t want this time to end so I stayed on my misty cloud in the grass long after I had finished peeing, just to be there, still and awakening to the dawn. I watched slow, arching bands of colour form long before the sun could be seen over the mountains. I listened to the moist songs of birds, like sopranos singing above the chorus of the waking world.

Scene VII
Setting: A playground in Hope, British Columbia. Late afternoon.

I remember sitting on the grass with my back up against the trunk of a tree. You were sitting between my legs, Claire, and I was running my fingers through your matted hair, smoothing my thoughts into some kind of order.

I looked across the playground to the soccer field where mom and Ariel were throwing a Frisbee, and I wondered what it meant that this trip that had seemed so driven by a need to arrive somewhere, had so suddenly come to a halt without really being over. I tried to make sense of the conversation that they had had in the front seat, discussing ferry schedules and darkness.

I could smell the cedar that had fallen on the ground where we sat – what are they called, the bits that fall from cedar trees, not leaves, not needles, what? It reminded me of when we first arrived in Ontario and I was sure that the air smelled different. This was the smell that I remembered from the west, the smell of cedar and moist air that had wrapped itself around me for most of my life. The quality of the breeze was gentle yet touched by a need for watchfulness. I wrapped my arms around your shoulders and chest like a shawl. The warmth of your body, your weight against me as you leaned back on my chest, the almost imperceptible rhythm of your breathing that drew me in, these things kept me focused. I could always think better when I was holding you.

It occurred to me that we should clean ourselves up. I knew that because we were back in B.C. we had to be arriving in Vancouver before long, and we hadn’t had the chance to wash properly since we left Toronto. I pushed you up and away from me so that I could move. You were so lifeless, barely holding yourself up; I had to support you as I stood or I think you would have simply fallen over. I took your hands and pulled you to me. I wasn’t sure if I would have to carry you, but you walked, blindly following where I was leading you.

We went into the change house of the park’s pool. There were showers but it seemed too complicated to figure out how we could make use of them: we had no towels, no soap and no bathing suits. I sat you on the vanity counter beside the sink and used moistened toilet paper to wipe away some of the stickiness that had built up on your face. The rough brown paper toweling felt like a dull blade on my cheek as I wiped my own face. I remember standing in front of the mirror for a long time, holding your face next to mine, trying to find in the image before us some clue as to how we had come to be here, alone, feeling too weary to be worried, yet thinking that it would somehow be appropriate.

When we got back to the park mom and Ariel were heading toward the car. I remember watching them as they crossed the parking lot: they were so wrapped up in each other that for a moment I had the slightest feeling – was it a hope or a fear? – that they were going to leave without us. Then mom turned to me (they must have seen us going to the change house) and waved us to her. Her cheeks were flushed and her hair was sticking out from her kerchief. Her happiness made me feel tired.

When we got in the car and were on our way, I wanted to believe that this was the last leg of our journey. “What time will we be in Vancouver?” I asked.

“It’ll be quite late.” Mom answered. “Just in time to get the last ferry over to the island.”

I don’t know exactly at what point I realized that we wouldn’t be seeing Bill. I might have guessed from mom’s glare, when Sophie had assured us that she would let him know that we were coming. It may have been a growing awareness that took form during the hours of easy and playful intimacy acted out before me in the front seat of the car. But I refused to acknowledge the truth of yet another loss until I made her say it. “Is Bill coming with us? Will we pick him up on our way to the ferry?” I finally asked, forcing the answer that I knew was coming.

“No,” she said as we got back on the highway.

Scene VIII
Setting: A Husky service center in Vancouver. Late.

We pulled into the gas station and the flood of lights in the night hurt my eyes. Mom took you from your car seat, covering you with Molly’s blanket as if you were asleep, she went off to the restroom. I went to go too but mom called back for me to wait in the car, saying that I could go to the bathroom when she got back.

When the gas tank was filled and the clerk was paid, Ariel moved the car around to the back of the station. She came into the back seat and removed your safety seat, placing it in the trunk. She brought a pillow with her and lay it on the floor behind the driver’s seat. When mom came back with you, she put you on the pillow on the floor and covered you with the blanket. I took note of all these things without understanding what I was seeing, like a scientist making observations, unable yet to analyze their meaning. I remember I wanted to ask why mom was putting you on the floor, but I think I was afraid of having to work to understand the answer.

She looked up at me just before backing out of the car and commented simply that they didn’t want to pay your fare onto the ferry. She told me to make sure that you stayed covered up until we were on board.

One thing that struck me as particularly odd is that although you had seemed so far away from us during the whole trip, you seldom slept. Whenever I looked at you your eyes were half opened, letting nothing in, nothing out. Yet when mom laid you on the pillow in the back seat the sound of your deep, slow breathing told me that you were sleeping now.

We drove to the terminal and parked in the grid of cars waiting for the next ferry. When we were in position, Ariel got out and took her bag from the trunk. She came around to the passenger’s side to give mom’s arm a meaningful pat as it rested on the open window frame. Mom watched her walk away for a few minutes until Ariel was lost behind the line of transport trucks.

“Where’s Ariel going?” I asked. I wanted the secrecy to stop. I wanted her to explain what was happening.

“She’ll meet us in Nanaimo,” mom said. “She’ll be alright.” I had no doubt that Ariel would be alright. I was hoping that she was gone.

Mom slid over to the driver’s side and turned to me, patting the seat beside her. “Come on, Starla,” she said. “You sit up here with me. I opened the door and got into the passenger’s seat, still warm from her body heat. We sat there together, watching the cars coming off the docked ferry. Mom told me about her community of new friends on Saltspring Island where we would be living. She said that they had a wonderful farm with lots of animals and children to play with. I asked when we would get to see Bill. She looked out the windshield, straight, unwavering; she went on describing the community, saying that they were to be our new family, and how we would all be so happy there. She never answered my question.

She was very gentle when she spoke to me that night. I could almost remember the way she was when I was little and she would rock me – or maybe I was remembering how she would rock you. She turned and held out her arms to me; I moved into their embrace. I hugged mom, though I no longer saw her as the parent I had longed for. In our vulnerability I saw her as someone with whom I had to form an alliance for you and me to survive. It was need that brought me into her arms; as newborns are instinctively drawn to the source of their nourishment, I was drawn to her as our source of shelter, warmth, food.

I understood that the one constant that meant anything to me was still intact: you and I were together. I knew that so long as I could take care of you and be with you, then we could live anywhere.

How I wish that I could have cared better for you, Claire.
Forgive me.
Starla

Copyright 2003

JOURNAL, Sunday, Feb. 3rd

2007-10-17T15:54:00.001-04:00

The sun poured down like butterscotch
And stuck to all my senses.
(“Chelsea morning” Joni Mitchell)

Last night, Danny and I were at a rescheduled Christmas staff party. John, the principal at school, has a beautiful home on a lake just outside of town. What a wonderful place to retire to at the end of the day, or the end of a career.

On the way home Danny pulled over to the side of the road and stopped the car. There was nothing but the stillness of the snow-covered field around us with a small winter moon and a sky full of stars above. Danny got out of the car and came around to my door to open it; I followed, not sure what he was up to. He took my hand and we walked around to the back of the car. He pulled me to him, my back against his chest, his mouth beside my ear so he could whisper how much he loves me. He wrapped his arms around me over my folded arms, our hands clasped together for warmth and connection.

Together, we looked at the stars, and for the second time in recent history I was reminded of Bill’s story of the origin of my name. But this time, wrapped as I was in Danny’s warmth, I could hear the story in its simple purity and innocence, without the anger or the embarrassment of a little kid being told more than she wants to know, being made the keeper of adult intimate moments.

For the first time I could see two young lovers, infatuated, in love, in lust, “doing it” in the magical warmth of an evening in the early fall, with the crickets and cicadas to provide the music and the few newly fallen leaves for their mattress and incense. Safe in Danny’s arms, I could smile at their happiness.

I sighed, relaxing back against him and he asked me what I was thinking. I smiled but said it was nothing; I didn’t want him getting any ideas until we were warm and cozy, back in the apartment.

All my senses are enjoying a heightened newness that might have made me uncomfortable before but amuses me now. Here’s an example of what I mean. When Danny moved in, he brought with him a half empty bottle of green dishwashing liquid whose smell transported me back – how many years – to the galvanized washtub full of dishes in the outdoor kitchens where mom worked during the festivals when I was a kid. I remember I would sit beside the tub and look at the swirl of emerald green poured over the ruts of metal in the bottom of the tub, and watch it miraculously melt and be transformed into a layer of bubbles when someone added the big pots of heated water for washing dishes. I would watch as the water was poured, and feel the warmth of the spray as the stream hit the empty bottom and bounced up in droplets that sometimes landed on my face. What a nice memory and how new and unusual that such a memory would come back to warm me on a cold January morning, coaxed from where it’s been hiding for so many years by the fresh, clean smell of Danny’s dish soap.

I see many things differently now. I don’t know if Danny is the cause of it, but I’m glad he’s here to be part of it with me. Here’s another example: I would have considered myself a conservative dresser, a wearer of subdued colours – navy, black, charcoal, usually contrasted with white. But when I went looking for something to wear to the party last night, I had to laugh at what my closet revealed. It’s as if someone else had been out shopping for me and had left the hot pink skirt and the floral print, rayon tops for me to discover. When I bought these things over the past few months, I bought them because I liked them, not necessarily because I would wear them. But this new sense of awareness has made me appreciate how much I like having more colour, texture and spontaneity in my life. I wore the pink.

On Friday, we went out for dinner and Danny choose for me from the menu. It was a Greek restaurant and I’m not familiar with what they serve. Normally I would have ordered something safe, like a salad and left it at that but I wanted to try something new. So I gave Danny permission to order for me – after I reminded him three times of what types of food I like and dislike. (I can’t completely abandon myself to his judgment just yet.) I’m glad I did it – it was delicious: layers of potatoes, meat, cheese and tomatoes. It felt like comfort food.

Laundry is yet another adventure into this new sphere of awareness. Last night we were going to go to the Laundromat together but Danny had to work late. I decided to go alone rather than wait for him; it was the first time I’d done laundry for the two of us. I’m sure I’d seen every piece of clothing that Danny owns, but doing laundry is different: the ritual of turning out pockets, of examining labels that had always been hidden before, of folding out wrinkles from the soft brushed cotton gives one a new sense of intimacy and knowledge.

And Danny’s music! It’s funny how a person’s taste in music can go pretty much unnoticed until you share your sound system with them. Since Danny moved in, I’ve been exposed more thoroughly to music that I’d previously only heard in passing. Dixieland Jazz, and Tom Waits spring to mind as examples of directions in which my tastes are being stretched, and generally speaking, I like it.

I really don’t know how much of this new joy and colour in my life came with Danny when he moved in, or is it more a result of the work that I’ve been doing with the writing, or maybe it’s just longing for spring that has opened up so many new doors for me. I guess, as in most things, it’s probably a combination of circumstances that bring about growth and change, but I’m glad that it’s happened. I wonder if anyone else notices a change in me.

Copyright 2003

JOURNAL, Friday, Jan. 25th

2007-10-13T07:59:00.001-04:00

Troubled child,
Breaking like the waves at Malibu.

(“Troubled Child”, Joni Mitchell)

Today, I met with Akeem’s mother.

I’ve known Akeem for over a year. Sandra referred his family to me because she thought that I might be able to help them in some way, through the research work that I’ve been doing with other kids.

Akeem’s father is a professor of Biochemistry and his mother has a Master’s Degree in Anthropology. They’re devout Palestinian Christians who’ve embraced their new country and still cherish all the hopes they had for their son when they first came here. Akeem is a bright fifteen year old who can’t / won’t read.

His parents told me his story the first time we met. When he was five years old, Akeem was standing on the sidewalk of a busy city street in their country, holding his grandmother’s hand as they waited for his mother to come out of a shop. Impatient and curious, he wriggled from her grasp and ran ahead to the street vendor that he could see about a block away. His mother, who had witnessed his escape through the shop window stepped onto the sidewalk and saw Akeem turn to make eye contact with his grandmother, so confident was he that she would be right behind him. But what he saw as he looked through the turbulent maze of pedestrians, was his grandmother’s body being tossed into the street by the force of an exploding car bomb. They found Akeem hours later, wandering the streets of the city, clutching a string of beads he had taken from the vendor’s stall.

His parents’ strong belief in the importance and power of training the mind to overcome adversity, lead them to enroll him in a Pensionat where they hoped the Jesuits could transform his broken spirit into a precision tool that would help him excise the pain he lived with. He was taught French, English, Arabic, Mathematics and Science and learned nothing of any of them. Yet at an age when most kids are still being shown how to tie their shoes, Akeem was able to lay out intricate plans of escape from his school, and survival on the streets.

Over the years, Akeem seems to have built upon the wall of pain that life put before him, reinforcing it, assuring at all cost that it remains unbreachable. He uses this wall to separate himself from symbols: he has locked out letters, words, numbers, equations and can’t, or won’t, allow them to associate with their meaning. It’s as if by recognizing a connection and ascribing meaning to these abstracts, Akeem feels that he would be forced to give meaning to all the senseless and abstract events that have happened to him in his life. His therapist has explained to his parents that by maintaining an undying belief in chaos, Akeem also believes that he’ll never be responsible for meaning and order.

Akeem’s mother brought me something extraordinary today: a small pocket recorder that she took from her purse and placed, almost reverently, on the table between us.

“I have brought this to you so that you might better know and understand my son,” she said, pausing to remove a tissue from her purse. She pressed the play button and the mechanical hiss gave way to the first notes from the right hand of a piano piece I’d never heard before. The music grew, layer upon layer of sound pouring from the tiny two-inch speaker that still couldn’t muffle the beauty of the dynamics. These weren’t notes played on a piano, but music flowing from a soul through the fingers of a young man whose terror is masked by bravado and defiant indifference.

When the piece was over, Akeem’s mother took the recorder and replaced it in her bag. She wiped her nose with the tissue and looked at me with the dignity of a proud but defeated gambler, playing one of her last cards: “That also is my son,” she said.

I was speechless. Everything I’d come to know and believe about Akeem seemed to fall apart, like the pieces of an intricate puzzle that now must be rearranged to make room for another piece.

“But how? How was he able to learn this music? How can he read the notes?” I stammered.

“He hears the music and his fingers follow what he hears. He is gifted, but bound,” she said slowly shaking her head, perhaps in shame that such a gift still seemed so worthless because it didn’t involve cognitive learning.

We sat quietly for a few moments, the last notes of the music fading in our ears. I thanked her for sharing Akeem’s gift with me.

JOURNAL, Thursday, Jan. 24th

2007-10-09T18:49:00.002-04:00

I could stand in this tunnel,
Waiting for the roaring train.
(“Incandescent Blue”, Bruce Cockburn)

Well, here I sit bundled up with blankets and the cat on the new couch, in the middle of the afternoon, bored with daytime T.V. and feeling like my throat is on fire.

Generally I have no patience with being sick. I find it a waste of time and I’m always anxious to get back to the work I have to do. But this time is different. There are so many new things entering my life that I have to juggle; I was feeling that I didn’t have the energy to deal with all of them at once. I’m actually glad to have this little break to let my life just settle around me a bit, to deal with those nagging little fears that I still have about Danny moving in this weekend, and to gather some strength to continue with my letters to Claire and with the next phase of my life that they will represent.

I needed some time – so it appears that my body’s answer to this need is to give me a break by welcoming these bacteria that have turned my throat into a “no passage” zone.

My body and I don’t always get on very well. By necessity we share an existence but it’s not an arrangement that I’ve ever been comfortable with. I’ve come to predict with relative accuracy its responses to most situations, but I still resent the weakness that it displays in how it reacts so slowly in times of crisis, in how it insists on throwing up at times of great stress, in how it squeezes the air from my lungs and leaves me quivering and panicky in the wake of an asthma attack long after the Ventolin has opened my airways and allowed me to breathe again.

My body is a coward and a bully. I’ve noticed that when I wake up in the morning, before I’m fully conscious or before I know any better, I feel a weight just below my chest that is my body telling my brain that I’m terribly afraid. This weight sits there like a stone, pinning me down. It tries to convince me that It’s helping me, that It’s keeping me anchored to a necessary level of benign cautious panic, and that It’s alerting me to dangers that are surely lurking, waiting to do me great harm. The sneering voice from its condescending presence insists that I would have forgotten about these dangers overnight if It weren’t there to remind me.

When I wake fully I tremble, sometimes I wretch – dry, comforting spasms that help to loosen the weight. I tell myself that there’s nothing to be afraid of. I go through a long litany of possible scenarios that could justify these symptoms of panic that my body sends me. I dismantle each one, piece by piece, calculating the odds of something dreadful happening. I examine, rebut and discard each terror – only they aren’t really discarded, just filed away until the next time when I wake up with another weighty message from my body sitting on my chest.

It helps when Danny is with me in the morning; it’s like my subconscious can be distracted by pleasant sensations of warmth and closeness. In fact when Danny is near, my body and I seem to get along better; we work together to enjoy the pleasure of his presence.

I really am looking forward to this weekend when Danny moves in, before he starts work on Monday. Maybe this flu is a reminder that I need someone with me. I look forward to having someone who would bring me my hot lemon and honey drinks when I’m sick, or to warm the sheets before going to bed at night, or to draw a bath for me after a hard day at work.

Listen to me – I sound as if I’m hiring a maid instead of welcoming a lover.

Karen, at school, believes that any illness or physical accident is a manifestation of a specific message of great wisdom sent from the body to teach us. I wonder if this throat infection is my body’s way of reacting to where I’m going with my letters to Claire. I am nervous about where the story is headed. Karen would say that my body is picking up on these sensations, and that it’s frightened by the power of the words and is trying to prevent them from coming out. (If that’s the case, I wonder why I didn’t sprain my wrist so I wouldn’t be able to write?)

I sit here in the silence of this heavy winter afternoon, looking out at the fluttering snowflakes almost imperceptible against the smoky grey sky, strangely appreciative of this imposed rest and exile, listening to my body and what else it might be trying to tell me.

I’m glad that Danny will be here as I go into the next phase of my story. I don’t want to burden him with all of it but I know that it’s going to be difficult. It’s comforting to know that when I stop writing each day, I’ll have someone here besides Pussywillow to remind me that that was then – and this is now.

I’ve spent so much of my life ignoring what happened to me, that I came to believe that it really wasn’t all that important. It was an easy sell, especially when I compare my life to what some of my students have had to live with. But in writing about the day that mom and Ariel showed up at Sophie’s, in bringing that story into the real world of words and into the present, I’ve been surprised at how powerful the story is for me, and how I become such a vulnerable little girl again in its telling.

I remember when I first spoke with Jean I said that I couldn’t understand why I was suddenly relating in such a personal way to the traumatized kids that I work with. I guess I’m starting to make some sense of it now.

I’m never surprised however, when I see elements of Claire in the pain that these children display. How did we end up so different, Claire and I? Was it that I was so much older? Was it her illness and the hospital experience? Was it the hearing loss that made it more likely that Claire would be the one to disconnect from the world? I would have given my soul to change places with her; how I envied her ability to deflect the pain by removing herself to her other world.

I’ve been working with Shane at school these past few weeks. His father abandoned the family about 5 years ago and hasn’t been heard from since. Shane and his twin sister Emily were six years old at the time. Shane accepts responsibility for nothing: his poor grades, the pain he inflicts on the kids he bullies, his lack of ability to read or get along with others are all someone else’s fault. Emily, on the other hand is a bright, happy, vibrant little girl who has lots of friends and defends her brother at all times. Could gender make such a difference? What else is there in an individual’s make up that dictates how they will deal with pain?

Power and control…I’m beginning to think that these are the keys: how we perceive the power that’s exerted over us by life – and the sense of control that we can maintain through the hard times.

What real control do kids have over their lives? The best they can do is to learn to play the game so that the outcomes are to their advantage. But learning to pander to the powerful is a hard lesson and a skill that some kids never manage to acquire.

I have a feeling that it’s through our individual perception of life’s power over us that we define adversity in one of two ways: it can be either a hill to climb, or a wall that looms before us, blocking our way. Those who feel that they have some control over what’s happening around them are usually able to climb the hill, however high it may be, and get on with life. But those who see themselves as victims will view adversity as a wall that stands in their way, where they build up an arsenal of sad or vicious weapons that can stay with them , beside their wall, through the rest of their lives.

I think that Claire and I met a wall, but each in our own way we chose to ignore the wall that was put up in front of us. Claire turned away from it, blocking its presence from her view. There she sat with her back to the wall, clinging to her weapons of silence and distance, looking into her other world that lay before her.

I chose to turn when I reached my wall, not to scale it or acknowledge it but to walk beside it – trying my damnedest to build a good life on this side without having the strength to look over it, to see what I might be missing that was there on the other side.

My wall… The other day, I literally ran into the most haunting image of my wall and its power over me on a trip through the grocery store. I was running to pick up a head of lettuce, hurrying to get home as I was expecting some people for dinner. As I flew around the aisle end display of canned ravioli, heading to the produce section, focused on the lettuce, my brain already at the check out counter … I looked up and abruptly pulled back to keep from running into a woman. Her presence stopped me cold; she looked as tall as a column of ebony and she was covered, head to toe, in a black drape of woolen material that seemed to have been poured over her – like heavy tar, restricting her movements. Only her exquisite dark eyes, hauntingly vacant, showed through the oval opening in the fabric.

She stood still and lifeless, her black gloved hand resting on the shopping cart that her husband was leisurely filling. Her two beautiful little girls were playing with the bird feeders under the onion counter. The Musak kept playing over the sound system and the other shoppers glided past us.

Our eyes never met but I was mesmerized. I tried to look away but I kept stealing glances – a voyeur, a witness to a scene of unimaginable starkness. In those few moments in the wake of an averted collision in the grocery store, she embodied for me all the power and darkness that bind the jailer and the jailed, the powerful and the submissive.

I’ve no way of knowing about the tradition or life occurrences that demanded she wear this mantle that separated her from the world. I was embarrassed by my horrified and judgmental response to it, but I felt an almost visceral connection between us in our mutual submission to the power that the circumstances of life had exerted over us.

I finally recognized in myself that sense of violation that keeps a very large part of me cloaked and separate from the world.

I had a hard time with the Caesar salad that night.

Copyright 2003

Dear Claire;

2007-09-17T15:53:00.001-04:00

Bitter chains,
Forged by others’ sins,
Bind me and lead me
Where I’ve no wish to go.
(Starla Way Jamieson, March 1988)

This ridiculously warm January weather makes me think that the muses are conspiring with Mother Nature to trigger springtime memories that my mind could never access through thought alone – smells, bird sounds, greening grass between islands of snow.

Spring in Ontario smells different than it does in Vancouver. It must, why else would my memory senses skip so readily over all the springs I’ve since spent on the west coast to return to the spring that we were at Sophie’s, and to the warmth of the days I spent on her driveway, drawing hopscotch tracks, riding my bike, playing with new friends.

By springtime that year I had finally made some friends. There were three of us from Centennial Park: Julia had just arrived to our class from Calgary after the March break, Kelly had been working with me in the library since Christmas, and me. We created our own clique giving us a sense of belonging that was a new experience for each of us. We seldom spoke of it, not wanting to expose our loneliness, not even to each other.

In the face of these wonderful growing up experiences that included more independence, and in these new friendships, sometimes I would feel as if I was abandoning you. For most of our lives you and I were so linked together and now I was being called to my own writing place, my own friends, my own experiences away from you and your world. Part of me was afraid to let go of you – like letting go of the string on a helium balloon, even just for a second, I was afraid that if I ever needed to be there to care for you I wouldn’t be able catch the string again.

The warm weather of that spring had Sophie planning for the summer holidays, gathering information on day camps that I could attend. The idea of playing sports in the heat of the day didn’t appeal to me, and the “Science & Nature” camps sounded a bit too outdoorsy for my taste. Then Sophie found a camp that offered drama and art and I was in heaven at the thought of it. She tried to harness me in for the rest of the school year by telling me that we still had to confirm the summer details with Bill, but I lived on the dream of wonderful days of make up, costumes, clay and paint. Julia and Kelly started coaxing their parents to let us go to the camp together.

Sometimes I think that I’m still looking forward to going to that camp, I’m always waiting for what might be the perfect time of my life.

It was a sunny Saturday afternoon in mid June. It felt so much like summer: fresh summer of green grass and exploding flowerbeds. I was sitting on the floor of our room leaning against your bed, writing in my notebook while you slept. I loved to be with you while you napped; it gave me an excuse to be absolutely quiet. I like being quiet. Through the open window I heard a car pull up on the street and some faint voices coming through the open window as the car doors slammed. I remember that I was irritated at being drawn away from my thoughts by these outside noises.

Seconds later there was a banging at the front door. It was an odd sound. I wondered at first what it meant – it didn’t sound like someone knocking at the door, it was more like the thud of a flat hand slapping on wood: three times…four, no, five times. Why wouldn’t they use the doorbell? I realized that Sophie was in the back garden and couldn’t hear the noise. I put my notebook down and went into the hall making sure to close the bedroom door behind me. I went down the stairs to the landing and opened the front door, remembering just an instant too late, all the warnings about opening doors to strangers.

Mom and Ariel were standing on the front porch with their backs to me, looking out at the street and talking to each other. So many of the details of the next few moments have stayed with me through the years – like a brilliant flash of light on film, the shock of seeing them must have permanently etched those details into my brain. I remember mom’s long brown hair was loose, over her shoulders with a bandana worn like a headband behind her ears; I saw that her denim shirt had a small tear in the sleeve and that the long flowing skirt that she wore was the one I liked, the one that she got at the Courtney Fair the year before you were born; I saw that the peonies behind her were hanging down under the weight of their early blooms and that the pansy border was looking a bit dull in the heat of the harsh afternoon sun; I saw that Ariel had her hair cut to a short cap, fitting close to her head and that her work boots and jeans looked heavy on such a warm day.

Boots came barking from the kitchen, sensing the strangers I guess. His noise broke the frozen moment and made mom turn to see me at the open door. Her arms shot out and she embraced me with all the joy and energy that this long anticipated reunion had built up in her.

I think back and wonder if things would have turned out as they did, if she had greeted me in a different manner. If she had been shy about seeing us again, or brisk and efficient in her old manner, would I have gone through the next few hours in the same way? I don’t know. I think perhaps not, but as it was, the commitment of that hug and her absolute delight at seeing me unlatched a floodgate of longing in me that I had no way of holding back.

I was in shock and couldn’t begin to process what she was saying. She spoke into my hair as she held me to her. She was so small: her shoulders, pointy and frail through the denim and her fingers were sticklike on my face.

“Oh my Sweetie,” she said. I held onto the words and repeated them to myself, like a sacred mantra secretly given to a new disciple. – “Oh, my Sweetie. Oh, my Sweetie.” Then I heard her, above the noise of Boots’s barking, whisper in hurried and seductive tones how all would be well now, how she was here and she was better and that she would take care of us. And like a lonely teenager, starved for the words: “I love you” and willing to accept them at face value from the first boy who says them, I melted into her arms.

I heard the back door open as Sophie came in to see why Boots was barking. We could hear her calling out, telling Boots to be quiet as she crossed through the kitchen. When she saw mom she stopped dead, the trowel in her hand suspended in mid motion with bits of earth still caked to the gardening gloves that she wore.

“Sophie, Sophie,” I cried, “Mom’s here. It’s mom. Isn’t that great?” I ran up the stairs to where she had stopped, wanting to share my excitement with her. Sophie stood still for such a long time, removing her gloves one finger at a time, putting them behind her on the table in the kitchen, all the while her eyes were taking mom in. Then deliberately, as if measuring each step for some meaning, Sophie went down the few stairs to the landing where mom and Ariel were still standing.

“Oh Sarah,” Sophie said, emotion pulsing tentatively through her words. “You’re looking so much better.” Each of the sisters rested hands on shoulders, cheeks bobbing forward to touch, in the manner of the uncommitted. Ariel hovered, like a nervous bodyguard.

Sophie ushered them into the living room. There was an awkward silence for some time until Sophie said as brightly as she could: “Sarah, how long have you been on the road? Why didn’t you tell us you were coming?”

Ignoring Sophie’s questions, mom took a deep breath and straightened her spine as she delivered the words that she’d obviously been rehearsing for so long: “Sophie, I’m so grateful for everything you’ve done for the kids, but I really am well now, and I’ve come to bring them with me.”

My heart… My breath…A physical reaction, as natural and uncontrollable as the startle reflex, grew from somewhere deep inside me in a place where I longed to be loved and cherished by a mother.

I barely noticed the change in Sophie’s demeanor as I watched her face set itself into a mask of solid composure. She probably knew mom well enough to realize that pleading and screaming would have made the situation impossible. She used her armor of calm to mask her shock and guide what would happen next.

“Sarah, I’m so glad to have you,” Sophie started. “It will be so good for the girls to get to know you again. And when school is out in a few weeks…”

Ariel cut her off, speaking for the first time: “No, Sophie, you don’t understand. We’ve come to get the girls today. We have to leave as soon as possible.”

Sophie forced a laugh to cover the panic that was beginning to well in her eyes. “But surely not today, Sarah.” She said, ignoring Ariel. “You’ve had such a long trip. You must be exhausted. Stay for a few weeks, until Star is finished at school and maybe we could all have a week together at a cottage somewhere…”

This time it was mom who cut her off. Her voice, much smaller than I remembered it, was still as clear as I had ever heard it: “No Sophie. We have people waiting for us. We have to go today. We have to pack their things and go today.”

As the reality of mom’s resolve sunk in, Sophie began to shake, just a little, struggling to keep some control. “But Sarah, you don’t understand. Starla has friends; she’s made a life here. And then Claire…”

As your name was mentioned, it set off a trigger in mom, as if she just remembered you. She jumped up and began looking around anxiously saying: “Claire, of course, where’s my Claire?” She walked into the kitchen, agitated, distracted, as if she was looking for a pair of sunglasses, or the car keys that had been misplaced. She went towards the hallway of the bedrooms, calling your name. Sophie tried to say that you were having your nap but mom never heard her as she opened the door to the bedroom and saw you on your bed: peaceful, beautiful, perfect.

We could hear you begin to stir as mom went to you, cooing in a stage whisper: “Oh, Claire, my Claire de Lune. It’s mommy, Claire. Are you sleeping? I love you. Mommy’s here, Claire.” As I look back on it now, I don’t think mom remembered how different you were from when you were a baby, when she used to sit in the rocking chair feeding you and telling me that we were her celestial bonds: Starla Way and Claire de Lune. She seemed to expect you to still be her laughing baby.

Sophie and I didn’t know what to expect; we were so accustomed to dealing with your episodes of screaming, we always held our breath in readiness mode whenever you were faced with a new situation. I was watching from the door as you stretched into consciousness and turned your head towards mom. You lay on your side holding the blanket that Molly had given you, gathering the satin part of the edging between your little fingers, focusing on the eyelet lace of the bedspread.

“Oh, my beautiful Claire, how lovely you are. Mommy’s here, sweetheart,” she went on as she struggled to lift you from the bed, removing the blanket and sitting you on her lap. You surprised us all: you didn’t seem to react to the awkwardness of her movements as she struggled to lift your dead weight – you just let go, offering nothing by way of resistance, nor acceptance. I was hoping that this non-response was a good sign: I thought that perhaps you recognized mom and that her presence gave you peace. When I look at it now, I think that it was probably more a form of giving in, of having no defense and using the only means of escape you had. It reminded me of Bill’s passive-resistant friends, the protectors of the old growth forest who become limp and completely non-reactive when the law moves in.

Mom sat on the side of the bed, rocking you. Sophie tried to talk to her, to explain how you needed special care, how you couldn’t hear well. None of it mattered. Mom’s tone was firm when she said: “Sophie, please. This is my baby, Claire. Don’t you think I know my own child? Don’t you think I can take care of her?”

It wasn’t until we heard the drawer of the dresser being drawn that we became aware of Ariel’s presence in the room. As she began lifting my clothes and packing them into a large zippered nylon bag, the kind that the older boys at school used for their hockey equipment, that Sophie sprang across the room, grabbing at the fistful of socks and underwear that Ariel was stuffing into a corner of the bag.

“What are you doing? You can’t, you can’t do that.” Sophie repeated until Ariel let go of the clothing and closed her hand around Sophie’s wrist.

“Yes, we can Sophie,” said Ariel. “We can do this. Sarah is their mother and you have no legal right to keep them from their mother. Please, let’s not make a scene in front of the girls. They’ll be fine.”

Sophie looked from Ariel to mom who was still rocking you. You both seemed oblivious to what was happening. “What do you mean? Look at her!” Sophie screamed pointing to mom. “Look at her. These girls will not be fine; they need special care. Sarah can’t even take care of herself. I can’t let you take them.” Sophie left the room and headed for the phone in the kitchen. I followed into the hallway and watched her bring the receiver to her ear and begin dialing.

Mom stood up and left you on the bed. Brushing past me she followed Sophie into the kitchen, and in the calmest, sanest voice that any mother would use with a distraught child she said: “Sophie, who can you call? The police? What will the police do to help you? Don’t you see that I’m fine? You had the girls while I was recovering from an illness, and now I’m here to bring them home. What could be simpler? What could the police ever do to help you?” Mom raised her hand to touch Sophie’s cheek. “They’ll be fine, Sophie. I’ll take care of them. I have friends who will help me. We’ll all be fine.” She finished, reciting the words as if they had been spoken before, lines that were rehearsed.

As mom cooed, Sophie slowly let the receiver drop to her chest then replaced it on the cradle. Her mask of strength gave way, layer by layer, to one of defeat – not yet terror, not yet grief; those would come later.

When I saw Sophie let go, I let go too. I sat on the floor in the hall, watching as she lowered herself onto one of the kitchen chairs, her hands fidgeting with the napkins in the basket before her. I don’t think she knew that I was watching her, maybe she did. Recognizing now that we would be leaving, I used this time to fix every detail of her face, her arms, her body into my mind.

The wonderful life that we’d built with Sophie began to break up like images of clouds on rippled water as I realized that there was no way out. The idea of screaming, of throwing a tantrum didn’t even cross my mind. I wonder if they would have reconsidered their plans with the prospect of a three thousand mile trip in the company of a screaming eleven year old. I did think of hiding but I was truly afraid that they would leave without me, taking you with them anyway. I couldn’t take that risk.

Ariel and mom came from the bedroom carrying you and the two nylon bags with everything of our life at Sophie’s that they could hold. In a voice that didn’t mean what it was saying, mom asked Sophie to send on anything that they may have left behind. “Send it COD if you want. It’s okay, I’ll pay for it.” Sophie glared.

They made their way down the steps to the landing just inside the front door, and mom looked back up to where Sophie and I were still sitting: “We really do have to go now.”

Sophie’s face inched its gaze from the floor at her feet, along the kitchen tile, the hallway carpet, sweeping the banister, up to mom’s face. The composed fury that lay in Sophie’s eyes was like nothing I’d ever seen in her before. She stood with great care, deliberately placing her palms on the table in front of her, then lifted herself with such grace to her fullest height; she had the bearing of a queen facing great tragedy – slavery, a forced marriage, the guillotine. I remember taking courage from her posture, believing that dignity and courage were the bonds that would keep us connected despite the fear that was welling inside me now.

Sophie walked down the stairs to the front landing, silently taking our jackets from the closet so that we could bring them with us. She turned and beckoned me to her with her fingers. I unfolded myself from the corner under the hall table where I had been sitting, choosing to go to her, pretending I had a choice. She handed me my jacket, then awkwardly tried to put yours on over your dangling arms as mom held you so tightly, clinging to her advantage – in case Sophie tried and pry you from her arms.

I’ve never felt anger towards Sophie that she didn’t stand up to mom and try to stop her from taking us away. Many years later when I was at university, I was taking a course in ancient literature and I came across the Bible story of two women fighting over a child, each claiming to be the mother. King Solomon’s answer was to cut the child in half that each mother would have a portion. At that judgment, the real mother, the one who truly loved the child, relinquished her hold and let the child go. I think that I always understood that Sophie was the true loving parent who had to let us go. I know that she has had more than her share of demons to dance with over what happened that day.

We went outside and Sophie led the way to the car. I followed behind in her footsteps as she made her way, so tall and straight and strong. I was absorbing her strength as she led me, telling me in her silent way not to be afraid but to be alert. Without that memory of her grace and devotion to us, I wouldn’t have made it through certain times in my life. I still see her back as she walked ahead of me, her left hand stretched out behind her, offering itself wordlessly to me, inviting me to walk into the next scene of my life while holding onto her hand.

When we got to the car Sophie realized that there was no car seat for you. Most children your age just used a booster seat but you were so tiny and unsteady that it was much safer and more practical for you to have a proper car seat. Sophie went to her car and got the tools to unfasten the tether strap bolt in the back and the seat belt that kept it in place. She brought the seat over to Ariel’s car and put it in the back seat. She then saw that there was no way of attaching the tether strap of the seat securely in this old car.

“Sarah, the seat isn’t going to be secure. There’s no bolt, she can’t go across the country in it like this…” Now she sounded panicked, like a helpless child herself, focusing on the safety seat as if its security could protect you from all harm.

Ariel said not to worry, that they would stop as soon as they were outside the city traffic to have it seen to. We all knew it would never happen. Mom turned you around so that Sophie could kiss you goodbye, then mom bent low into the car to put you in the seat, fidgeting with the unfamiliar buckles.

I turned to hug Sophie and held on to her for a long time until mom backed out of the rear door and opened the front one, telling us that she was ready. Neither Sophie nor I spoke during that embrace, I guess we couldn’t think of any words worthy of the moment.

I got in next to your seat and quickly rolled down the window to say a final goodbye. Ariel started the engine, which sounded rough and provided Sophie with just one more worry. As we pulled away from the curb Sophie called out, forcing an encouraging smile: “I love you, Star. I’ll be sure to call Bill and let him know that you’re coming…”

At that, mom shot around in her seat and glared at Sophie for a long moment as Ariel gunned the motor and took off too quickly out of sight.

I haven’t thought of that day in many years.

Think of me now and then, Claire.
Love,
Starla

Copyright 2003

JOURNAL, Sunday, Jan. 13th

2007-09-15T08:38:00.001-04:00

“SURPRISE!”

I’m not a big fan of surprises. Yesterday, I had just gotten back from shopping and was putting away the few groceries that I’d bought, when the buzzer rang from downstairs. A man said that he had a delivery from the Furniture Showroom. I told him that there must be a mistake. I went downstairs and looked at the beautiful sofa bed in the back of his truck and the bill of sale with Danny’s signature: Delivery date, Jan 12th.

It’s a nice couch. The two men wrestled it up the three flights of stairs, around the narrow corners of the stairwell, and into the apartment. They said that they were instructed to remove the old couch if that was what I wanted.

My “old” couch is almost prehistoric and of no value to anyone, but it’s mine. We picked it up the spring of my second year at university when someone had discarded it in the recycling frenzy that surrounds spring clear out, when all the students are vacating their apartments. I knew that Jen and I would be moving out of residence and that we would need some furniture. It was filthy and had no legs but its cushions were still solid and it looked like it could be fixed up. It’s been with me ever since then: through four apartments and a diminishing number of housemates, until I could afford this place on my own.

And now, these strangers are offering to take it away, my white elephant of a couch, and replace it with a new one that smells of plastic, formaldehyde and fabric sizing.

I know that Danny was trying to do something special, to mark our sharing of the apartment. I can imagine the consideration and excitement that went into this surprise: what would I need more than anything? What would make me happiest? What would make it seem more like our place?

I told them that they could take the old couch away; it was, without a doubt, the only sensible thing to do. But I had such a feeling of longing as they made their way awkwardly back down the stairs, carrying it away, like an invalid or a corpse from a cherished home.

Like I say - I don’t like surprises, even pleasant ones. They always leave me feeling startled. I’m embarrassed because I don’t understand how I should respond.

I removed the plastic covering from the couch. I set the pillows aside and pulled out the mattress bed that was folded inside to see if it would fit in my small living room. It was perfect. The size, the style, the colour, all went so well with the room. It felt right.

I should have been thrilled; I felt betrayed. I knew that this was a stupid reaction in the face of such a thoughtful gesture and statement of where we’re headed, as a couple.

The biggest problem that I have about surprises is that they’re always so unexpected. In the same way that I don’t respond well to a crisis situation, I don’t know how to react to unexpected and overwhelming kindness. I don’t react instinctively; I need to think ahead to recognize my feelings. I want to be able to prepare myself to appreciate what someone is doing for me. I want to be able to anticipate a pleasure. I want to look forward to happy things and joyous events.

So, here I am, a day later, sitting on the new couch and trying to come to terms with what I feel. I don’t want to be ungracious just because part of my personality makes me cautious when it comes to accepting such kindness. On the other hand, part of being a couple is the joy of defining ourselves, and our tastes, together. I’m organizing my thoughts to call Danny and thank him for the thoughtfulness that he has shown, but to warn him that maybe next time we should forgo the surprise element of our home decorating.

Copyright 2003

JOURNAL, Friday, Jan. 11th

2007-09-04T20:07:00.001-04:00

Fold your fleet wings
I’ve brought some dreams to share.
(“Dawntreader”, Joni Mitchell)

This is my dream:

I’m walking along a busy city street with my daughter. It’s evening and the darkness of the sky is complete but there are many lights from the shop windows to help us find our way. The wind whips at us like lost children tugging at our clothes; tiny ice crystals form on the collars and scarves around our faces. We peer in the windows, delighted by what we see inside. We’re so grateful for each other’s company.
I hold onto my daughter’s hand so we won’t be separated. She’s a tiny thing with long dark hair and deep dark eyes that dance when I say her name.

We come to a corner. There are many more people around us now. They’re coming from every direction but they’re all crossing over to the theatre that shines brighter than any other building on the street. We were headed that way anyway so we follow the crowd; they all seem excited about going to the performance.

The revolving doors at the entrance to the theatre turn non-stop. They whisk us in with the crowds of happy families dressed in their finest clothes. It’s warm and bright inside. The lobby has thick carpets and rich covering on all the walls. There are framed posters of the performance everywhere, and we stop in front of each one to dream about the beauty of the show that these people have come to see: a Christmas pantomime.

I lift my daughter up onto my back, piggyback style, so that she can see better and so we will take up less space in the crowded lobby. We enjoy the warmth. We watch all the glowing faces of the families who have come.

I feel like an intruder because I know we don’t have tickets – we could never afford such a luxury. I tell myself that we’ll just stay until the performance begins then someone will surely ask us to leave.

We walk through the theatre lobby and marvel at the dazzling chandeliers, the opulent chairs, the marble staircase winding upwards to another whole level of magnificence. I pretend that this is a normal outing for us, that we live on a regular diet of theatre, concerts and holidays. I pretend that I am giddy with the good fortune that is our life.

As we approach the doors to the grand hall I crane my neck to see inside. Surely it must be even more breathtaking inside the theatre itself. I stay behind the door, peering over the heads of legitimate patrons who are filing into the hall.

“Oh look, Honey.” I whisper to my daughter, her small chin still resting on my shoulder from her perch; she is so light, I hardly feel her weight on my back. “Look at all the colours – look at the lights.”

But we can’t stay in the doorway for long; the flood of people has carried us along into the hall. I turn. I try to make my way back against the crowd saying: “Excuse me. – I’m sorry. – I have to get back into the lobby. – I didn’t mean to come in. – I’m sorry.”

I hold on tightly to my daughter, panic starting at my fingers that are clutching her to my back: I’m afraid the tide that dragged us in may somehow lodge itself between us and would separate us.

I’m desperate. I must get out before I’m thrown out.

But I can’t get out; too many people are coming in. They won’t let me make my way back to the doors. I’m waiting for an usher or a ticket taker to come and expose me – to force me to admit to everyone around me that I don’t belong in such a place, that I’m here without a ticket, without permission, or any legitimate claim to such bounty.

A man walks up to me and takes my elbow; my hands are still awkwardly clasped around my daughter’s back. He is firm as he guides me to the front of the theatre. He smiles at me as he says: “Your seats are this way.” And I recognize that he’s Coach Don Cherry from “Hockey Night In Canada” – I’m shocked to see him here, at the theatre. (Wait until Danny, the hockey nut, hears that Don Cherry was in my dream). Because I recognize him and because he smiles at me, I feel that I can trust Don and that there isn’t any other way out. I follow him down the aisle where he shows us two empty seats. He points to the seats then turns to leave.

Beside my ear my daughter calls out in a voice that is as clear and sweet as a song: “Hi Don.” He turns around to see who has called his name.

I laugh, a little embarrassed: “I didn’t think that she would recognize you,” I stammer. He smiles and asks me how old she is. I tell him with pride that she’s eleven, nearly twelve. He gives me a quizzical look that I don’t understand. Then suddenly, I’m bent double under the weight of this pre-teen child on my back.

I loosen my grip and she extends her leg, puts her foot to the floor and climbs down from my back. I look around, still embarrassed by our intrusion – no one seems to notice us. I sit in my seat and turn to my daughter to point out the delicate scroll work around the stage, when I realize that she is no longer there. I’m surprised but not frightened. I look around, craning my neck and sitting as tall as I can in my seat, pivoting to catch a glimpse of her.

I see her – she’s on the stage, a fully grown woman now, she looks like me. She winks and gives me the thumbs up sign, and I know that it is she who has brought me here, so that she can take part in the performance.

I sit back in my seat and look up at Don who is watching this exchange. I ask him if he would like to sit. He settles into the seat beside me and the lights go down in the theatre and I wake up.

Copyright 2003

JOURNAL, Wednesday, Jan 9th

2007-08-21T06:21:00.001-04:00

But it isn’t to the palace
That the Christ child comes,
But to shepherds, street people,
Hookers and bums.
(“The Cry of a Tiny Babe”, Bruce Cockburn)

Danny and I were walking back from brunch last Saturday, before he headed back to Toronto to finish off some last details on his project. I noticed that my “buddy,” Wally, was out on the street.

Danny laughs at me. He says that I’m magnetically drawn to strays: abandoned cats, scruffy kids and street people. That’s not true. Most street people make me nervous. I avoid eye contact; I feel embarrassed when pressed by guilt or a pleading and effective pitch to rummage for change that’s always too small to be anything but pitiful or too large to be surrendered to pressure tactics. Where are the quarters when you need them?

Wally’s different. He sits on the seat of his walker, backed up against the limestone and glass wall of a drug store where he’s been stationed most days for many years. He sits in his usual pose: hunched forward, elbows propped on the sides of the walker, hands meeting in front of his chest with their backs touching, fingers dangling to brush the shiny material on his thighs. His head hangs down low as if he’s resting, until he hears the sound of approaching footsteps. Then without hesitation, he slowly raises his head and looks around as if compelled by his good nature, despite the pain and exertion, to smile and greet the passerby.

The first time I noticed Wally was during a scorching summer when I was still studying at the university. I had a job downtown that had odd shifts and I noticed that no matter when I walked by his corner, if it was between 10am and 4pm, Wally was there. I was amused to realize as I passed him each day, that sitting at his station with his coffee can at his feet to accept spare change was Wally’s job – it was the work he did that gave his life meaning and balance.

Sometimes when I would walk by at noon hour, I would see a uniformed waitress from the German deli across the street bringing him a take-out lunch. He would pack the drink and the fruit that she brought him in the saddlebag of his walker, and eat the sandwich hunched at his post. Once as I was walking by I heard him thank her for the lunch; I was surprised by the voice – proud in its gratefulness, strong and deep in timbre. I would have expected a much softer and unsteady voice from such a frail little man.

That was also the first time I saw Wally’s face up close: sagging, shot through with a latticework of lines and wrinkles, intersecting each other at odd angles. His nose was bulbous and red with gaping pores that spoke of many years of hard drinking and hard living. But what really grabbed my attention that day, and what has held me captive in his friendship ever since, were his eyes: pale, crystal blue on a background of intricate red webbing that, try as it might, doesn’t quite succeed in masking the twinkle of curiosity and amusement in the amazing blue. I was hooked – I’d do anything to have Wally look up and smile at me.

This past weekend when Danny and I saw Wally on the sidewalk up ahead of us, I took my wallet out and removed the twoonies that I always save for him. The wind is brutal as it funnels its way up from the lake. I notice Wally is wearing a new toque and he has socks on his hands. As we approach, he looks up to see who’s coming. I suspect his eyesight is poor because he never recognizes me until he hears my voice. I bend down to drop the coins in his can and put my hand on his arm as I lift myself up.

“How’re you doing, Wally?”

“Oh, missus,” he greets me, refolding the lines in his face into a smile. “I’s just wunnerful,” he says, exposing his Newfoundland roots.

I ask about his Christmas and he points to the cap on his head that he got at the church supper on Christmas day. He tells me he got four pairs of new socks at the Sally Ann so he wears two pairs in his boots and two pairs on his hands. He says that his landlady gave him a new shirt for when he has to dress up. I can’t picture it myself, still he must have cut quite a figure in his day, with his thick, wavy hair now yellowy silver – and those eyes…

Danny asks him why he’s sitting here in the cold wind and the shade, when across the street, there’s a vacant property whose front is bathed in winter sunlight; there’s even a little alcove over there to back into out of the wind.

Wally lowers his head and shakes it slowly, bringing the side of his face almost parallel with the street on each side as he explains patiently – as if to a child: “Nooo, Buddy. She’s way too hot over there in the summer.”

I can tell Danny is lining up a series of “buts” to counter the explanation but the firmness of Wally’s answer settles the matter with a wonderful logic. Danny concedes.

Wally gives us the news of the street – how the meter maid got into a screaming match with a guy in an SUV who was too cheap to pay the quarter while he ran into the bank; how the lady from the flower shop brought a big bouquet into the deli – it must be someone’s birthday; how one of the girls from the office next to him was crying on the sidewalk as she puffed on her cigarette at break time. He tells of how the young panhandlers who are moving into this area are too aggressive, and he worries that they will scare off his people.

Wally’s not deep, he doesn’t possess the wisdom of elders, he’s just there each day, watching the world as it passes by his corner. The layers of tattered clothes and the stubbled chin can’t hide the quiet dignity that he brings to his life. The waitress and her sandwiches, the banker who lets him “bum” a smoke each day as they share a few minutes puffing together, the single mom I’ve seen who sends her little girl to put a nickel in his can, and me, in some small way, we’re all there to support Wally in the maintenance of that dignity.

Wally is our witness to his world.

The whole idea of witnessing has come up a few times in the last few days. On Sunday evening at church, the priest was speaking of the magi who came to see the baby Jesus. He spoke of the importance of sharing what we see, of witnessing to what we have witnessed.

Then yesterday, I was speaking with Jean about how I was a witness to my childhood. But I could only watch it unfold – I hadn’t known what else to do with those scenes.

Now, in giving the memories – the good and the bad ones – a life on paper, in writing them down and bringing it all back, I’m witnessing to these truths as I saw them. I’m sorting through which deserve to be preserved and which should be discarded.

Starla’s Kitty Litter Theory about memories:

Part 1: To discard memories, first you must use the litter scoop to pick them up and take a good look before you throw them away, in case you find a diamond, or a key embedded in the feces.

Part 2: You can only ignore a tray of unpleasant memories for so long; like a dirty litter box, it won’t clean itself.

Dear Claire;

2007-08-17T07:44:00.001-04:00

Mary had a baby, my Lord;
The people keep coming but the train is gone.
(Negro Spiritual)

Dear Claire;

What a lovely coincidence that I’m writing about our Christmas with Sophie during this holiday time. I love the line in A Child’s Christmas in Wales where the little boy dips his mittened hand in the snow and brings up a memory from some Christmas long ago. You and I had one such magical Christmas when we were with Sophie, whose memories have lasted me all these years.

At school the snow has finally come to transform the playground. The kids are thrilled. It reminds me that the memories that I have of that time are winter memories too. We had never had a winter with snow, you and I. Boots, the burrowing dog, showed us how to enjoy it, to roll in it, and to cover ourselves with its magic. I remember Sophie saying that it was a particularly snowy winter that year; adults complained and shovelled, children were enchanted. Does the first snow of the season ever stop being magical in its power to transform everything into an object of beauty?

I also remember being surprised by all of the excitement around Christmas itself. Because we didn’t have a television in Vancouver, we hadn’t been exposed to the holiday theme that seeps into every TV commercial and show from late October until the New Year. Also, at Mandala Rising, the parents set much of the curriculum and they were more interested in maintaining the foundations of the collective ideals and the environmental movement. We never did much colouring of Rudolph or singing about Frosty.

Here in this new suburban world I was bewitched by the whole spectacle that was December, with all of its elaborate decorations of houses and malls decked out in amazing displays of lights and intricate arrangements. I bought into all of the beauty with abandon, but I still felt like an outsider, an exchange student from some other land, a delighted spectator not wanting to show my ignorance by admitting that I didn’t know the words to the Christmas carols, or the details of the story of when Jesus was born.

It was one day in early December of that year, we were gluing cotton-ball snow to a mural scene in my classroom when I had a strange flash to a time at my school back home when we were working with lamb’s wool on a collage: I realized with a jolt that I had no idea if I would be coming back to Centennial Park school after the holidays. My insides were squeezed with panic, like waking suddenly from a threatening dream to wonder what else could startle me, what other worries I could have forgotten about. I felt as if I had been lulled into a place of numbing peace, of false hope, of becoming accustomed to the luxury of not having to take care of things the way I had to at home.

That night I asked Sophie if I would be returning to my school in Vancouver after the holidays. She seemed shocked by the question. As it happened Bill had called her just that day to deliver two pieces of news: the first was that he was coming to Ontario to visit us for Christmas, and the second was that it would only be a visit and he would not be taking us back with him. Sophie said that she had been wondering all day how to speak to me of this development and then…here I was, asking the question right out. “When am I going to learn how grown up you are?” Sophie said to me, putting her arm around my shoulder and pulling me to her. We hugged and she kissed the top of my forehead. I was happy. I wanted us to stay where we were. I wanted to be hugged.

One of the greatest reasons that I wanted us to stay with Sophie is that you were more peaceful there than you had been since coming home from your time in the hospital. Your behaviour didn’t actually change all that much while we were Sophie; in fact I think if we counted your “episodes” (as Molly called them) of anxious screaming, there may have been just as many of them, but that was because your life with Sophie and Molly was more exposed to new experiences than it had been with mom. You got out into the real world and were tested by new things in a way that you never had been when you were alone with mom in the apartment. I could see that you were becoming more able to tolerate noises on the streets or in the mall. At Molly’s house you had learned that the kids were not a threat. You just seemed more resilient.

Bill did come to spend Christmas with us. Sophie and I went to the airport to pick him up one night while you slept over at Molly’s. I remember feeling so uncertain, fretting over how I would look to him – like waiting for a blind date. Isn’t that odd? Why would I think of Bill as a stranger? Until a few months before we had never spent more than a few days apart in my whole life. I think I was afraid that he might have become a stranger to my heart in how we had both changed so much over the past year.

In writing this, I just realized that it had only been a little over a year since you and mom got sick. At that time, it seemed to me that everything that I remembered of my life in Vancouver, before we went to stay with Sophie, was all about a lifetime of caring for you and mom.

As we drove to the airport I wondered which Bill I would meet there? My playmate from summer trips to the beach? The busy law student who spent hours at the library then kissed us goodnight? The harried father who spent nine months putting band-aids on the rapidly sinking lifeboat that held his broken family? Would he be someone entirely new to me? Would he be as nervous as I was?

We got to the airport about fifteen minutes before the plane was due to land only to find that it was delayed another forty minutes. We walked around for a bit but soon exhausted anything of interest that there was to see at that late hour. We sat down and after a few minutes I realized that I was thinking of how different I would feel if Bill was coming to take us home. From somewhere I found the courage to ask the question that was most important to me.

“Sophie, are you glad that Claire and I are going to stay with you?” I remember very clearly, forming this question in my head. Even then, the Socratic teacher in me knew the value of asking a question which makes obvious the desired response. I wanted her to be glad, and I had to let her know that I wanted to stay.

Sophie put her arm around my shoulder and pulled me to her. “You are the best thing that has ever happened to me, and I love you both very much.” She said clasping her hands around my shoulders. “It’s been an interesting few months, hasn’t it? But now that we’re all settled in, I wouldn’t want to change a thing.” After some thought she added, as if she felt that she should: “You know, Star, someday your mom will be better, and she and Bill will want you to come and live with them.”

I didn’t know how to explain to her that mom had never said that she loved me, and that I never really felt as close to her, as cherished or as nurtured by her as Sophie made me feel.

“Anyway, we’re together now,” she said, “And that’s what matters.” She thought carefully for a moment then added: “I like your dad. He’s a good guy and I’m glad that he’s going to be with us for Christmas.” I loved Sophie so much; she could always say the right thing to put my fears to rest. Now I could enjoy the visit with Bill without worrying about the betrayal of bonds or what our future might hold.

When the plane finally arrived and Bill came through the doors with the other passengers, I was surprised at how different he looked. Not different from how I remembered him, but different from the other people around the airport. I had gotten used to suburban Toronto standards, and Bill’s long pony tail, barely held together with a leather thong, his chest length beard, the Tibetan beads and Himalayan jacket, made him look like he had come from a different land: a traveler from my home country to our new, sanitized world in “Organized Ontario” as he calls it.

We didn’t run to meet each other but quietly walked towards a long embrace. All the smells of home came back to me in his sweater and jacket. He held me at arm’s length, then hugged me again saying how old I looked, how tall I had gotten. His tone was more of regret than surprise. We went to the carousel to claim his knapsack and a box that he had shipped.

It was late, and I remember falling asleep in the back seat of Sophie’s car to the sound of their small talk – finding their way around and through the maze of words that should be spoken: about us, about mom, about life.

The next morning the three of us went to pick you up at Molly’s. I was the first one through the door so I didn’t notice that Sophie and Bill had stopped on the walkway to the house. When I looked back through the window, I could see Sophie taking Bill’s arm and patting it with her hand, reassuring him. Bill walked slowly up the stairs and came in to meet Molly. As I look back on that day from my adult perspective, I’m amazed to think of how many different emotions would have been converging on him as he came to see you. He had finally recognized that you were living in a world that was not often accessed by the rest of us. Did he feel guilt for not seeing it sooner, regret that you were this way, confusion as to how to interpret and understand where your soul passed its days? Whatever he felt, it was keeping him focused on his need to find a way to connect with you.

I showed Bill the way to the playroom and he stopped for some time at the doorway, his gaze fixed on where you were with your back to us: motionless, sitting with one of Molly’s cookie tins between your legs, touching the smooth edges of the plastic cookie cutters that it held. I broke away and went to you, being careful to circle around so that you would see me coming. I gave you a kiss on the curls (I loved the smell of Molly’s shampoo in your hair). You didn’t look up. I went and turned on the TV and sat near you, watching the silent cartoons – their jolting noise would often make you nervous.

Bill kept his distance at first and sat down in the overstuffed rocker in the corner behind you. Sophie and Molly stayed in the kitchen drinking coffee, letting us be together. Bill sat there for such a long time watching you. As the TV distracted one part of my brain, the other part imagined how he must be seeing you. He was completely focused, moving at a rhythm that was so different from the flying pace that he had always kept up when we were with him at home. I didn’t ever remember Bill being so still – it reminded me of how you could be, transfixed by something in your hands.

After a while, I went over to the rocker and crawled up on his lap. I had grown since August and it was a little awkward to find a comfortable position, but I wanted to be with him. I wanted to be the window between the two of you, to somehow explain to him what I knew about you and to help him reach a place inside that would tell him how to approach you. I also wanted to remind him that I was there too, I wanted us to be a family.

“Because she can’t hear well from behind,” I said, “It’s a good idea to go around, so she can see you coming. She probably won’t look up, but that way she won’t be startled.” Bill nodded and kept rocking, holding me to him but focusing on you, like an athlete with his eye on the prize.

“I’m glad you’re here, Bill. I really missed you,” I said. I lifted myself away from him and sat on the floor beside the rocker. I remember looking at your hunched back, so still – I don’t think that you had moved a muscle, except for your fingers, since we came in.

Bill got up and made his way around the perimeter of the room, keeping his eyes on you. He lowered himself slowly to the floor, laying his body to its full length a few feet in front of you. He stretched out his left hand with its palm turned up just beside your knee, not touching you, just letting it rest there. He lay his cheek on his right hand and stayed still and watchful for a long time, until his fingers started to move, slowly, hardly noticeable in their dance. He lay there offering you the touch of his hand.

I was mesmerized by this tiny movement, this gentlest of invitations. And finally, without looking up, without changing your posture in any other way, you reached out and put your fingers on Bill’s hand, fingertips touching, resting, connecting. I held my breath. Bill had tears in his eyes but he didn’t brush them away for fear of breaking the moment and startling the curious, little animal in you that was reaching out. I wondered how long you would leave your fingers there. After a few seconds, you pulled them back and returned your hand to the tin in your lap. Bill turned his face onto his hand to wipe his eyes, then slowly drew back his left hand to reach for a hankie in the pocket of his jeans. He got to his knees and approached you – he put his hands under your arms and gently picked you up, always careful not to crowd your face with his hug, he wrapped his arms around you and rubbed your back.

We had a wonderful time, that Christmas. I think it was good for all of us that we weren’t in Vancouver for this time together. I don’t know that Bill would have been able to relax if we had been at home, the way he did at Sophie’s. I remember one evening when he took Sophie’s car and went out by himself. When he came back, he spent a long time working alone in the garage. I remember thinking how strange it was to hear noises coming from below me …then I drifted to sleep.

The next day we went out to get a Christmas tree. Sophie said that it had to be a Scotch pine. She explained that the farm where her grandparents had lived had many Scotch pines and each Christmas her grandmother insisted on choosing the fullest one herself.

Sophie bought some tree lights; she had never had a tree before so we were starting from scratch. We made cookie ornaments (most of which were eaten by you and Boots), popcorn garlands, origami birds and tiny paper snowflakes cut with nail scissors. It was a beautiful tree.

I never knew how to ask Bill about mom, and strangely he never offered any information. It was like she wasn’t part of the equation for that segment of our lives – I hardly noticed the absence.

Many years later when I left British Columbia for the second time, to come to Ontario to go to university, I spent the first few days with Sophie. I was at a self righteous age at that time, seeking to nurse my anger towards mom. I asked Sophie if she knew what had happened to mom after we had left her at the collective; I wanted to know the details of our abandonment to fan the flames of my fury. She explained what Bill had told her.

He had returned daily to the collective in the first weeks after we left, but each time he would show up, Ariel would meet him at the door. He would try to explain that he just wanted to know if she was all right, to see when she would be able to come home. He told Sophie that he would hear mom screaming at him from another part of the house, hurling attacks and accusations at him. Mom had convinced herself, and those around her, that his presence threatened her and she lashed out while her protecting angel, Ariel, stood guard at the door, barring his way. After a few weeks Ariel decided that it would be best for mom to get away from him completely, so they left Vancouver. Bill tried to contact her through the other collective members but no one would tell him where they’d gone.

During his visit with us at Sophie’s, he saw that we were doing well. He hadn’t pictured us growing up with all the middle class trimmings: matching clothes, shopping malls and Cocoa Puffs. But our suburbanization seemed to him a small price to pay for stability. Bill and Sophie decided that we would stay with her until the summer, and then they would look at the situation again.

Christmas day had never been a big deal to us before, but this year it was all so new, exciting and special. When we woke up, I took you by the hand and we went downstairs. Boots came to greet us still wearing the red velvet bow that Sophie had put on him for Christmas Eve — he had worn it all night while he slept. The curtains were still drawn in the living room and the warmth of the tree lights shimmered in the dim. Bill was there by himself when we walked into the kitchen, his face beaming in the light of the candles that were everywhere around the room. The table was laid out with fruit, nuts and muffins warm from the oven. There was cheese and smoked salmon that Bill had brought from home, cream cheese, marmalade and tiny tarts with jam – it reminded me of the table of delights that magically appears in my favourite book, The Little Princess. We stood in the doorway and Bill watched my eyes feasting on his wonderful surprise. I hugged him and ran upstairs to get Sophie out of bed. When she walked into the kitchen, she stopped and stood as silent as I had, her hands to her lips taking it all in. “Thank you,” Bill said from behind his breakfast offering. Sophie crossed the room and hugged him, raising her head to kiss him on the cheek.

We ate and listened to Christmas music and were like what I imagined any other family would be like on Christmas morning. When we finished in the kitchen we went to open our gifts. Sophie had helped us pick out a sweater for Bill and she had bought us some beautiful outfits. There was a heavy square box that Sophie handed to me, explaining that it was a present from mom, to you and me. When I opened the box I found a snow globe – a small forest scene inside with two old fashioned skaters on the little mirror pond. It was very heavy when I turned it over to make the snow swirl around them. Sophie showed me the key underneath to wind it up so we could hear the music. She explained that it had belonged to mom but that she didn’t bring it with her when she had left home. Sophie later told me that their grandmother had given it to Sarah and when it had been left behind, Sophie had hidden it so that the old woman would think that mom had taken it with her.

I haven’t thought of that snow globe for a long time. I know that Sophie meant well, but now that it comes back to me, I remember being so resentful that mom was as callous about abandoning her grandparents who had loved her, as she was about abandoning us. I remember defiance warming me as I sat on Sophie’s living room rug that Christmas morning with this gift – so cherished by a gentle old lady, so inconsequential to our mom.

Sophie helped you unwrap a terrific toy of different shaped blocks that each fit into their appropriate holes on a large plastic globe. It was the perfect gift for you: bright colours, soft plastic and so many planes and corners for your hands to explore.

I hadn’t noticed that Bill had left the room until I heard some noise coming from the doorway to the garage. Bill called us in to show us his other surprise: a beautiful 10 speed bicycle for me and a tricycle for you. He beamed as he wheeled them towards us and said: “Go on, give’em a spin.” I realized that he had moved Sophie’s car out of the garage and they had rearranged the other stuff to give us a riding area. I hugged Bill with all the love that any kid’s heart on a Christmas morning can hold. What he didn’t know though was that when I was thanking him for the bike, I was also thanking him for being there, for not abandoning us, yet for letting us stay with Sophie. The snow was three feet deep for this, our first Christmas in the east, but we were flying into spring: the bike was my hope that if we were to be here until spring, then all would be well.

We had Sophie’s famous pineapple ham and scalloped potatoes with baby carrots for Christmas dinner and for dessert, she had bought a jelly roll cake, decorated to look like a log with sprigs of plastic holly and a little plastic sign saying “Season’s Greetings.” I remember all these things so well.

As I relay this story of that Christmas with Bill and Sophie, I try to think of why I have such a warm feeling about it, why it has stayed with me in such detail all these years as the defining example of what happiness means to me. I still can’t explain it but I think that it had something to do with the peaceful, neutral environment that we found in Sophie’s house that allowed us to pretend that we were like any other happy family. But on a deeper level, I wonder if it doesn’t have something to do with what came later on in the day, something about knowing. Most adults feel that it’s important to keep secrets about difficult things from children, but secrets are dangerous, they allow you to imagine the worst. That Christmas opened a lot of doors to the secrets that had bothered me for a long time.

Later that night when Sophie came to tuck me in and say goodnight, I had put the snow globe beside the ceramic pitcher on the table between our beds. I asked Sophie why mom left home and had left all of her things behind. She looked at me for a while then, trusting that I needed to know, explained about mom and how she had not been well even when she was a teenager. She had been a beautiful and happy child, but as she got older she went through some really bad times, like the depression that had happened to her after you were sick. Sophie explained that when she was like this mom’s pain was so great that she had no way of seeing the pain that she was causing anyone else. It was a good way of explaining it to me; it helped me to understand and believe that it was not just me that mom was angry with, but that there were others who have suffered tremendously by being too close to her. I remember looking at the snow globe on the bedside table in the light of the street lamp and thinking of the hands that had held it lovingly over the years: in my frustration and confusion with mom, the snow globe became a symbol for me of this fellowship of people who had loved and been hurt by Sarah Burchill.

The other thing that the snow globe did for me is that it gave me an excuse to pry more information about our great grandparents. Sophie had loved them both very much and in sharing the globe and its story, painful and honest as it was, she opened the door to other questions and stories about them. Sarah and Sophie spent each of their childhood summers on their grandparents’ farm. Their father was on the road a lot and Sophie has never wanted to talk about their mother, so it sounded as if most of their happy memories came from those summers on the farm.

I loved hearing about the farm, about the rejected lambs that “Granny” (as she liked to be called) would put in a burlap sack for a while with a lamb from another ewe, to fool the woolly mother into thinking she had dropped more than one baby. I loved to hear of the kittens that roamed freely in the barn and would always come to greet the girls as they arrived to do their chores. I would imagine myself in their apple tree with all of its newly formed fruit, looking out over the fields as “Gramps” mowed and bailed the hay with the hired hands. On any desolate January day, I can almost make myself smell the clover and apple pie steam, carried on a soft breeze to the tire swing in their front yard. I realize now that the telling of these stories of her life with her grandparents’ was as important to Sophie as these letters to you are essential to me. Those stories were like the gift of hugs that she had received from her grandparents and was now passing onto me. They opened up windows and doors in me that I didn’t know existed, so caked had they become with the grime of confusion and self-denial. Sophie, through her little girl’s eyes, was able to let me see myself and where I’d come from; she let me know that it was good – that I was good.

There are two things that have stayed with me about the rest of the winter that we spent with Sophie. First of all, she signed us up for swimming lessons that winter. I went by myself of course, but she enrolled with you in a “Mom and Tot” class. You were the oldest of the children and I don’t know what made her think that this would be good for you but it was. She was always challenging herself, and you, to see how much of our world you were willing to accept. The swimming lessons turned out to be a great idea.

Most days at home or at Molly’s, you would sit alone, moving as little as possible until someone took your hand to lead you somewhere else where you would sit again, silent and still. In the pool however, it was a very different story. Perhaps it was the sensation of water against your skin, perhaps it was the lightness of your body as Sophie would bounce with you in her arms – whatever it was, you would relax in the water despite the squeals or cries from the other children. You would splash and kick awkwardly using muscles that seldom knew exercise; you were like a flower opening in the water. I remember watching the two of you through the Plexiglas window of the spectators’ gallery, wishing that Sophie were our real mother and wondering, with just the tiniest hint of guilt, why life had not made it so.

Later on that winter, it must have been in February or March, we went to the Metro Zoo. I had been to the zoo in Stanley Park but this winter setting and the expanses of forest in which the animals lived made it a whole different experience. I rode on the hairiest camel in existence (or was it a dromedary?) and Sophie would gently turn your head so you could watch me go around the track, laid out with hay bailes, on my exotic mount. Later on I pushed you in your stroller up the winding path through the woods to the tigers. We spent a long time watching them pacing in their corner of the bush; continents between our native lands yet a finger’s breadth of interlock fence between my hands and their dense, pulsating fur. They reminded me so much of you, aware of our presence, yet so focused on their own intention that they would choose not to acknowledge us.

In one of the pavilions we saw a large enclosure with a grouping of orang-utans, their copper hair almost the same colour as yours. The Plexiglas wall allowed the animals to come right up and inspect us as we observed them. Sophie was standing behind you and propped you along the clear wall, inches from the animals. She put your hand on the glass at their eye level. The orang-utan nearest the wall turned and stroked his fingers over the place on the glass where your face was. He let his fingers linger on the glass before you for a few seconds, while he looked around his enclosure. When he broke contact to rejoin a group by the pond, you turned away from the glass and ran your fingers over your own face where he had laid his hand. It was something that I had never seen you do and it showed an awareness that we seldom saw from you. Were you imitating him, showing us what he had done? Were you confused that you could feel the tracks of your fingers on your eyelids, unlike his phantom touch?

I realize now how much you taught me about patience, stillness, listening with all the senses. Even as an eleven year old, I would observe you – like Jane Goodall with her chimps: I believed that if I could somehow understand the mysteries that you kept so sacred, I could understand the universe. So many hours that we spent together Claire, you and I – just inches, yet galaxies apart.

I miss you very much,
Happy Christmas. Love,
Starla

Copyright 2003

JOURNAL, Friday, Dec. 28th

2007-08-15T16:38:00.001-04:00

We’re back home now and so much has happened in the past week. Danny surprised me by arriving late last Friday after driving through hours of holiday traffic and bad weather. I wasn’t expecting him at all; I was supposed to meet him in Toronto on Saturday. He said that he wanted to tell me in person that he got the job here in town. He wanted to see my expression, my eyes, when he told me.

When he spoke those words it was in an uncertain voice, presenting his news in a tone that seemed more like a question than a statement. Considering the anger and frustration with which he left a few weeks ago, I was so grateful that he would bother to come back to me at all, wanting to share his news with me. I took his hands and held them against my cheek – their coolness was so fresh and gentle. “I’m so happy for us,” I said into the palms that caressed my face.

Christmas presents are always difficult for me; perhaps it’s because I don’t have a lot of people to buy for – I don’t get a chance to become efficient or confident in my shopping. I want each of the three or four gifts that I choose to be meaningful, but then I worry that what’s meaningful to me may not touch the person who gets it. I want to express so much but I’ve always been embarrassed and frustrated by how little of myself I can share.

This year is a year of taking risks. I’ve made a commitment: I’ve decided that I want to share the story of my childhood – my letters to Claire – with the two people in the world who mean the most to me: Sophie and Danny.

For Sophie I used my calligraphy pens to embellish the pages of the letters and to add the quotations. I printed a cover page with a dedication that simply read: “To Sophie – Because you loved me. Starla.” I put the sheets in a hand-quilted portfolio, inside a matching box that I found at a designer craft show.

For Danny I bought a leather briefcase with a matching binder. In the binder I put the pages of my youth and a set of keys to my apartment. I wrapped them in a monogrammed towel to match my own. The dedication read: “To Danny, because I want to share my life with you. All my love, Starla.”

I had to give Danny his present that Friday night. I was too nervous, anxious, excited and committed to wait until Christmas day. I tried not to pace as he read the pages, I tried to avoid scanning his face for reaction. I have no idea what I was looking for from him, but what he offered me as he finished reading the letters and turned over the last page, was the best reaction of all: he sat down beside me on the floor where I was pretending to read a novel, he kissed my cheek and said, “Thank you.”

I knew that things were different now. The biggest step had been taken and that in continuing to share my past with him I would somehow find a future.

We packed Pussywillow in her travel cage and left the next day in freezing rain to spend two days with Sophie before she left on Christmas Eve to go skiing with friends. Danny drove. I’m not a confident driver at the best of times and I find that it’s always a long and painful journey along the highway to Toronto when the weather’s bad.

As we saw the first signs for Scarborough, I felt nervous and excited. So many times I’ve been to Sophie’s house since the days when Claire and I lived with her; I consider it my real home, the place where I first recognized who I was and who I wanted to be. But possibly because I’ve been thinking so much about those times this visit was different, full of a strange new awareness. It was like coming back for the first time after a long absence.

Sophie and Danny like each other so much. I’ve often thought that their friendship and affection for each other hasn’t anything to do with me. Sophie laughs a lot when Danny’s around, and he loves to be the recipient of all her culinary attention.

We exchanged gifts on the Sunday night. When she opened the box I presented to her, then the portfolio, she seemed delighted by their beauty but I could see the confusion on her face, not sure exactly what the present was. I explained that I’d been spending some time writing about my childhood. We’ve never spoken much of that time, Sophie and I, when she and Claire and I lived together. I never told her that I had come to appreciate what it had meant for her: the emotional and physical cost of picking us up from the despair where she had found us, the love that she gave us, then the helplessness as she watched us go on. I wanted her to know how much it meant to me, all that she had done for us.

Sophie cried as she read of our lives. I tried to explain what a positive experience the writing has been for me. With each page that I write it feels like I’m dismantling another piece of the enclosure that I’d built around me. It reminds me of the images of those people crashing through the Berlin wall: each blow loosening more bricks and mortar. A wall – built strong to keep lives separate, then torn down piece by piece, with equally great determination.

I had to make her understand that painful as the writing and the remembering might be at times, I have to do it. It’s the nature of change and risk I guess: when “what is” is no longer tolerable, “what may be” is always ripe with hope, no matter how uncertain its outcome.

Copyright 2003

JOURNAL, Thursday, Dec. 20th

2007-08-11T07:09:00.002-04:00

“Music symbolizes humanity’s search for harmony, with oneself and others, with nature and with the spiritual and sacred within and around us.” - The Dalai Lama

I found these words in a book of quotations that I sent to Bill for Christmas. This particular quote I lifted and wrote in his card – it seemed so appropriate for Bill the musician-philosopher.

Those profound words on the nature of music came back to me today and made me laugh as I stood in the gym, listening to three hundred kids belting out “Frosty the Snowman” and “Jingle Bells”, accompanied by a very battered and unworthy piano.

I thought of His Holiness and how touched by a giggle he would probably be to see his insights reflected in the reality of this particular search for “harmony” among so many eager souls. A group of older boys overcome their unstable, transitional voices by trying to out-shout each other; the grades 1 and 2 are as sincere as cathedral choristers; the grade 6 girls glance furtively at neighbours, to judge an acceptable level of participation – they are too cool. The primary teachers join in enthusiastically while teachers of the older grades patrol, watchful, careful to maintain as much of the “harmony” as possible with such an exuberant assembly. Everyone in this room is eager for the end of classes. Some look forward to Christmas in a few days, some won’t mark its passing, but we all sing of the joys of winter.

I was thinking of the Christmas we were in Scarborough with Sophie. I remember a sing-along much like this one, at Centennial Park in the days when you were allowed to sing “Silent Night” in school. Now a committee of parents and teachers meets each year to choose seasonal songs that won’t offend anyone and will allow all to participate. It puts yet another spin on the meaning of “harmony” in music.

Music – sometimes its power is so overwhelming, it can take my breath away. I was coming home the other night from doing some research at the university library when the “Oldies” radio station played “Stairway to Heaven”. I was shocked at the intensity of my physical reaction to this song. It was more than just a flood of memories washing over me; I felt that I was transported back to the grade 9 Christmas dance in my school cafeteria. I can see the glow of the Coke machines lighting the face of Jason Miller, the first boy who ever asked me to dance; I feel his large, moist hands resting on my shoulders; I smell the lingering cafeteria odour of deep frying and gravy; I sense the sweetness of his borrowed cologne around me.

I remember as a teen, I had a love-hate relationship with music. I resented its ability to take my emotions and completely transform them without effort into something unexpected and unbidden. I didn’t like knowing that something from outside had such power over me. Yet, sometimes I would use this power to lift me out of moods of uncertainty and fear. All I needed was a good dose of rock and roll, loud and throbbing, to make me rise up, take courage and get on with it – like a rallying song in battle of life.

Generally speaking, Bill was the musician and I was the poet in our house. Maybe I chose this path deliberately to have an expression of my own, to prove how different I was from him. Bill would spend hours learning a new riff or arranging an intricate pattern to old classics on the guitar. For him, words were at best superfluous, at worst a major interference in the flow of a piece of music. For me, the words were filled with their own pulsing rhythm and harmony; they guided me through a maze of dawning awareness and wonderful nonsense – “Don’t worry, be happy! Dooo, doo, doo, doo…”

Where we did find common ground was in the music of Bruce Cockburn and Joni Mitchell. Bill would get me one of their albums each Christmas and birthday and he would play it as much as I did. Their music lay before each of us, a no man’s land between our individual battle camps in the adolescent wars. We would go to this buffer zone – sometimes together, sometimes alone – and for the six cuts on the side of an album, a truce would be called, long enough to build some sort of healing bridge that kept us coming back to the music and to each other.

I don’t think that I can overestimate the influence that Bruce and Joni had on me as I was growing up – to this day I think of them more as friends of the family than as celebrities. My earliest memories sway to their rhythms. My view of the world emerged in images that they created. ”Both Sides Now” was my lullaby, “Musical Friends” was my wake up song. And with every new album that Bill brought home, they provided me with a song and a philosophy for each new phase of my life. A few years ago, I read that Joni was reunited with the daughter that she had borne and given up for adoption while still in her teens. I was shocked to realize that I felt something that could only be described as sibling rivalry on hearing this news. It didn’t surprise me however to realize that Joni has had a much greater influence on me and is closer to my heart than my own mother.

What would my life have been like, if my mother had given me up for adoption? I used to fantasize that perhaps Joni or Bruce would have taken me in.

Copyright 2003

JOURNAL, Friday, Dec. 14th

2007-08-05T12:47:00.001-04:00

I had never been to a funeral parlour before.

Tommy, one of the boys in my grade 7 math group, lost his father this week. He died of a heart attack wrestling their Christmas tree up from the basement. Will they ever be able to enjoy Christmas again?

He was a big man with a big personality: a contract negotiator for his union, an enthusiastic fundraiser for all of the sports teams that the kids were involved with, a dedicated Rotarian – he’ll leave a big void. The father’s name was Tom. For a few months now, Tommy has wanted people to call him “Tom” as well; perhaps now they can.

Tommy has a younger brother, Cory. They also have lots of cousins in our school – four families all together. They’re really more like siblings than cousins; they were all at the funeral parlour. One of the teachers commented on how weird it was to have so many kids running around in such a place. No one seemed to have the will to make them stop. It was probably helpful and even kind to let Tommy and Cory have their cousins with them; I couldn’t imagine them being there alone, just the two of them, among the adults and the grief.

The kids were all dressed up. The cousins wore their best clothes. Tommy and Cory had new outfits. Their aunt told us that she had taken them shopping that morning. She cried a little when she remembered of how excited they were to be able to pick out their new clothes. Tommy had insisted on black jeans and a Roots jacket to go with the black Nikes that he got when school started. Cory, the more flamboyant brother picked out a leather tie – burgundy – to go with his new shirt covered with swirling skateboarders. There‘s something very caring about this family that would let the boys wear whatever they chose to their father’s funeral.

Cory was away playing with the other kids. Tommy/Tom stood beside his mother, greeting the visitors as they filed past. He looked tired but drawn to his mother’s presence – they were like two magnets, each needing the other to activate their combined energy. She would squeeze his hand now and then; he would pat her back.

A group of us from the school go in together. I make my way down the reception line. (How strange that it’s so much like at a wedding – our condolences a poor substitute for congratulations and wishes for a lifetime of happiness.) I shake hands with Tommy’s grandparents – it must have been the unnatural pain of parents who’ve lost a child that I see in their faces. I speak with Tommy’s mother: still young, beautiful, strong, lost. She says how much our coming means to her and the boys – I can’t imagine why. I shake Tommy’s hand and say how sorry I am.

“Thank you for coming, Miss,” he says, manly, automatic. I comment on his nice new jacket – he smiles, forgetting himself and his effort to keep on the very narrow track of acceptable emotions that will allow him to get through this day.

He reminds me so much of what Jean and I were talking about last Tuesday. She was speaking of the stages that everyone must go through to process trauma: Manage, Deflect, Reflect and Move on. Each stage has its own definition and duration for each person’s situation. Tommy, his mother, his grandparents, and even Cory in his own way, are managing.

I spent much of my childhood managing – or trying to manage – our lives. I picked up the pieces of shattered motherhood that mom left scattered around our apartment. I examined the pieces and did my best with each. Many, like laundry and mending, were discarded like sky pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that don’t seem necessary to the picture. Others, like bathing, grooming and feeding, I worked at until they fit together, wearing down the sharp edges, leaving almost imperceptible gaps in the grooves that told of the way pieces can be made to fit together, even if they aren’t exactly as the puzzle maker originally intended.

I remember going with Danny to a pub/film night at the university, watching an old black and white western where the team of horses was spooked and running wild. The hero jumped aboard the buggy that they were pulling and grabbed the reins to try and control all six horses at once. Sometimes, especially before Sophie came, that’s how I felt about my life. I was always trying to rein in the wild horses, to regain control and save the young lady.

Then, I learned to deflect.

In time I came to fully embrace and appreciate our lives with Sophie. I learned to live in the present, to leave behind what had gone before, and to cling with a tenacity born of hope and fear to the good times as they arrived. When I started to relinquish my responsibilities towards Claire, once we were in Sophie’s care, I felt a certain amount of guilt but it was a guilt that was powerless before the crashing waves of distraction that security, new friends and approaching adolescence brought with them. What a strange and powerful influence moments of happiness can be. They allowed me to deflect the pain that I’d known in my life, to greedily relish those moments of happiness.

Managing and deflecting are the screens I’ve used throughout my life, to camouflage my fears and my uncertainty and to help me get on with the business of living. They’ve served me well; I’ve accomplished a lot with my life. But I think that part of me has always known that it wasn’t enough.

I couldn’t reflect. I was too young, and too busy trying to make my way in the world. As I grew older, I never felt the need to look back on what our lives were like – I couldn’t see what good it could do. Until a few months ago when, at the deepest level of my being, my body took over and the tears came forcing me to look for help when I didn’t even know that it was needed.

Jean insists that each of these stages must be passed through, that it’s essential for me to look back, albeit from a safe vantage point, in order to move on to where I want to be.

Now that I’ve started to tell the story I’m beginning to understand what she means. I see how many times I have to fight the impulse to hide from the pain and remain faithful to the details. I’ve begun to accept how the memories and the impulses have been so much a part of my existence that they’ve worked their way into every corner of my being, including my relationship with Danny. They’re like nagging little brothers who’ve come along on a date, constantly interrupting the flow of the evening – and Danny has patiently cajoled them each step of the way. Perhaps it’s time to send them away.

I called Danny when I got back from the funeral parlour. I needed to hear his voice. There’s nothing that makes you want to hold on to what’s precious in life like seeing someone who’s just lost it.

I once had a psych professor who was fond of telling us of the desert oak: a tree, according to his metaphor-laden lecture, that grows in the desert areas of Australia. This tree apparently sets its seed in the most inhospitable ground, germinates and grows to be a small bush. For the next 75 years, it sets out a root system that burrows deep and far to seek out the sources of water that it will need to sustain itself. Once it has found those sources – decades into its life as a bush – it grows to be a full sized tree.

I don’t want to know if such a tree really exists; I love the imagery. I believe that Danny’s love is the source of nourishment and support that I need to go beyond the bush stage – but I was always afraid that it wouldn’t be enough, that it might dry up if I relied on it too heavily. Perhaps I’ve never believed that I deserved to be more than a bush.

Copyright 2003

Dear Claire;

2007-07-29T08:22:00.001-04:00

I have my books
and my poetry to protect me.
(“I am a Rock”, Paul Simon)

Dear Claire;

When I think of coming east for the first time, I have such vivid memories. I remember that even the air seemed different in Ontario – I really can’t explain it but I still feel it each time I go back to B.C. I can tell when I’m in Vancouver and I can tell when I’m in Toronto, even blindfolded. It probably has to do with the sea mist and the smell of the mountains.

I remember that I missed Bill and was haunted by the thought that I would never see him again. I suppose that it’s not strange that I never thought much about mom. Looking at the situation with what I know today, I think that I had simply turned off that part of my memory until I was able to handle it without the pain of seeing her the way she was when we left her on Ariel’s floor.

I remember thinking how different Sophie seemed to be right from when we got off the plane. It was the first time that I noticed that she had a habit of chewing on a tip of a strand of her hair when she was upset or nervous. Now that we were in her world, it was strange that she didn’t seem as self-assured as she had been when she was making things right for us in ours.

Sophie’s boyfriend, John, came to meet us at the airport. He tried to be nice when Sophie introduced us but his manner changed when he spoke to her.

“Couldn’t you have gotten a later flight? We’re right in the middle of rush hour,” he snarled, lifting our bags from the carousel. Sophie explained to me that her house was quite far from the airport, and that it would take us at least an hour to get there.

It took much longer. I remember counting twelve lanes of solid traffic as we made our way across the city. It reminded me of the salmon runs that Bill had shown me when we went over to Vancouver Island once, the fish were so tightly packed, all heading in the same direction, glistening like a stream full of gems. Did we look like so many fish heading upstream to someone seeing us from the above?

I remember making up two of my favourite story characters during that trip from the airport: I called them Garry and Gwenny, the seagulls. Do you remember them? They would loose their way and discover the most interesting things, and they would always confuse the meaning of what they saw because of their different perspective, looking down on the world from the sky. I haven’t thought of them in a very long time.

We arrived in Scarborough in the early evening and stopped at McDonald’s before going to Sophie’s home. I remember that we both had a fish filet and orange juice. The lady at the counter made a big deal because I didn’t want pop. I’ve never liked the fizziness of the soda – it always seemed too harsh in my mouth.

Sophie’s house was a duplex. I had never seen two identical houses stuck together – at first I thought that she had the whole building to herself; it seemed enormous. In the setting sun, we could see that her yard was beautifully landscaped and I came to know how much Sophie loved working in her gardens and tending her plants, like she had tended us.

You took in what you could of the trip from the airport, but you were so tired and cranky after the long time on the plane that Sophie brought you right into the house and ran a bath for us before doing anything else. I remember the bathroom being the most perfect room in Sophie’s perfect house. For the longest time after we came to live with her, I remember wiping my wet hands on my jeans, or shaking them to air dry after I had washed them – I didn’t want to mess up her beautiful towels. That first bath was so luxurious, we were surrounded by beauty: lavender scented bubbles, candles, matching towels, a dish of pot pourri, a basket of dried flowers and on the wall were two plaques of delicate pink swans in a pool. We had never seen such a bathroom before.

In those first days with Sophie I remember that it surprised me how much I missed Vancouver. It bothered me to go outside and not to see any mountains in the distance. I hadn’t realized how much the mountains had meant to me: strong, distant, constant. Just knowing that they were close and that I could escape into an imaginary mountain world, away from the city was a comfort that I was stunned to discover, and heartbroken to lose. There were however, so many trees on Sophie’s street that sometimes I would pretend that I really was in Vancouver and that the trees and houses were just hiding the mountains from my view.

It was difficult for all of us at first. The things that define an adult’s life: appointments, responsibilities, relationships, work, were still there waiting for Sophie to pay them attention when she returned to her life in Scarborough, but so were we. Although I did my best to make things easier for her, the way that I had taken care of things at home with mom, it didn’t ever seem like I could do enough or it was never the way that Sophie liked it. At home, I would make us soup and crackers for supper but Sophie now insisted on a “proper” meal. Back home you had spent most of your days in sleepers that I would put on you in the morning when I got you changed, but Sophie had us both outfitted in new wardrobes. I got the feeling that she was trying to make up for something that we had been lacking. She was determined that we weren’t going to be malnourished and poorly dressed while in her care.

All of this made me feel edgy and inadequate. I suppose I knew that we couldn’t live on soup and crackers forever, but I always thought that I had been doing a good job of taking care of us before. Unfortunately all of these extra demands on Sophie robbed her of the thing I cherished most about her. When she was with us in Vancouver she had watched us and had listened to our needs with her heart, yet somehow when she got back to Ontario the stress of caring for two needy kids got in the way, and her heart couldn’t hear us any more.

It wasn’t until these last few years of my life, now that I’m almost at the age that Sophie was when we went to live with her, that I’ve been able to appreciate what it was that she did for us. The idea of having two children come into my care in the wink of an eye is frightening to me beyond all imagining. I know kids. I’m comfortable with them, yet I would be beside myself at the thought of becoming an instant parent. I remember being quite saddened that Sophie wasn’t as easy to be with, nor as fun loving as she had been with us in Vancouver. I didn’t understand what it must have meant to her, having us there. All our lives were turned upside down by the move; we were like lost souls, finding our way blindly each day. But Sophie reassured us by saying we would eventually come to settle in to each other, by taking it day by day, one step after the other, believing in each other, and knowing that there was really nothing else for us to do but to love each other.

Sophie took a few extra days off from work, until the Labour Day weekend, to get us settled. We visited my new school, Centennial Park, just a few blocks from her place. I remember that I immediately liked the big, modern building in its emptiness; the gleam of the polished floors and the smell of wax made everything seem fresh and comforting.

We went shopping for new clothes at the mall. I’m not sure how to explain that first experience of shopping in a mega mall. I was overwhelmed with the feeling that this was a perfect bustling city in itself: each shop so neat and tidy in appearance, orderly, clean, bright and rich in colours, yet protected from the unpredictability of the weather and the world outside. No matter what was happening out there, the mall never changed; you always knew what to expect. I liked that.

Through a connection at her work, Sophie found Molly to look after you. We had looked at a few daycare centres but they weren’t willing to take you because you were still in diapers then. Molly looked after two other kids all day, and three more before and after school. I had been so concerned about what would happen to you while Sophie and I were away each day, but when I met Molly I knew that she would be good for you. She seemed to know instinctively what you needed. You trusted her. Right from the first time we went to her house you would allow Molly to be close to you – wiping your face and brushing your hair – you let her do things for you that you fought off from the rest of us.

Do you remember Sophie’s dog, Boots? Boots the cockapoo was our treasure. She loved us from the moment we met her, when we picked her up at the kennel where Sophie had left her during her trip. Boots’s attachment to us probably came from the fact that she often got to clean the floor of a good portion of whatever you had to eat, and that I loved to play ball with her in the backyard. Once I started going to school, I would often eat my lunch there, then I would run home and let myself into the backyard to play with Boots until it was time for the bell to ring. What a sanctuary she offered me in those first few months; it meant that I didn’t have to spend the whole recess standing up against the cold brick wall of the school, pretending that I didn’t mind being alone.

Strangely enough, I don’t remember much about my first day of school at Centennial Park. In fact the first few weeks are a kind of a blur: feeling overwhelmed and nauseous most of the time, surrounded by too many people, too much noise, too many smells, not enough air. Now, whenever I have a new student who has just started in our school, I remember how it feels to be lost when everyone around you seems to know where they are.

When Sophie went back to work at the records department in the hospital, you started going to Molly’s every morning. I know that Sophie was worried about leaving you, as you hadn’t been feeling well since the plane trip. Molly was great at comforting people and she promised Sophie that she‘d call if there was any problem at all. I remember when we left you that first morning; you looked relaxed in Molly’s arms when she lifted you up at the living room window. She raised your hand and waved it at us to say goodbye. I was so glad that we had found her.

Molly became Sophie’s parenting coach. Never having had children around her, Sophie had no way of knowing what was normal in a child’s development. It was Molly’s experience with so many different types of kids that made her recognize that there was something wrong with you and that you should see a doctor.

Sophie made an appointment and when you were sent for hearing tests, they discovered that the infection that had put you in the hospital the year before had left with you with serious hearing loss. The doctor believed that this was probably the reason why you spent so much time within yourself, and why you didn’t try to speak. This diagnosis was upsetting for Sophie. She didn’t know what she should do next, as she wasn’t sure how long we would be with her. The doctor suggested that if we were returning to Vancouver in the near future, it would be better to wait and start you in a program there. They gave us some exercises and literature to help us understand your problem. Molly already had some experience with deaf children and was able to help us too.

Looking back, it’s difficult for me to be analytical in what I remember about your behaviour at that time. The hearing diagnosis seemed to be the only explanation of your problems that Sophie and the doctor needed or wanted. They never pursued any psychological testing that I know of. From what I remember, there were symptoms of other conditions, and I still believe there was something more going on with you, but after all these years, I don’t know what’s accurate memory and what has come to me from working with so many children who, in their brokenness, have reminded me of you.

I’ve already mentioned how Sophie was different now that we were living with her, but I haven’t mentioned my own sense of fear that came with the change that I’d seen in her. I think that she was even more worried about the responsibility that she had taken on with us, since learning of your hearing problems. I remember I found her crying at the kitchen table one evening after supper. I felt ashamed that we had brought this burden on her, yet I’d have been terrified at the thought of what would become of us if Sophie hadn’t been there. I had only known tears of rage and fury from mom, Sophie’s tears frightened me: quiet, weary, helpless. I never told her I saw her crying that night, but the image of her lying with her face buried in her arms on the kitchen table stayed with me, fresh and unhealing, for a very long time.

On Friday evenings Sophie would bring us to McDonald’s for supper and she would ask me how school was going, and I’d say fine. And she would say that things seemed to be okay for you at Molly’s, and that the antibiotics that the doctor gave you seemed to be helping. We’d talk but we wouldn’t say much. We were distracted by the commotion going on around us – distracted and relieved not to talk about the difficult things. We didn’t talk about mom, or about how I missed our room back in the apartment, or about how Bill must miss us. We didn’t talk about the fit you threw when the doctor tried to examine you. We didn’t talk about the fact that Sophie’s boyfriend, John, didn’t come around any more. We didn’t talk about the beautiful clothes that I was wearing and had always dreamed of owning, that made me look just like all the other kids in my class, but made me feel like a stranger to myself.

You and I had always shared a bed back home. Our tiny room in the student housing couldn’t hold much more than the double mattress on the floor and shelves – planks and bricks along the wall – for my books and our toys and clothes. It was a jumble but it had been our nest. At Sophie’s place we slept in her guest room, with twin beds, under matching white eyelet comforters, and lace curtains on the windows. There was a night table between the beds with a large ceramic bowl and pitcher covered with tiny blue flowers on a white background. It was all very beautiful, but neither did we speak of how worried I was that you would pee on the lovely covers, or knock over the pitcher. Some nights we would begin each in our own beds, but as you would wake or rock yourself fitfully in your sleep, I’d climb in with you: the warmth of our bodies seemed to quiet your sleep. I never got used to the nylon nighties that Sophie bought us. Sometimes I’d put on Bill’s old T-shirt that I had brought with me, and we would finish the night together – you curled up in a tight little ball, me lying beside you, patting your back.

Molly was so good for you. I wished that I could spend my days, watching how she was helping you to connect with the outside world. She would touch your shoulder or gently turn your head with her finger under your chin when she spoke to you. She taught the other kids to do the same.

The audiologist explained that although you could hear some things, the sounds were distorted and probably seemed to be coming from far away. You couldn’t make the distinction of what sounds were directed to you, so you learned to ignore all sounds except the ones that startled you – then, watch out! – you would react with full force.

The other children at Molly’s couldn’t understand why you didn’t want to wrestle with them, or why you would cry out in that very low, strange rumble that you had whenever they crowded in too close to you. Molly was able to reach you and pull your eyes to focus on her; I envied her for that. I wanted so much for you to look at me.

I was in grade 5 at my school and it took a long time to get to know any of the kids very well. I’d escape to my lunch time rendezvous with Boots as often as I could when the weather was good, but mainly I would keep to myself and do my work. Everything was so strange to me. I think I worried a lot about school. I remember one incident, just a few days after school started when I was bringing a note to the office for my teacher. I heard crying, loud and heartbreaking, in the hallway. There was a little boy who was maybe in grade 2, sitting on a wooden chair just outside the open door of his classroom. He was looking in at the other kids and crying out loud. No one came to him. No one asked him what was wrong.

I was stunned. At Mandala Rising this would never have happened. He would have been cared for and comforted. I recognize now that this little guy was probably in the throws of a very elaborate attention-seeking charade, and that his teacher was probably ignoring it to the best of her ability. At the time, it terrified me to think that a whole school full of people who were supposed to be looking after the children, were leaving this little boy to his very great sorrow.

There were some good things about Centennial Park. I loved to read and the school had a terrific library. I asked if I could help out there and was soon spending all my recess time shelving picture books left by the Kindergarten class. Sometimes I’d wash the little bit of chalk dust from the ledge, and once a week I’d water the plants. I loved being surrounded by books and it was usually bright and quiet in the library at recess. I’d wish that I could stay there all day.

After school, I’d walk over to Molly’s and help her give the kids a snack, and we’d colour or do some other crafts. You were always so serious and concentrated, as if everything in your life had a very specific purpose which had to be fulfilled. I’ve said that sometimes you would “play” with a toy, but really you never played like other kids. You studied your toys more than played with them. It wasn’t until I saw the other kids at Molly’s that I remembered how I used to play. I’d line up anything: spoons, pots, candles, moving them around, creating scenes and stories, as children have done forever. Living your life with you had made me forget what it was like to be a little kid.

In November, you turned three, and you didn’t care or notice. The balloons, the candles on the snowy white cake that Sophie brought to Molly’s, the party hat you wouldn’t wear, the frothy ribbons on Molly’s present all seemed to make you nervous, as if they could hurt or startle you in some way. As it turned out, Molly’s gift was one of the few things that I’d ever seen you accept without reservation. She had made you a knitted blanket, pale lemon colour of brushed yarn that was soft and wonderful. She had trimmed the ends with a quilted border of small patches of different, textured materials. Usually, you would be wary of things that you didn’t recognize – in your world, new meant untested, and untested meant untrustworthy. Molly’s blanket was the exception; the borders fascinated you and you were able to accept its colours and textures without suspicion. It gave you peace, yet it provided a way for you to connect with something outside yourself. How was it that Molly could see into you and know how to reach you? Was it experience or intuition or some kind of psychic connection? So many children had come through her home, and she seemed to know without knowing what each one needed.

I think that she must have fostered children at some point because in addition to the framed pictures on the hallway wall of all the daycare kids that she had cared for, she also had a collection of pictures, arranged in what might have been chronological order, which seemed to be family portraits. This family wall was unusual: each picture had only two people who were consistently present from year to year – Molly and her husband, Bud. From among the three or four children in each picture, sometimes a child would repeat in two consecutive pictures, but then would be gone from the next one. These studio photographs intrigued me. I had never seen this type of picture before and they drew me into their stories, forcing me to compare, by sheer proximity, the smiling polished faces on the wall to your face.

It occurs to me that I seldom saw your face right on. You often sat with your head down, looking at a toy, or just focusing on your hands. I could only see your features clearly when you were asleep. The curved line of your cheek and chin were so smooth; I can still feel the downy softness of your skin as I would trace your outline while you slept. It was the only time that you would let me close enough to you to touch your face. But of course, your eyes were closed. I don’t remember your eyes very well, only that they were dark brown like mine.

I just realized, thinking of the wall of portraits at Molly’s, that there are very few pictures of either of us in our childhood. As a therapeutic exercise, the abused and neglected children that I work with will often produce a memory book of their good life experiences. These books are full of pictures of their babyhood and toddler years. Even the poorest children, or those from the most abusive backgrounds, have pictures taken by someone – usually grandparents or friends who don’t know or are trying to ignore the circumstances in which the kids are living. They dress them up at Christmas or birthdays and take snapshots, or bring them to the portrait studio, using cuddly toys as props. Even those kids have some happy childhood pictures to refer to. We don’t – you and I.

Mom and Bill never had a camera. Mom always felt uncomfortable about having her own picture taken. She had once heard of a native belief that the representation of the person in picture form could steal their soul. This sounded true to her, so she never allowed our pictures to be taken.

One picture that I remember of us is the one that Molly took at your birthday party. Four young kids (I remember that one of them was called Chip) are wearing party hats and smiling squinty, toothy smiles for the camera. In the picture, we see the top of your head bent down; you’re fussing with the pocket of your new jumper. We see the side of my face, mostly hidden by my long hair and I’m patting your hand, trying to soothe you, to tell you that the pocket is okay and not to worry about it. That picture does little more than confirm that we existed. It doesn’t show much of what we looked like.

It would be interesting to see a clear picture of us, of how we would have looked to the camera in those days. Sophie had a camera and did take a few snaps of us, but they are mostly from a distance. I guess if you think about it, people usually take pictures of happy times with children smiling. You never smiled.

While we lived with Sophie, there were so many things that I wanted to ask her about mom and their childhood, about their parents, about why we hadn’t met before. Sophie never seemed to have time to get into it. How strange it was for me to even think that we have something called “grandparents”. It always seemed to me that our universe had produced our parents fully formed and ancestorless. I once asked Sophie right out, about her parents, where they were. She paused a long time, looking for the right words. Finally, she just shrugged and said something like: “Really, Star, it’s very complicated,” as she continued to fold the laundry. I didn’t ask again.

Sophie is the only one who ever called me “Star”. I’m not sure where this came from, but it was like being anointed with something magical that allowed me to live far above the small life that we had. “Star” – it made me feel beautiful when she called me that.

Thanks for being there to share this with me, Claire.
Love, Starla

Copyright 2003

JOURNAL, Sunday, Dec. 9th

2007-07-24T19:44:00.001-04:00

I feel awful. Danny and I had a fight. Now he’s gone back to Toronto, and I won’t see him again for…who knows how long?

He came down after work on Thursday night as he had an interview on Friday about a job beginning in January. He said the interview went really well. He was so hopeful and his excitement was infectious. We had a lovely time on Friday night, we went out for dinner and talked a lot about the future. Later on over a bottle of wine back at my place, we mentally rearranged the furniture in the apartment to accommodate Danny’s things when he moves in.
The weekend started out so well but Saturday morning was strange. We woke up early and lay cuddled together for a long time. I don’t remember ever feeling that close before, so warm and peaceful. Later on we made love, and as we came together and the waves rolled and tossed me, then pulled away from me, they took with them all of my defenses. I lay under Danny, silently crying into his chest.

At first he didn’t notice that I was crying. When he felt my tears, he lifted his head to see me, and his face reflected back all the fear that he could see in mine. He cooed and caressed me; he hugged me so sweetly and asked me what was wrong. He kissed my tears and held me to him.

When Danny is with me his presence is usually enough to hold the fears at bay. When he’s away I rely on my protector-self to step in and keep me focused on living. I don’t know what happened this time.

I want to explain these fears to someone. I want to understand them myself, and deal with them. I rack my brain for a way of drawing a picture in words to show what’s going on inside me – what has always been going on inside me. I’m lost in a swirl of childish uncertainties. I see bogeymen where none exist. I feel threats from the kindest of sources. I hear admonitions from somewhere so deep inside, telling me that I don’t deserve to be happy. It seems as if they’ve always been there, waiting patiently for my weakness to ripen that they may overtake me completely.

Poor Danny. At every stage of our relationship he’s had to run the gauntlet of my fears, waiting for me to trust him. I guess that this next step of moving in together isn’t going to be any different.

I remember when we first met: he said he could see from his seat across the room how frustrated I was in the math class that we were taking together. He said that he thought I looked cute when I pouted. He volunteered to help me despite his ridiculous schedule with the varsity hockey team and his own schoolwork. He had to wait until I failed two quizzes and was well on my way to flunking out of the class before I finally accepted his help. Although he asked me out on a date at our first tutoring session, I turned him down saying that I didn’t think that it was a good idea. We only started going out months later, when he wrecked his knee during a hockey game and I felt sorry for him. On that first date I had him lean on me as we went up the stairs in the theatre. When we reached the top step I kissed him on the cheek as he juggled his crutches and I held on to our popcorn.

The first time we slept together, after weeks of nudging and cajoling on his part, he was only partly aware of what was happening. We came back to my room after a particularly raucous team party, and struggled awkwardly to get him on to my bed without tripping over furniture and waking everyone in the house. I sometimes wonder if it ever would have happened if he hadn’t seemed so helpless with his crutches and his drunken giggles.

And every step of the way Danny has come through for me with his patience and his love. But somehow I feel that what we’re looking at now is different. He doesn’t believe it when I tell him that the life that he wants to build with me may not be in my power to offer, no matter how much I might want it too.

As much as Danny wants to be with me, I also know that he would like to have a family. We don’t discuss it but it’s obvious. When we walk along the street, he has a smile for every kid he sees. He looks for excuses to talk to parents of babies in strollers. His own family is such a great part of who he is; I know that he would love to have children of his own.

I’m not one to leave anything to chance. When sex became part of our relationship, despite the condoms that we used regularly, I went directly to the health clinic at the university to get on the pill. I told them about my erratic cycle and they sent me to a gynecologist. She was kind and encouraging, but she did warn me that it would probably take much time and persistence, if I wanted to have children.

The pill had a strange effect on me and on our relationship. For the first time, I had to learn to deal with regular periods and the whole blood thing. I would have been happy to avoid it my whole life, but I survived. Between Danny and I however, the presence of these regular periods masked my fertility problem – Danny had no idea that I would probably have trouble conceiving. It was like a secret that I’d kept without meaning to, never knowing how to bring it up.

When Danny and I had been together for two years, he asked me to marry him on the night of our graduation. It was a hard time for me: Bill and Sophie had both come down for the ceremony and I was feeling a bit overwhelmed by the flood of memories that their presence had brought. I told Danny that I could never marry anyone, and that I couldn’t have kids anyway, so why was he wasting his time with me? What a thing to do to someone. I don’t think that I wanted to hurt him, just push him back to a place where I could see how he would react to the reality of the future of our relationship; if that meant losing him, it was a risk I had to take.

I don’t know how our relationship has survived some of the phases that I’ve been through over these past eight years. In many ways, I’m ashamed of the person that I’ve been with Danny at different times of my life. As I’ve been thinking about Bill, and especially mom and the relationship that they had when they were together, my rational self knows that they aren’t the best, nor the only role models that I can look to in how to deal with long term relationships, but when I do think of them together, I’m overwhelmed with emotions that I can’t begin to understand. Yet the familiarity of the fear that those memories trigger makes them impossible to ignore.

Despite yesterday morning’s episode with the tears, which left Danny confused and even more solicitous than usual, we had a good weekend. We spent most of that afternoon in a café, watching busy shoppers taking the time to relax in the warmth of a latte grande and some light jazz music. We talked about dreams that we’d like to live together, of summers in Europe or maybe even an exchange year, teaching abroad. I was so grateful that I could play this dream game with Danny. He makes me feel like his world is a safe place, and that I can choose to be safe there too.

Sunday morning we lay around for a long time, eating croissants in bed and watching Coronation Street on T.V. We went for a walk along the lakeshore – everything seemed fine when we set out into the blustery wind. But as we walked, Danny mused about our life together when he moves in. He spoke of nightly cuddles and of so many breakfasts like the one that we just shared that we’d get bored with them. Hand in hand, we listened to the waves crashing against the rocks with such intensity, breaking into my space and chilling me beyond where I thought that they could reach me. The wind and the waves and the threat of so many changes in my life pierced through me like fingers of ice.

I said nothing.

We stopped for lunch then walked back to the apartment through streets of ancient houses and naked trees. I held onto Danny’s hand like a child being led.

When we got back, we stood in front of the hall closet. Pussywillow was winding herself around my ankles wanting attention. Danny took my coat and leaned forward to kiss me as I instinctively bent down to stroke Willow’s head. I didn’t mean anything by it but he felt that I was ducking away from him.

We worked for a while on a jigsaw puzzle spread out on the coffee table like a surgical patient, frozen in time, waiting for someone to put him back together. Danny brushed the hair from the back of my neck and kissed me there. I pulled away with an involuntary shudder. I moved off the couch and went to the window. I held myself, arms crossed over my chest.

Danny wanted to make love before he left – such a sensible, loving , normal wish before we said goodbye for a few weeks. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. He was hurt. He asked me what he could do to help. He asked me if I love him. He asked what was the matter with me. I had no answers. He left, angry and frustrated.

I hate myself for what I’m doing to Danny, for what I can’t offer him, physically and emotionally. I don’t deserve his kindness or his love. He has a right to expect better than this. Why can’t I allow myself to be happy? Am I as stupid as my fig tree – reacting with the same negativity to everything that’s offered to me – good and bad alike? I don’t want to lose Danny. I miss him already. I don’t want to feel this way anymore.

Copyright 2003

JOURNAL: Sunday, Dec. 2nd

2007-07-16T07:26:00.001-04:00

The poinsettias and Christmas cacti are out in all the stores again. Every year I’m lured to buy one of each. It’s how I celebrate the beginning of the season.

Actually, this is a strange way for me to mark this festive time, mainly because I hate plants. Well, I don’t really hate plants – what irritates me about them is their unpredictability, their intolerance, their fickleness.

In the flower shops, the plants have a language of lovers. The azaleas pucker their beautiful bud mouths to me and whisper that their pretty complex flowers will soothe and uplift me for years; they seduce me into believing them. Strands of ivy, strong and pliable, tell me how much I need them around me – like a lover’s embrace. The peace lily reminds me that I’m part of a natural order that can be beautiful now and then. While they’re still in the shops I understand their enticing language. But when I get them home the plants revert to some mysterious gibberish that’s incomprehensible to me.

I buy calanchoe, prayer plants, begonias, rhododendron like some devotee to the plant gods, knowing that the mysteries of what makes living things thrive and what makes them perish will be visited on these plants without my ever understanding why.

I’m not so much concerned about plants dying – that would be easier. If they could only push out one last gasp to tell me that the game is over and it’s time to take them from their pots and return them to the good earth via the Johnson’s compost pile next door, I’d feel better. No, it’s the invalids that frustrate me: the ones who look like marathon runners in the store but within a month become sad, wilted, spotted creatures that don’t deserve to live for any aesthetic reason, yet are still too full of life for me to commit plantocide.

I sometimes think that I should purge my apartment of all living plants and decorate it with those silk ones that only need to be dusted now and then. They wouldn’t mock me or accuse me of incompetence by displaying brown tips or yellowed leaves. They wouldn’t drop their flower buds before they’ve opened. They wouldn’t speak to me in a language, so mysterious that it changes its meaning depending on the season, or time of day. Silk plants would sit there, frozen in their posed, wire stemmed beauty, doing their job of decorating, demanding nothing in return.

I know I’m ranting – and all because I put out a few dollars for a couple of seasonal plants, the kind of plants that should know enough to die gracefully by the end of January so that I’m not left to explain why, despite my brown thumb, I have a thriving poinsettia out on the deck in June.

Then there’s my fig tree. Other people have fig trees that are full and lush. Mine is embarrassing.

I remember when Carrie, Jen and I got it. We were in third year at university and it was the first time that I’d lived in an apartment where we actually had a living room to sit in – where each and every room (besides the kitchen and bathroom, of course) didn’t have to be designated as a bedroom to cover the rent.

If Martha Stewart had seen us, she’d have been very proud. Carrie, the tidy roommate, had the use of her dad’s car for a whole weekend in September. We went to Wal-Mart and bought this fig tree. We brought it home and put it in the far corner of the bright living room as Jen, the messy roommate, had heard that plants needed indirect sunlight. We gave it some water and some plant food. We were happy to share our living space with this new symbol of our maturity and aesthetic awareness.

We soon discovered why it’s sometimes called a "weeping" fig. The next morning, there were two leaves on the floor. By the end of the week, the centre branches were bare and a mound of dry leaves had gathered around the trunk, like some tiny band of elves had come to rake them into a pile. It was like watching a pet goldfish, rising a bit more each day, slowly moving towards its final destiny: floating on top of the water.

When I think of the language of plants, the fig is the most difficult to understand. It has a single word/symptom vocabulary that it uses to voice everything. It has one mantra that serves it in all circumstances: Drop some leaves…

Too much water: Drop some leaves… Too dry: Drop some leaves… Too cold, change of light, change of direction: Drop some leaves… Trim some branches, give it plant food: Drop some leaves... It’s that stupid tree’s response to every change, good or bad. You’d think that even a tree would know enough to react well to positive change and let you know with some negative sign if the change is for the worse – not the fig. Happy or sad: Drop some leaves…

Almost every sentient being (as Bill would call them in his Buddhist terminology) has a certain tolerance for change – things get a bit better or a bit worse, they tend to be able to handle some degree of fluctuation. Not the fig – it is the perfect reactionary change-o-meter. The hands on the clock moved: Drop some leaves…A robin flew by the window: Drop some leaves…

So why have I kept this ridiculous tree with me through four apartments, two and a half university degrees and six years of lesson plans and reports? Because the damn thing won’t die. Sensitive as it is to everything, there’s this core of resiliency that won’t let it give up. For every leaf that falls, tiny shoots push out at the tip of branches and bud into new leaves. Every naked grey-brown stem has its mate of soft clear green that speaks of its determination.

After eight years together, I’ve come to admire that.
Copyright 2003

JOURNAL, Wednesday, Nov.28th

2007-07-15T08:19:00.001-04:00

Slow dancing, swaying to the musi
Slow dancing, just me and my girl.
(Johnny Rivers)

I remember I once heard that the process of writing is part gift and part puzzle. I understand the gift part in how therapeutic it can be, but it’s the puzzle that interests me now. In writing about my childhood I’m creating a puzzle, examining each piece and linking it to its neighbour, trying to understand the picture that’s emerging.

I read parts of Claire’s letter during my session with Jean yesterday – it was like taking her on a voyage through a world that I’d built myself. Like any tourist would, Jean points out things that interest her along the way, things that amuse her, that intrigue her and confuse her. She notices details in my landscape, some I’ve placed there with great care and precision, some I barely knew were there at all – she brings them to my attention.

Jean notes my powers of observation and says that I have a good memory for detail. She says that she envies me for this, that memory is a precious commodity after you hit 40. We both laugh – she laughs at herself and how she can never find her glasses; I laugh at Bill who was never able to remember things – things that were unimportant to him anyway. Now that he’s in his fifties, he must be completely lost.

Jean says that I describe scenes and events with much detail and precision, but when it comes to writing about how I felt at the time, I’m more “economic” with my words. She has a point. Danny is always trying to get me to talk more about how I’m feeling, but I have trouble expressing these things. I’ve always been quiet; it takes time for me to formulate what I want to say about how I feel, and when I’m ready, often it doesn’t matter anymore.

I guess that I’ve fallen into a habit of focusing on outside details in my writing, but I don’t think that this is necessarily a bad thing. It’s in the details of my story that I deposit my feelings. When I write, I put myself in Chinatown, for instance, holding my embroidered slippers. I can see every stitch and remember how cherished I felt that someone would think to give me such a delicate gift. But then I feel all of the shock, the confusion and fear that was also there during Claire’s first tantrum just a few minutes later. The emotions come back to me and are invested in describing how we sat there on the bench – a lifeboat really – waiting to be rescued. Each detail that I write is born of an intricate set of emotions that are just too complex to put down on paper. Sometimes I acknowledge them as I write; I don’t like to dwell on them.

To write about my pity for Bill as he holds out a dictionary for me to pack would be too simple – it would lessen the anxiety, the excitement, the guilt, the confusion and the glorious relief that I was also feeling at the thought of leaving him, of going with Sophie. If I wrote of each emotion in a particular situation, I could spend an entire letter just describing how I felt – how I didn’t want to feel – as I watched mom lashing out at Bill like a wild animal who knows nothing but how to defend herself. I don’t want to do that.

For now telling the story is what’s become most important to me. Maybe I’ll come to a point where I want to focus on my feelings – I’m not there yet.

Jean also pointed out that when I described how Sophie saw each of us, I didn’t mention how I thought that she saw me. This wasn’t deliberate. Perhaps I never did know how Sophie saw me then – I hope that she saw a little girl trying to be so grown up, trying to hold it all together and so grateful for her presence, her attention, her guidance. Sophie has done so much for me over the years that it’s hard for me to imagine how she would have felt about me when we first met.

Now that I’ve started writing the story, I don’t want to break its rhythm. I’m spinning a thread that’s connecting so many of the scattered bits of my life. Most of my childhood was like a series of scenes into which I felt that I’d been deposited, never knowing with any certainty how I got from one to the other. I remember when we were first with Sophie in Scarborough, I’d wake up each morning startled, looking for Claire in the bed that we shared when we were in Vancouver. Every day I had to relive how we came to be there. It didn’t come naturally to me to believe that we were safe and comfortable in the twin beds in Sophie’s guest room. Writing the story of how it all happened has helped me connect these two different scenes: life with Bill and mom, life with Sophie.

In my relationship with Danny I sometimes feel that same abrupt shift in gears that I did as a kid. One day he’s here and we’re a couple, warm and loving and comfortable together. Then the next day he’s gone and we go back to leading our separate lives in our separate worlds. We’ve been living this come-and-go existence for so long that I’ve gotten used to it. I’m comfortable with it and I’m afraid that changes might destroy what we have. I suppose that our arrangement has been harder on Danny because his life didn’t prepare him for such constant flux. His experience would lead him to expect a life of scenes that flow naturally into each other, day after day.

This idea of my life having more of a rhythm to it, moving more logically and naturally from one scene to the next, reminds me of an image that I had of Claire and me. Last spring, Danny and I went to his brother’s wedding. At the reception after dinner they rearranged the tables to the side of the hall to allow room for dancing. The bride and groom danced the first dance, slow and graceful, effortless. The second song was to be for the bride to dance with her father. This beaming middle-aged gentleman stood up, tall and distinguished in his rented tuxedo. He rested his cane against the table (he had lost his leg to cancer the year before) and limped onto the dance floor. He took his daughter in his arms as the music started and they danced together, holding onto each other with such devotion. Through the song, Sandy was crying all over her father’s stiff white collar; you just knew she was thinking what a gift it was that he was there at all, that it was only his leg and not his life that he had lost to the cancer.

So there they were, Sandy and her father with 150 people looking on, watching as they made their slow, awkward, hesitant steps in time to the music. It was an odd looking dance from our perspective but for them, it was perfect in how they adapted to each other – she offering him balance, he offering her comfort.

The image of their dance has stayed with me; it reminds me a lot of how Claire and I were. When she was a baby, we were dancing the dance of sisters in the normal rhythm of our lives, as they were then. But after Claire came home from the hospital so transformed, we learned to adapt our dance to suit her new place in the world, her new way of dealing with life. We danced our awkward, stilted dance, clinging to each other, needing each other, yet happy and grateful when Sophie came to change the music.

Copyright 2003

2007-07-10T07:50:00.001-04:00

How do you like to go up in a swing,
Up in the air so blue?
Oh, I do think it is the pleasantest thing,
Ever a child can do.
(“The Swing,” R.L. Stevenson)

Dear Claire;

I’ve been looking forward to writing about Sophie – our angel – and how she came to us that summer. It’s hard to imagine that two sisters who looked as much alike as mom and Sophie could be so different.

When we saw Sophie through the window for the first time, as she got out of the taxi in front of our apartment on that hot clear day in August with her matched luggage (I had never known anyone who used suitcases before, only backpacks and duffel bags) I wondered what you thought. Were you confused by the similarities? Sophie was like an air brushed photograph of mom, emphasizing everything that was beautiful, minimizing the distortions that sadness and anger had etched into mom’s face. Even their voices were similar. Did this bother you I wonder? Did you think it was some kind of weird transformation until you saw them together? Did you notice?

I knew that Bill’s family lived in the States – Kansas I think, and when he came to Canada to escape the draft, he cut off his ties to them. Mom had never spoken of her family back east. I just took it for granted that we didn’t have an extended family. Then Sophie arrived. I never knew how or why she came to be with us. I suspect that Bill contacted her as things got worse with mom; I never knew for sure.

I remember that first night as I was putting you to bed; I explained that Sophie was mom’s big sister just like I was your big sister. I told you a story of the two little girls, Sarah and Sophie, running in a lovely field of daisies and soft tall grasses where they could play tag and be good friends.

Sophie was two years older than mom. They had the same long chestnut hair that Sophie sometimes wore in a braid down her back, but more often tied loosely in a ponytail to the side of her face, draping over her shoulder where it looked more like a scarf, a fashion accessory. Her eyes were that same rich brown that you and I have, and her cheeks were high and delicate. Her complexion reminded me of the Royal Doulton figurines that I’d seen in jewelry store windows, polished and perfect. She dressed like the ladies that I’d sometimes see on the bus, with her matching outfits and accessories – so different from the drapes of Indian print cotton that mom wore.

When Sophie first came to us mom was furious. She screamed at Bill and Sophie, accusing them of trying to trick her, of playing with her head. She stormed into her room and stayed there. We didn’t see much of her until just before Sophie left.

Sophie became my role model for me. She was always so full of energy, always on the move – probably because there was so much to do when she first arrived. She mobilized me as her aide and we cleaned the apartment from top to bottom. I had such a sense of comfort and satisfaction, looking at all that we had done together. As we worked Sophie would ask questions like: Who did the laundry? What did mom usually make for supper? Were we allowed to have friends over to play? I must have seemed dull witted to Sophie at first because I really didn’t know how to answer these questions. Each was as foreign and as complex as if she were asking where we stabled our camel.

Part of me wanted to build and maintain a façade of what I thought would be considered normal in Sophie’s world. I would have liked to tell her that our family went together on weekly trips to the laundromat, where you and I would sit by the window watching the students passing by while mom folded our fresh, clean clothes. But the reality was that sometimes Bill would leave the apartment in the morning with a duffel bag of laundry, and he may or may not remember to bring it back with him at night. If he forgot the laundry in the machine, he’d usually find it the next day piled on the counter by the sink, cold and hard on the outside, wet and moulding in the center. Sometimes it wasn’t there at all; it wasn’t important. Clothes were not a big deal for us. About once a month, Bill would go to the Goodwill shop or the Sally Ann and come back with a bag full of T-shirts, jeans, socks, whatever. We had lots of clothes – they just weren’t very good.

As for Sophie’s concept of supper, that wasn’t something that I was too familiar with either. Even when mom was well we never ate three meals a day at regular times; we would eat when we were hungry. When mom was baking and cooking for the collective, she would do so much tasting that she wasn’t ever hungry for a meal. There was always lots of food: crackers and cheese, bread, fruit, yogurt – so if we were hungry we ate what we felt like eating. Sophie wanted to make shepherd’s pie and lasagna.

When it came to having friends over I was confused by the question. My first reaction was “Why?” There was no one that I hung around with in the neighbourhood and the kids from school lived all over the city – it wasn’t something that we did, hanging out together in each other’s house. Besides I had you.

I found Sophie’s questions strange but not judgmental. I was glad to have this window into her view of what was normal and important for kids.

Once we got the apartment clean and organized, Sophie started taking us out. Sometimes we would just walk to the park down the street and get a treat from the teenager who sold frozen Space Bars and Popsicles from his bicycle cart. I remember that you liked to go on the slide. I would climb with you up the ladder and hold you at the top, stretching my body halfway down the slide before letting you go. You would slide down on your back and Sophie would catch you at the bottom. I could tell when you liked something; your body would relax a little and you seemed to be more aware of what was happening. That was your way of being happy: you would leave your world for a while and quietly join us in ours.

A couple of times, we went to Stanley Park. Bill used to bring me there to feed the ducks when I was little – only lettuce leaves, not bread crumbs that are hard to digest, he would tell me. Sophie would put you in the stroller and we would walk around the sea wall, letting the wind whip our faces and the sun toast our skin. We would always make a stop at the swings where, because of their amazing height, I would have to pump very hard to get up any speed at all, but once I was going it was the closest thing to flying that I could imagine. I would close my eyes and lay back as the swing went forward, the wind rushing over me like ripples of water. At the end I would open my eyes and see nothing but sky. I would lean forward on the return path, pushing with all of my might. I was so high, it was easy to imagine that I was sailing through the sky with all the seagulls.

How peaceful and inviting their life seemed. I remember when I read mom’s book "Jonathan Livingston Seagull" and wanting to fly away to live with him, but I could never leave you. I knew that I would just have to wait until you were strong enough to pump yourself on the swings too; then we would work our way up to the highest point where we would fly away together with our new seagull friends.

Sophie brought us to places where we could dream such dreams.

Sometimes at the park or just around our apartment, I would watch Sophie watching you. It bothered me when I would see her face become puzzled when she would work so hard without success to make you laugh, or when she tried to teach you new words and you wouldn’t speak. Until I saw Sophie’s concern you had just seemed like a quiet kid to me. You were two and a half years old, and I never realized that children usually speak by this age. You were silent and I had no idea what that meant.

You had rules that guided your life and I had instinctively learned and followed them. Your rules included not to leave you alone in a room, not to startle you by touching you when you didn’t expect it, and not to hug you too tightly or get too close to your face. And there were others too. If these rules were followed, you were content and could sit quietly for hours losing yourself in the world of a stuffed toy or any strangely shaped object – you could focus on these things forever, seeing in them wonders that were lost to me.

It took Sophie some time to understand your rules and to predict your reactions to certain situations. One of the first places that Sophie took us was to Chinatown with all of its smells and exotic treats to taste and see. Sophie let me choose a pair of black silky slippers whose toes were covered with embroidered flowers of every brilliant colour. (I still have them in a chest at the foot of my bed.) For you she chose a fabulous red satin jacket, with delicate paintings of children climbing what looked like a rock face. It was the kind of thing that Chinese children wear in drawings on all of the calendars in Chinatown but, beautiful as you were in that jacket, you didn’t look anything like those kids with all of your red curls.

Sophie picked you up to show you how nice you looked in the mirror that was too high for you to see from where you were standing. While you were both looking in the mirror, Sophie pressed her cheek to yours giving you a squeeze which made you wriggle. Then an old Chinese man came up to you and spoke in his choppy, strident voice, reaching out to pinch your cheek, to touch your face – and you let go.

It’s difficult to describe how you would react during these times of overload. This was the first time it happened in public and to this extent, but later on these episodes became more common whenever you were under stress. It was as if once the wire had been tripped it was easier to set it off each time. You would open your mouth full wide and scream: it wasn’t crying or anything that sounded as if it were coming from fear, it was more like a roar, a warning to stay away from you, demanding your space.

You beat and yelled and thrashed at Sophie’s back so violently that she was afraid that you would hurt yourself if she put you down. She hadn’t paid for our things yet, so she game me her wallet and sent me to the counter to pay for the shoes and jacket while she took you outside – still madly wailing and thrashing. After your usual silence, it was frightening to hear such volume coming from you. When we were on the sidewalk and your punches became slower and less forceful, and your voice was still strong but less insistent, Sophie tried to ask me if this happened very often. I told her that you didn’t like people being too close to your face.

Sophie was afraid to put you down, concerned that you would run onto the street or down an alley. We walked a few blocks, Sophie desperately clutching your squirming body until we found a bench. All the while passers-by were turning to look at us. Their eyes followed us, probably trying to assess what the situation was: an abduction or a tantrum.

At the bench Sophie told me to stand by one end of it as she put you down on your stomach at the other, opening her arms then positioning herself in case you should try to run away. We made a wall around you, but it was obvious that you weren’t going anywhere. You brought your knees up under you and lay there with your face down on the bench, your little fists delivering last tiny punches on the worn wooden slats. Your cries had slowed to low rocking moans like kids make after they’ve been crying hard – small, tired wimpers that come from very deep inside. I watched Sophie as she sat down beside you on the bench, resting her palm on your back.

“She’ll be okay now, Sophie,” I said putting my own hand on Sophie’s shoulder, sitting on the iron arm of the bench. She gave me a sad smile as she shook her head. We sat on that bench as streams of hurried people parted around us like a water around a capsized boat.

Although I saw Sophie as my guide and my salvation, she also brought with her the unsettling realization that we needed to be saved. Through her eyes, I could see how sick mom had become and how out of step you were in your development. Part of me resented the intrusion of her reality. Why couldn’t we just be like we were before?

Sometimes Sophie would try to coax mom to come and join us for meals or walks; mom usually responded by screaming at us through the door. She never did eat with us while Sophie was there. Occasionally she would come out to go to the bathroom or the kitchen, her long hair messed and mirroring the disarray inside her, but it was never for long, and her anger and sadness were always obviously simmering, letting a noxious steam into the room.

Once Sophie took us to the mall where she bought us each an outfit: matching shorts and top – nothing fancy but I loved the look and feel of the new material. When mom saw us in our new clothes, she looked confused at first, as if she didn’t recognize us or couldn’t pinpoint what was different about us. Then she marched across the room and picked you up and pulled at your new T-shirt, trying to rip it off of you. You cried and Sophie ran to you.

Mom screamed: “Get this shit off of her. She’s mine.” Sophie managed to help mom get the shirt over your head. They continued to struggle with you for a moment; then without warning, mom let go and everything suddenly relaxed in her. We sat there, watching mom – waiting to see what she would do. Suddenly, with a defiant expression, she stood up letting you fall into Sophie’s lap as if she didn’t realize that you were still there. She turned and walked back into her room and with one last burst of energy she slammed the door behind her, screaming at us through the wall: “She’s mine!” Then everything was still.

When Bill heard of the scene with the new clothes, he was at a loss. I think that up until then he had convinced himself, as I had, that mom was just tired and that she would snap out of it eventually. But it had been nine months since you had been in the hospital and mom and started acting this way – it wasn’t going to change. Also Bill wasn’t around you enough during the day to see the things that Sophie was telling him about you. I think that he wanted to brush it away, to believe that you were just a quiet baby who needed her space. Sophie saw it differently. But what was the value of this new awareness? What could he do? He had no way of knowing how to deal with any of it.

I was beginning to see us through Sophie’s eyes too. I saw mom, wandering through the days, lost and bitter. I saw Bill, flying from one task and commitment to the next, blinders keeping his focus on the goal ahead, and never allowing him to take in what was really happening to us. I saw you, with a level of suffering that was so deep that the somberness of your little face could only hint at its depth – I finally realized how unusual it was for a two year old never to laugh. I had simply gotten used to it all. Now, seeing us through Sophie’s eyes, I was frightened and unsure of what would become of us.

Sophie and Bill spoke for many hours in the evenings, usually over a bottle of beer on the little patio outside the apartment. As darkness fell and I went to our room, they would come indoors and I would sit on the floor, by the bedroom door, my knees up against my chest and my elbows resting on top. Sometimes I would cup my hands over my ears to keep out their words; sometimes I would let my hands fall so I could hear what they were saying. I sat there in the shadows of the hallway sending out my own telepathic messages for Bill to listen, hoping that talking with Sophie would help him find some solutions to our lives.

A few days before Sophie was going to leave to go back east, she and mom had it out. Mom was calling Sophie a bitch that had come to take her children. Sophie was screaming that mom wasn’t capable of caring for her children. Mom was wild. The next day Sophie and Bill went to see the doctor together, probably because they couldn’t get mom to go herself. You and I went with them and waited in the reception area playing with the toys. Through the office walls, I could hear Bill’s voice getting louder and more desperate until the door finally flew open with a crash and Bill came out in a fury. He marched over to us and picked you up, walking out without looking left or right. Sophie came and helped me quickly put your blocks away and we went out after you.

Bill was shaking when he got behind the wheel. He went to start the car and Sophie put a hand on his shoulder; he turned the key and it revved but the car wouldn’t start. The palm of Bill’s hand smashed over and over on the steering wheel where he finally rested his head, choking on sobs that heaved his back and shoulders. As we sat there, I looked over at you on the seat beside me: you were looking out the window, rocking your head against the back of the seat in short, tense pulses in time to Bill’s choppy breaths – it was one of those few times that I knew that you were aware that something was happening. Bill lifted his head and sat back, slowly turning the key in the ignition. The car started on the first try. He let the engine run for a few seconds, then looking straight ahead, out through the windshield he said: “I can’t go back home – not just yet…”

We drove a long time, over the Lion’s Gate Bridge and headed up the coast until we came to a beach. We got out and walked along the shore. Sophie carried you and sat on one of the logs that had washed up on the rocks, looking out at the sailboats. Bill and I threw stones into the ocean – it was the first time in over a year that we had done something like this together. Difficult as that day was, I was so grateful for the chance to throw rocks with Bill.

When we did get back to the apartment, Bill knew that something was wrong as soon as he saw that the door was half-open. He ran inside and went from room to room, looking for mom and taking in the upturned furniture and emptied drawers whose contents lay everywhere. He was frantic. Mom hadn’t left the apartment in months and none of us could imagine why she would leave so unexpectedly now. Sophie wanted to call the police but Bill just paced the tiny space of the living room, saying over and over to himself: “Where would she go? Who would take her?” He went on questioning, no answers coming to him, until Sophie asked him for the telephone number at the collective.

When Carly answered the phone in the store, Sophie told her who she was. Carly told her that mom was there, upstairs with Ariel. She explained that they had come around to our place in the morning and mom insisted on leaving with them. Bill and Sophie were so relieved to have found her that they never anticipated what would happen when they went to pick her up.

When we got there, Bill was the first one up the back stairs at the collective. He went right into the apartment without stopping to knock at the door or calling out. The sudden noise of his entry startled mom and made her cringe, burying her face in the large cushion on the floor where she was sitting. She began to scream into the pillow, curling herself into a ball, rocking on her shoulder. Ariel, who was sitting beside her, glared at Bill with a look of defiance and protectiveness, and held on firmly to mom’s hand that she had been massaging when we came in. Mom pulled her hand away, the better to clutch at her pillow and continued to rock and scream. Bill stood over the two of them, bewildered, his hands alternately reaching out and pulling back from where mom was lying on the floor. He had no idea what to do.

Sophie stayed back in the doorway, holding you in one arm and hugging me with the other. Together we stood as what we knew of family disintegrated in front of us, like watching a home going up in flames. Sophie told me later that this was one of the most difficult moments of her life. While she held us in the doorway, she had come to terms with what was possible in our lives, and what wasn’t. She realized that she couldn’t simply leave us – after all, she had come to help us, and everything had fallen apart during her stay. How could she return to her own life when she felt so responsible for us? How could she leave us like this?

As she watched Bill helplessly reaching out, and mom thrashing and rolling on the floor, it was obvious to her that our lives had now changed probably forever. She began creating order in the chaos of our situation, in the same way that I had seen her put our apartment together when she first came to us.

Her plan was that you and I would go back to Toronto with her for a while, maybe until Christmas – at least until the crisis was over and mom could look after us. At first Bill acted furious at the thought of us leaving, but there were so few options. He also knew how much Sophie cared for us. I think that he was probably relieved that she suggested it.

Bill was lost as we packed to leave for Toronto. He seemed to be embarrassed by the state of the clothes that we had, as if discovering an area of responsibility that he had not lived up to. He would hold up the strangest things and ask me if I wanted to bring them with me: a dictionary, a candle half burned, my collection of shells. I said that I would leave them with him until we came back, to remind him of us. He nodded each time but kept looking for other things we might need.

On the morning of the day we left, he came into our room. I felt his fingers on my cheek, brushing the hair away from my face as I woke up. His sadness had even changed the colour of his skin: a dull greyness had replaced his usual tone. He kissed me on the top of the head and said that it was time to get up. I couldn’t remember the last time that he had kissed me – even when we were playmates, we would wrestle and tumble, but he probably hadn’t kissed me since I was a baby.

After breakfast, we packed the car and Bill drove us to the airport. I remember feeling so torn between the excitement of going on a plane, and guilt at the thought of leaving Bill alone. Mom was staying at the collective with Ariel and the others. She said she thought that Bill and Sophie had been controlling her with some kind of evil mind games and that staying with Ariel would give her the period of “detoxification” that she needed. I don’t think that mom ever tried to contact us, you and I, in the months after we left her at the collective. She may not have noticed we were gone. I remember that she kept screaming at all of us as we left, that we were stealing her children. She didn’t seem to know or care that you and I were her children.

At the airport, we waited in line to check our bags. Sophie pushed you to the counter in the stroller while Bill parked the car. He found us in the waiting lounge and we sat together until they called us for boarding. Bill saw me looking at the gift shop, so inviting with all of its toys and souvenirs. He asked me if I wanted to check it out. As we crossed the lounge, he took my hand and leading me to the section of the boutique with stuffed animals, he asked me if I thought that I was too old for a teddy bear – I shook my head. He chose a beautiful white bear with a maple leaf stitched in red on its chest. This bear was more grown up than a regular teddy but not so realistic as to be un-cute. I loved him (Sophie saved him for me and he too is in my trunk.) Bill brought down a toy puppy for you from among the other animals; I smiled my approval and we went to pay for the toys.

We said good-bye. Bill, Sophie and I were wiping our tears; you were uninterested and a bit sleepy. Sophie rolled you through the tunnel onto the plane. I followed, balancing Sophie’s shoulder bag and the diaper bag of things you’d need.

I was mesmerized by the interior of the plane; it was like a huge, well-lit movie theatre. I had thought that I would be able to wave at Bill from the window but Sophie explained that our seats were in the middle section, and that Bill wouldn’t be able to see us through the small windows anyway.

I was crushed. I had saved my last waves for this window goodbye, and I was overwhelmed by a sense that I might never see him again. I lay my head on Sophie’s arm as we sat there, surrounded by the noise and the bustle of the other passengers settling in. You were nervous and fidgety in your seat so Sophie took out the puppy for you to play with. There we were, you and I on either side of Sophie, clutching our new plush friends as the plane started its engines. The noise was deafening and we both buried our faces in Sophie’s sweater as they vibrated to a terrifying pitch.

It wasn’t until later that I understood why I hadn’t predicted your violent reaction to the take off. Before Sophie came to be with us, I was so aware of your needs, I had come to anticipate so many of the things that would cause you stress. But since Sophie had taken over much of your care I had let go of some of that awareness, and the constant anticipation of how you might react to a situation. Your shaking under Sophie’s arm was more violent than the vibration of the plane would ever have caused as it taxied on the runway. When it took off the cabin pressure changed, you clutched your head and began to scream in pain.

I could tell, as could Sophie, that this was not the same sort of episode that had taken place in Chinatown. It was not your usual cushion of space that you were fighting to preserve; this was severe pain in your ears that probably brought back many memories from when you were sick in the hospital. No one could do anything for you until the seat belt light had gone out. Sophie was frantic, trying to coax you to suck on a hard candy that someone had offered, but your cries kept you from understanding that it would help you. When we were in the air, the stewardess brought a bottle of juice with a nipple on it. For some reason, you accepted it, and the sucking eased the pressure enough to calm you a bit.

The whole trip was so difficult for you. There was little space to move around and little to do. Your ears were bothering you enough throughout the flight that you only dozed for short periods before you would roll your head, back and forth on Sophie’s arm, your hands slapping at your ears. I had never felt such a sense of helplessness towards you – I had always been able to change your environment, or soothe you in some way when you were upset. I remember feeling very frightened by this inability to find a way to touch you.

I long to touch you now, Claire. I miss you.

Love, Starla.

JOURNAL, Thursday, Nov. 22nd

2007-07-05T08:14:00.001-04:00

It’s taken me a few days to be able to write about what happened last Saturday on the way home from shopping. On Monday I had to reconstruct every detail for the insurance investigator. It’s amazing how many things you can remember from a split second in time.

I was driving down the street following traffic, going just a bit over the speed limit. I came up over a hill where there’s a convenience store about a half a block ahead. Two little boys stood on the sidewalk in front of the store, candy in hand, ready to dash across the street. I slowed down. They weren’t looking in my direction. They didn’t see me.

As I slowed I remember focusing on their body intention, prepared to slam on the brakes if necessary. As the nose of my car passed where they stood on the sidewalk I remember relaxing a bit and applying more pressure to the gas pedal, feeling we were past any possibility of an accident.

The little boy who was closest to me turned and looked at my car and slapped his friend’s back. Why did he do that? I don’t understand. Was he pretending to push him out into the street as kids sometimes do when they play, planning to grab the collar of his jacket to pull his friend back from harm’s way? Did he really not see me or misjudge my speed, thinking I’d be past them by the time his friend reacted?

Whatever his intention, the other one accepted that nudge against his back as a signal that the coast was clear and, without seeing my car as it passed in front of him, ran right into the passenger’s door hitting his head against the handle and shattering the side mirror. He was thrown onto the parking lot where his head snapped back against the gravel.

I don’t usually react quickly in emergency situations. I find I take time to think of what to do, unlike some people who can move on instinct. I remember thoughts going through my head as I pulled into the parking lot, my heart pounding, my breath coming in shallow gasps:
- Should I take my keys or leave them in case someone has to move the car?
- No one will believe this – a kid ran into my car.
- I wonder what grade he’s in?
- What were these two little guys doing anyway, crossing this busy street by themselves?

I pulled over, put the keys in my jacket pocket and ran to where he was sitting alone on the pavement. I guess his friend had no stomach for being questioned – he had disappeared already. I remember thinking how strange it was at this hour on a Saturday morning, on a normally busy street, that we were all alone, just the two of us for those first few seconds. It was spooky, like we were acting out a scene on stage.

I helped him to his feet and saw the stream of blood as it made its way down behind his ear, pouring onto his torn Blue Jays jacket. He was small enough that I picked him up in my arms and went into the store. I asked for something to put over the cut; I remember so little from the first aid course we had to take in teacher’s college, but I did remember that they said to apply pressure to stop bleeding. At any rate it seemed more sensible to keep the blood in his head than to let it pour out.

The owner of the store gave me a roll of paper towels and called 911. He seemed very nervous – was he concerned about his own liability?

I sat down on cases of cat food beside the ATM machine with this little mouse on my lap. He didn’t shake or cry; he just sat there, his head leaning against my chest. I wrapped my right arm around his shoulder, reassuring him while my left hand covered the wound with the wad of paper towels. He never cried.

I cooed and reassured him and asked him small detail questions for information that I thought I might need when the ambulance arrived. He never spoke. He just sat there on my lap, willing to accept my help, not looking for anyone else – anyone familiar – to console him.

I found out from some of the people who had gathered around us in the store that his name was B.J. and he had just turned six years old. He lived across the street and his older brother was supposed to be looking after him. His mother was at work.

B.J. never flinched; he made no move to leave my lap. Was he in shock? Did he know that it was my car that had hurt him?

The ambulance arrived and the attendants assumed I was his mother. They asked standard questions as they looked him over where we sat cramped in the corner of the store – stacks of boxes and wire racks of snack food towering beside us. The attendants took B.J.’s temperature and blood pressure. They snipped his hair away to better see the wound. One of them replaced the blood soaked wad of toweling with a gauze pad, shaking his head at the amount of blood: “Head wounds,” he muttered.

One of the men lifted B.J. from my lap and brought him outside to lay him on the waiting stretcher. The policeman who had arrived, said that he had a few questions for me and suggested that we would be more comfortable in his car. I told him what happened but I kept asking my own questions: Why were they alone, these two little six year olds? Why would his friend appear to push him into the street? Where was the older brother? Why were they alone? He never answered me.

I didn’t cry. How strange that the tears that have been stalking me with such determination these past few months, were nowhere to be seen. When I got home, I brought my groceries from the trunk of the car and climbed the stairs to my apartment. I remember thinking that I didn’t want to rush, that closing the door to my apartment behind me and being alone might somehow make me lose control. I put the bags on the table in the kitchen and sat down in my wooden rocking chair without taking my coat off. Pussywillow jumped up on my lap and worked her head into the palm of my hand, stretching out right where B.J. had been not forty minutes ago. I stroked her ears absently and let some time go by. Her rough tongue against my hand was reassuring. I looked at her sweet face and saw that she was licking the blood from my fingers.

Blood – I wouldn’t say that I’m afraid of blood. It’s more that I’m unusually revolted by it.

As a young teenager, I awaited my first period with dread. I remember when it finally happened, I got out of bed before I realized that it had come at night. As I stood up, I felt something on the inside of my leg and looked, horrified at the trickle of blood – red and thick, running all the way down to gather in a large drop just under the arch of my right foot. I felt dazed and light headed. I didn’t want to move. I threw up.

Almost as if my body had willed it to be so, through my teen years my periods only came sporadically – every five or six months. I suppose that a child with an observant mother would have been trotted off to the family doctor, but I was just grateful not to have to deal with the whole mess on a regular basis. I kept quiet.

When we had to take first aid in teacher’s college, I tried to explain to them that I don’t do well in these medical intervention situations. I fainted during one of the exercises when we were rolling a donut bandage to go over an imaginary puncture wound.

I hate blood: the feel and the smell of it, the loss of control that it represents. Yet there I was on this Saturday morning, rocking B.J. on the case of cat food as his blood covered us both, comforting him with the same controlled soothing voice that I would have used had he pinched his finger in the schoolyard.

Eventually I put Pussywillow on the tile floor of the kitchen and got out of the rocking chair; I passed by the full-length mirror on the pantry door. I was shocked to see how much of B.J.’s blood I had on me. My coat was covered as were large areas of my jeans – dark and rust coloured as it dried into the fabric. I stood there looking at myself covered in someone else’s blood and was shocked to realize how little revulsion I felt. It looked like I had been hit with an exploding bottle of chocolate sauce.

I changed in the bedroom and washed my hands – strange that I didn’t even think to take a shower. I got out my journal from the bookshelf. I was drawn to reread the section that I wrote last week about Claire’s birth; I wasn’t sure why until I read the last line about being in the bathroom and the bloody towels. I sat down on the couch in front of the window, curled up with an afghan and stayed there for most of the afternoon, letting what had happened settle inside me.

As I started to cry, what I came to realize is that I wanted to cry for B.J., for how alone he was, and that he would take such comfort in the consolation of a stranger. The tears that I had for B.J. were real tears, from a true source inside me: sadness, confusion, guilt. These tears – slow to come, almost sought after didn’t scare me. They were natural.

And through the sobs for B.J. I kept thinking of young Starla sitting alone on the bathroom floor and I cried for her too.

I’ve been noticing how much the writing has come to mean to me. Not just what I write to Claire and read to Jean, but this journal writing too. I’m writing in a different way now. It lets me look at what has happened, one word at a time, and allows me to touch how I feel about things. Sometimes when I reread what I’ve written, I pretend that Starla and Claire are children that I know from school. I like them. I delight in their bond with each other. I recognize Starla’s need to be noticed and loved.

I’m glad that B.J. made me cry for Starla – I feel a lot better.

Copyright 2003