Random thoughts for a Sunday evening in December

The kids are finally in bed. They are staying up later as they grow older, and I'm losing (and missing!) quiet time in the evening. We do have different conversations in the evenings though, I find there is more opportunity for openness, for questions, for revelations. A bit more closeness. Tonight, a conversation about how sometimes meaning gets lost in translation.

This week I am going to Haiti for the first time. I am excited and daunted. My grandfather Marcos had planned to take me there, almost exactly 21 years ago. He wanted to show me, freshly out of grad school with my International Development Studies diploma, what development was really about. We had already been to shanty towns in Puerto Rico, where we had lunch with a man who lived in a shack on stilts. He and my grandmother also took me to Venezuela. I remember the mountains and coffee plantations, and getting stuck in a traffic jam for 9 hours. We cancelled the trip to Haiti because of political instability at the time. It was just after American Thanksgiving, the last time I was in Puerto Rico together with my mother.

Lasagna and chili batch-cooked for the week ahead. It makes me feel better about going, knowing a few meals are tucked away. I had to pull out summer clothes to pack, all while hearing there will be snow here tomorrow.

Second Sunday of Advent. A few decorations in place. The Christmas lights aren't up yet, but this year I am focusing on candles. The flickering light. The warm smell of melting wax. The heat emanating from light. 

The Week After

As we emerge from a collective hangover, I wonder how many people Stateside are feeling "I'm never going to vote badly (or not vote) again". Still, it remains surprising to see how much support the President-elect has. It is a gong show. And there's no end in sight. Clearly this won't be business as usual, and no one really has any idea of what will happen.

The political scientist in me is curious. What will the US look like after four years? What will the world look like? Maybe this is the US' undoing. China must be pretty happy. Maybe he surprises us all: wins the war on terror, cleans up the inner cities, fixes immigration. (I caught you laughing, didn't I?)

The human being in me is disappointed. Disappointed in the hateful and vicious rhetoric that has emerged, not only in the US but here in Canada as well. This isn't what my parents signed up for when they chose to live here. Work hard, pay your taxes, be nice. In return, you'll be able to educate your children, have access to good healthcare and live peacefully.

It's really a simple equation.

The healing balm of art and driving on the 401

I spent much of Friday and today driving on the 401. Normally the Ottawa-Toronto drive on Canada's biggest highway is a mind-numbing experience, but on this weekend, after the shock and awe of the past week, I found it comforting and restoring.

On both days, I tuned in to CBC radio as I careened down the highway. On Friday the airwaves were full of melancholy. It was Remembrance Day, and the morning after the world had learned of Leonard Cohen's passing. The haunting tones of The Last Post, and the reminiscences of Cohen's poetry and love songs buoyed me and gave me all the permission I needed to tear up and give in to the sense of loss I was already feeling.

During various outings yesterday and today, I had the pleasure of visiting an art gallery in Hamilton and my friend's gift shop in Port Credit. Both places were finely appointed, with keen attention to colour, light and detail.

And then on the return today, again listening to CBC radio programming, I was introduced to a painting I had never heard of -- The Sun, by Edvard Munch, better known for The Scream -- and also to Zadie Smith, a writer I have never read but who sounded like a kindred spirit as she spoke of playing with fiction and of the power of joy.

These episodes reminded me of the necessity to the human spirit of creativity and imagination -- whether through music, the written or spoken word, or fine arts -- to soothe, to inspire and heal, to bridge cultural and political divides, to explain (or at least bear witness to) the inexplicable.

There is a spot along the 401, just outside Napanee, where someone has built an Inukshuk, a compelling example of how art and communication can be as simple as piling a few stones to take the form of a person, one who stands with arms outstretched, not mocking or harming, but guiding, witnessing and welcoming.

This coming week, as you pore over competing narratives, hilarious memes, contradictory analysis and maddening explanations, take some time to read or write a poem, to listen to a piece of uplifting music, to paint or to view a piece of artwork. Do something creative and constructive with your hands, with your mind. Allow your ears and eyes to feast on something beautiful, made through human or divine creation.

Escape.

This weeping and anxious world will still be here when you get back. But you might feel ever so much stronger to handle it.

Fall

The sky is blue. Piercing blue, and the air is crisp and cold.

The backyard, resplendent in fall colours: red, yellow, orange. One tree is still almost entirely green, with the leaves on only the topmost branches turning blood red, each day, one by one. Another tree, in the neighbour's yard, is almost completely bare, save for a bird's nest that sways in the wind but stays secure.

Wet leaves blanket the yard, and the black-eyed Susans have lost their bloom. The bougainvillea branches, stringy and dry, stubbornly hold onto a few last fuchsia petals.

I should be planting tulip bulbs. And daffodils. I will be mad at myself next spring if I don't plant them now.

Instead I collect the last of the kale and a bowl full of green tomatoes. There wasn't enough sun for them to ripen on the vine. Google promises me they can be roasted or fried, turned into chutney, salsa or soup. I am skeptical, but willing to try.

My husband is putting away the patio furniture: piling up the chairs, dismantling the table, drying out the seat cushions. The deck looks much larger. We should have painted it this summer. It would have dried quickly in the heat. But now the worn out browns blend in with the turning leaves and speak gently with the memory of barbecue suppers and laughter with friends late into the night.

The sun through the glass feels warm and teases me into thinking it could still be summer, if I just close my eyes and believe.

Let me tell you about the men in my life

I can hardly believe this behaviour we are witnessing, the insults and revelations revealed daily, indeed with such alarming frequency that they risk becoming almost meaningless. Such venom and bile that spews forth from this awful being and the people who surround him. Why must we listen to his garbage, to give it credence or even the tiniest bit of attention? Who is he, with his billions? He may have great wealth in material but he lives in extreme poverty of spirit. His jowls quivering, his sausage fingers wagging, his tangy hair flapping -- he is so far removed from reality as to be a farce, a caricature of a certain kind of creature (I won't call him a man) that he deserves only to be ignored and rendered irrelevant.

He is the furthest away in action and temperament from all the men I have ever known, so far away as to be in an alternate universe, now hopefully careening towards a black hole to be sucked up in one great gasp and then forgotten.

The men in my life are good: Husband, sons, father, stepfather, father-in-law, brothers, brothers-in-law, uncles, cousins, nephews, ex-boyfriends, neighbours, coworkers and friends. They are respectful without being condescending, loving without being violent, protective without being patronizing, gentle without being weak, proud without feeling threatened.

I have never been threatened or felt unsafe or insulted by a man. I do know women who have been treated badly by men. I know it happens all too often, and I know it leaves lasting and painful damage. I simply am fortunate to have been treated well by the men in my life, so I also know that good men do exist and that it is possible to live and thrive in a world where women can shine without eclipsing or being eclipsed by men.

I want my sons to be proud of who they are, not shamed because of the behaviour of one jackass who should apologize, not only for his behaviour and not only to the women he has violated, but also to the men whose reputations he sullies by his own words and deeds.

The men in my life are good and decent people, and treat me as a good and decent person. For this I am not grateful -- it is as it should be! -- but rather I am cognizant that it is not the experience of every woman and so I must raise my daughter to expect it as her right, and my sons to emulate the very good men I know.

Lightning

lightning through the window
lights the sky and

brings to mind all the crevices
of darkness from where

we are born
and when we die

we die in darkness
and the light breaks through us

until we shine as lightning
through the window

The New Year is in September

One more day. One more day until bedtimes and awake times become more routine, until homework and studies dominate conversations, until Husband and I once again relinquish our status as Most Visible Adults in our children's lives.

The binders and pencils and pens and erasers and glue sticks and pencil crayons and markers and lined paper and liquid paper and sticky-white-holes-for-when-your-holed-paper-tears thingies and highlighters and calculators and stickies and knapsacks and lunch bags are bought (though not yet organized). Husband has begun assembly line lunch preparations for freezer sandwiches, and today I bulked up at the Bulk Barn with snacks and fillers. Thankfully everyone can take peanut butter and trail mix to school now that no one is in elementary school any longer.)

For the third year in a row, our three kids will be attending separate schools and this year two of them are at new ones. All three on public transportation, with the youngest the farthest to go. I want to ride with them, to walk into the school holding their hands still sticky with applesauce, to give them a hug as they trip over still-too-big and too-white running shoes with their impossibly big knapsacks weighing them down. There will be no glitter glue or popsicle-stick creations this year, but I know instead there will be debates and discussions about big issues and much puzzling over equations that I don't remember how to do. New schools, new teachers, new friends, new subjects, new goals, new ideas, new opportunities: this is the time of change.

It is September, much more the start of a new year than January.

It's not just the return to school, but also the obvious change in season that signals a shift in the universe and brings in me a feeling of joy and melancholy all mixed together. January from December? More of the same usually: cold, snow, weeks and months of winter to come, a brief hiatus for Christmas and New Year's celebrations, and then a quick return to routines. But August to September? The nights darken earlier, the mornings and evenings are cooler, the leaves on the trees carry a dullness in the green -- a green that almost seems brown -- with only a slight hint of the colours with which they will soon present their orchestral radiance in autumn.

The new crescent moon last night, a slice of silver in the quieting sky.

This is the time for change.

Summer Night

strains of an oboe, 

echoes of fireworks,

the buzzing of a fly

trapped on the inside of my window pane

the sounds of a summer night

waft through the screen

the breeze so soft,

holding on its breath the fragrance of petunia

leaves blackened against 

deep sea blue of sky, 

which is not the sea but is of the sea,

as the sea is of it, and on and on in perpetuity

Love, and be loved

Sometimes this world makes me weep
I tell my kids to be friendly,
To be generous
To be kind
To love
And to be confident that they are loved
Without judgement
Without fear
Without condemnation
To love, and be loved.

If there are to be tears,
Let them be tears of joy
In ecstasy
or in the quiet of the night
But let there not be
Shame or violence.
Just love, and be loved.

Is that too simplistic?

Yes.

It really is that simple.

Love, and be loved.

Breakthrough

Creativity involves breaking out of established patterns in order to look at things in a different way
--Edward de Bono

There is a man in Paris who is stuck in a concrete wall. Is he emerging from encasement or being held back? Is he escaping or calmly moving forward to his next destination? Is he being boxed in or breaking free?

I feel somewhat like this man these days, as I wait to learn what my next assignment at work will be. Our department has a necessarily convoluted approach to job placements. Being a rotational department, with people going out on postings to our embassies or returning from overseas over the summer, or simply moving on to a new challenge at headquarters, means a significant portion of our workforce is on the move every year, like a swarm of bees or a murmuration of starlings. Having reviewed a list of available positions posted in April, and having had numerous conversations with potential managers and colleagues, to strategize and theorize about what the best approach and best fit will be, we have submitted our top 5 preferences and we now await the judgement of an assignment committee whose members presumably have our best interests at heart. It is not an efficient process -- 12 weeks to run from start to finish in this current round. There are still weeks to go. And so we wait, floating and hovering, pushed this way and that by gusts of wind, not yet ready to land and still unaware of our journey or destination.

What am I looking for? I don't mind being busy, but I refuse to do crazy. I want to keep my head above water so I can be present at home and still leave time for writing, reading, listening, meditating, gardening, making wine, exercising (I must get back to exercising) -- while working with good people.

The smell of the fresh air after rain that wafts through my window, the washed-out grey of the clouds that still blanket the sky: I want to remain aware of these, without dulling my senses with the senseless beating and endless churn of forever trying to move forward while being held back. I am where I want to be. I have already broken through concrete and I have no interest in building myself back into it.

When a woman tells you she's fine

When a woman tells you she's fine, she's probably just hanging on by a thread. She may be thinking, "I'm drowning, and don't know which way is up," but she'll tell you she's fine because she doesn't want to worry you, or maybe because she doesn't have enough oxygen in her lungs to explain that she feels lonely and abandoned, frightened and confused. If she feels strong enough, she might say that she's had a hard day, or week, but more than likely she'll tell you she's fine, never mind that she's barely holding on til morning when the sun might start a new day.

If a woman tells you she's okay, she might mean okay enough, even though she doesn't remember the last time she laughed with abandon, or talked to a good friend until the moon set and Orion rose, and felt joy like a nine-year-old girl lying on her back on a beach with the waves lapping at her feet.

If a woman tells you she's hanging in, she's nearing the truth, even though she probably holds her breath every time the phone rings or the Blackberry blinks, and feels like screaming at every email message or query around her, even though it's her job to answer questions, her responsibility to make decisions, her role to provide.

If a woman tells you it doesn't matter, it really does matter so very much because she's letting go of her interest and offering up to you the accumulated savings of her fortune: her time.

But, if a woman tells you she's happy, rest assured she is overcome with an ecstasy that cannot be contained or explained. It is joy, shared freely and completely, wrapped in stardust and presented to you with no strings attached and no money-back guarantee, but with all truth and wonder, her eyes shining and lips quivering as they utter words of simple gratitude: I am happy, thank you.

Weight Lifting

Do not ask yourself, 
when you breathe, 
if the oxygen is better used by another --
someone else, somewhere else, sometime else --
dance, sing, write, create
create! so that others around you may 
also breathe.

Easter saved, thanks to Jewish Challah and my xeno husband

I woke up this morning to the scent of lamb roasting in the oven, with a hint of garlic, lemon and oregano tickling my nose. It's Easter Sunday for Orthodox Christians, and this is the smell I associate with this day.


The Greeks celebrate everything well, but Easter is the best feast of all. Why do we celebrate now, so much later than Western Easter? Easter is marked on the first Sunday after the first full moon of Spring. For Orthodox Christians there is one more caveat: as long as it's after Passover, for Jesus was a Jew and had celebrated Passover before the passion. Every six years or so, Passover falls the same week as Western Easter, so Orthodox Christians wait another moon. It usually means the weather's nicer too, which makes for a better barbeque!

Having married an old stock Canadian, or a "xeno" ("foreigner") as the Greeks would say, my family celebrates Easter twice every year, and my children benefit from the best of both traditions -- they can have their chocolate bunny and eat it too! There was no Easter Bunny in the Easters of my childhood, which were spent dyeing eggs red, not pastels, and feasting at the homes of family friends, where we roasted lamb on a spit in the backyard. The men took turns rotating the rotisserie for hours, basting the meat with olive oil, lemon and oregano. The drippings would sizzle on the coals and lift up a sweet aroma with the smoke. If a youngster happened to run nearby at the right time, about 5-6 hours in, she would be treated to a slice of perfectly roasted meat held out by the tanned hands of one of the uncles. We ate all day, and danced in the back yard, or in the garage or basement if it was too cold. 

My mother would spend the week prior cooking and baking, and we would attend church services every night where my father would accompany the cantor with his rich baritone voice reciting and singing the hymns and prayers in response to the priest. Holy Thursday was a marathon session, with the reading of 12 gospels detailing the Passion of Christ (and one year, just like an old Greek song goes, the priest made 12 into 13, accidentally repeating one of the readings and extending the three-hour service even longer!). On Good Friday we got to skip school, and I spent the afternoon at church with my girlfriends and our aunties and yiayiades ("grandmothers") decorating the epitafio -- a flowered wooden bier that would be carried in procession during the candlelight night service that night, symbolizing a funeral procession -- and snacking on antidoro -- soft, fluffy white bread blessed by the priest. Our fingers were still red from dyeing Easter eggs the day before.

The Resurrection service on Saturday night commenced at 11pm, and carried on until 2 in the morning, with candles glowing at midnight as we shared the new light passed on by the priest, from parishioner to parishioner, one by one until the whole building was alight in a soft glow. Xristos anesti! Christ is Risen!, we chanted over and over again, in song and in word, and, Alithos anesti! Indeed, He is risen!, ever louder, in response. The scent of incense and beeswax mixed with burnt hair, as one or another of the girls' hair inevitably caught fire as the light was passed from one to another. When I was very young, our parish rented the local hockey arena so that everyone would fit -- on a regular Sunday there might be 200 people filling the pews, but at Easter, when every lapsed Greek came out of the woodwork, we needed space to hold 2000!

The service ends with a joyfully welcoming sermon, written by St John Chrysostom in the 4th century AD, and repeated in Orthodox churches worldwide every Easter since: 

Let all rejoice in the splendour of this feast! 

...If any have laboured from the first hour,

  let him receive today his rightful due.
If any have come after the third,
  let him celebrate the feast with thankfulness.
If any have come after the sixth,
  let him not be in doubt, for he will suffer no loss.
If any have delayed until the ninth,
  let him not hesitate but draw near.
If any have arrived only at the eleventh,

  let him not be afraid because he comes so late...

One year, our young priest, no doubt exhausted from the week of services and parenting his own young family of four children, but also overcome by the radiance of the night, was moved to tears and could not complete the reading of this text, so my friend Chris, now a priest himself, took the book from his hands and delivered the concluding, triumphant phrases: O death, where is your sting? O hell, where is your victory? Christ is Risen!

This year, life took over and I was unprepared for the feast. We had house guests arriving, a sick son had just returned from a three-day school trip, and an exhausted family overall, so I had decided we wouldn't do "Greek" Easter this weekend. We had celebrated Western Easter a month prior, and I didn't have it in me to pull out all the stops again. We had guests so we would not make it to church. I hadn't coloured any eggs, I hadn't made tsoureki (Easter sweet bread, which takes at least 8 hours to make, given time needed for the dough to rise) or koulourakia (twisted cookies with sesame seeds). I had bought a leg of lamb but it remained frozen solid in the freezer and would need a day to thaw. I decided to wait until next weekend; since Bright Week (the week that follows Easter) is considered as one long day of feasting, there remained time enough to celebrate.

But yesterday afternoon, the gravitational pull of history, tradition and home overcame my indolence. All afternoon, I felt homesick. "It's as though it is Christmas Eve, but with no decorations hung, no gifts wrapped, no Christmas carols, no church, no plans, no cookies baked and no food cooking!" I wailed to my family, and then pulled myself together. We could at least colour some eggs, I thought. I still had half a packet of red dye from last year. We would dye them in the evening and at least have red eggs for breakfast on Sunday. That would be good enough, right? Oh, but the eggs would taste so much better if accompanied by tsoureki. But it was 5pm! How to make dough and have it rise for 6 hours, knead it, and then rise two hours more, before baking? And then it hit me: I pulled out my bread-maker recipe book, and found it: a recipe for Jewish Challah -- sweet egg bread -- the dough could be ready in two hours, twisted into braids and baked for half an hour. After all, Jesus was Jewish. There would even be time to make koulourakia while the dough was rising. Easter was saved!

"Oh, it smells so good in here," my kids said, one after the other, over the course of the evening, warming my heart. I lit a few candles and sat in easy conversation with my childhood friend, and then I went to bed, sleepy and satisfied. It was the eleventh hour, but my fingers were stained red and smelled of sugar and butter, and the scent of candles floated throughout the house.

I awoke this morning, slowly, emerging from dreams mixed with the scent of lamb. Confused, at first, I forced myself to consciousness. I still smelled lamb: could the smells from a dream cross over to reality? But no, the smells were real. My husband -- the "xeno" -- had bought fresh lamb and potatoes, which he was roasting in the oven with olive oil, lemon and oregano.

Rich and poor, dance together.
You who fasted and you who have not fasted, rejoice together.
The table is fully laden: let all enjoy it.


Indeed, Easter was saved.

A memo, in poetry

Even when I'm not writing, I'm writing. I haven't managed to write a new blog post in several weeks, or a new story or poem in several months. But I have been writing: Five work applications, justifying in five different ways how my expertise and experience are well-suited to five different potential positions. A memo seeking approval of funding for a potential new programming initiative. Countless email messages seeking or sharing information.

My writing instructor at the "Writing With Style" course I took at the Banff Centre year-before-last advised us to write well even when we're not writing creatively; to make every word, and every moment of communication, count and be presented in as clean and as meaningful a manner as possible. It's good advice. Every word, every message, every note provides an opportunity to communicate and should be done well.

I wonder what it would be like to write an funding approval memo in poetry instead of prose. The one I wrote this week might have gone like this:

We are seeking your approval
to support the dreams
and aspirations of
600 million people, of whom
130 million remain poor,
not poor in spirit, or poor in heart,
not poor in ambition or talent,
not poor in ability or resourcefulness,
-- for if we were to measure these,
and compare them to ours, I
sometimes wonder where we would fall --
through this initiative that will allow
people to study,
to foster connections,
to spark an idea, or
to make a lasting memory
that just might change the world
or even, only, their own perspective of it

Three Books I'm Reading

I usually have more than one book on the go at any one time. A novel or two for when I have longer stretches of time, a book of short stories for times when I don't want to commit to a lengthy plot, a memoir for when I want to read about real people, maybe a book of poetry on the nightstand for a quick glance of inspiration. At the moment I am committed to three books, four if you count the one I'm scared of.

And the Mountains Echoed, by Khaled Hosseini, is about Afghanistan, and it is not about Afghanistan. It is a rich, sweeping saga, covering multiple generations, multiple countries, with families and friends tied together in ways known and unknown, discovering secrets and betrayals, and exploring love, family and identity.

The Heart Goes Last, by Margaret Atwood is dystopia -- and Atwood -- at its best, or worst, depending on how much you like dystopia, or Atwood. I dislike dystopia, but I like Atwood. Well, most of Atwood. I don't like Atwood's dystopia: the people don't feel real, they are paper cut-outs without blood, breath or soul. I keep shaking my head and thinking "Oh Margaret, really?" and then I keep reading. Because, well, it's Margaret Atwood.

Small Victories: Spotting Improbable Moments of Grace, by Anne Lamott, is soul-opening. Lamott writes about friendship, family, motherhood, community and faith. Her writing is simple, honest and real. Every day moments are as life-affirming as significant milestones.

And then there's Wild, by Cheryl Strayed, which details the author's quest to overcome her grief at the loss of her mother by hiking the Pacific Crest Trail, alone. Published in 2012, the same year my mother died, I remember flipping through its pages in the bookstore, overcome by tears within a few sentences. Too soon, I thought, and left the book behind. I watched the movie a couple of months ago. Over three years on, I felt ready to face another daughter's grief and compare it to my own. I made it through the movie (my fists, jaw and neck so clenched that a powerful migraine overtook me that same night). I decided to try reading the book. I read through the introduction, heart pounding, tears flowing; too soon. So it sits on my coffee table. Some day I will read it. Or maybe some day I will take a long walk.

Alleluia

There is a word that is one part joy, one part gratitude and one part relief: alleluia.

Alleluia can mean: We arrived home safely. Or, it's about time!
Alleluia can mean: I am seriously confused but will listen. Or, we agree to disagree!
Alleluia can mean: We are so fortunate to live in this place and time. Or, this country is beautiful!
Alleluia can mean: The days are lengthening and flowers blooming. Or, there is magic in that sunset!
Alleluia can mean: I missed you so much. Or, I am so happy to know you!
Alleluia can mean: I have made it through another day. Or, I have life and I am loved!
Alleluia can mean: There is so much to do today. Or, I finished that project!
Alleluia can mean: My friends are near me. Or, I have known amazing people!
Alleluia can mean: The rain came, and the gardens will grow. Or, I wrote a poem today!
Alleluia can mean: I am happy, I am thankful, I am ok. Or, we are going to be fine!

In Puerto Rico, I remember hearing alleluia as a response in daily conversation. Your car broke down but then re-started? Alleluia. Your mother was in hospital but returned home after treatment or surgery? Alleluia. The hurricane blew through the island causing damage but no one was hurt? Alleluia. Your son found a job? Alleluia. Your daughter returned after completing her studies in the US? Alleluia. If you are hurt, or sick, in trouble or confused, people will say to you, ay bendito, or "oh blessed one".  It means: You are accompanied in your pain, your sorrow, your discomfort, until there is a resolution, until we can say again, alleluia!

I have been in pain, in sorrow, in discomfort, as have people around me whom I love. Resolution is not always tangible, concrete, visible, perfect or predictable. Sometimes it is fleeting, but it has been felt. And today I say, with all my heart, alleluia.

This week in emotions

Confusion, mild panic at Trumpomania south of the border.
Pride, mild amusement at Trudeaumania south of the border.
Nostalgia after a phone call to a dear friend in Switzerland, with whom I have not communicated in about twenty years.
Awe at Facebook photo capturing Dan's grandmother and her four older sisters celebrating the 100th birthday of the eldest.
Satisfaction, and fatigue, after following a three day course on project planning software, in French, thereby using both sides of my brain simultaneously and wondering if maybe I might have been a computer geek in another lifetime (right, not.)
Denial before I come to terms with changes in eyesight and realization of having developed crows feet due to squinting.
Relief following appointment with hematologist (there is nothing wrong with my liver and I can continue living with the habits to which I have become accustomed, although I acknowledge that I should get more exercise).
Contentment watching husband and his dad sitting together on our patio chairs after shovelling off the deck, same legs crossed and heads tilted at the same angle.
Wonder at seeing the crescent moon emerge in the sky, shining brightly and visible through my family room window, knowing that at the opposite end of the earth my brother witnessed a solar eclipse caused by the same moon.

Our emotions are sometimes so big.  And yet, we are so small.

A Walk in Winter

We went for a walk today. It is still winter and, surrounded as we are by four- or five-foot snow banks all over the city, it is difficult to imagine the oncoming and inevitable thaw. The snow, packed down and walk-able, was still white -- except for the yellow stains from the dogs, not to mention the dog shit, that lined the paths -- and through the woods, the trees and their branches remained bare, snapping off as we pushed through the tighter spots. The air felt warm enough that I could take off my mittens. We walked at a leisurely pace: my husband and eldest son ahead, tossing snowballs and familiar insults at each other; my father-in-law following them, several paces behind, his steps deliberate but steady; and I, behind him, watching his matchstick legs as he stepped one foot in front of the other. Shouts and laughter echoed from the toboggan hill, and I stopped only to look up through the branches at the bluest sky.

The morning after the night before

I'm hungover. In comparison with hangovers from my youth this one is not so bad. A low-grade headache. Lethargy. Craving a greasy cheeseburger and coffee. The culprit? A few more glasses of white wine last night than I would normally have. It was all in good fun, we had a party to celebrate the new lunar new year of the monkey. And I appear to have learned my lesson, from said hangovers past: don't mix, have water in between drinks, eat stick-to-your-ribs food (dumplings and sushi did the trick last night).  And definitely no tequila shots.

Why isn't gazing on a flower, walking in the rain, skidding on a slippery road or standing under a waterfall enough mental or emotional stimulation? Why the need to imbibe, ingest, inject or inhale a toxic substance?

I'm no teetotaller, by any means.

I smoked the occasional cigarette as a teen, bumming them off my few friends who smoked, or sneaking them from my dad's cigarette box on top of the fridge. I liked the feeling of holding it between my fingers, and hovering at my lips before taking a drag. I liked taking a long inhalation (once I got the hang of it anyway), and exhaling with my head upturned blowing the smoke up to the sky. I didn't like the ashy taste on my breath or the feeling of dizziness inevitably brought on after only a few drags. I could never finish a whole cigarette. Pot was similarly wasted on me. I only tried that once, and the almost immediate spinning effect it brought on was discombobulating enough to make me take a pass forever after. The idea, or opportunity, to try harder drugs never occurred to me.

I have had more than my share of embarrassment with alcohol. A surprise 19th birthday party ended badly, after too many Black Russians, and one New Year's Eve my mother called me at a party to wish me a happy new year (obviously, and wisely, to check up on me). I had to take the call from a swirling mattress, with my friends and a plastic bowl by my side. I thought I handled the conversation  pretty well:

"Hi Mom. Happy New Year! Yes, I'm having a great time. Everything's fine. Yes, I'm sleeping over at C's house. No, I don't need anything. See you tomorrow!" When I hung up, my friends burst into applause. I keeled over on the bed and vowed never to drink again. That may have lasted a month, and was followed by many (too many) similarly embarrassing and juvenile nights, and a few (too few) foggy memories.  But somehow, through luck, some good sense, or simply by grace, I have managed to stay on the healthy side of casual inebriation, visits to the porcelain goddess notwithstanding.

As my kids approach and enter their teen years, I am now consumed by all-too-real fears: what if they drink and drive? what if their friends do? what if they try heroin or crack, just once? This is not a theoretical or abstract thought process. I know friends and family members who have struggled with addictions and substance-abuse. They have hurt themselves and those around them. Some have faced their demons and their rock-bottom selves in the mirror and done the hard work to move forward with their lives, clean and sober, with humility and perseverance, and are now achieving success in life and love. Some are still inching towards health.

But why them, and not me? It's certainly not that I was smarter. I have too many friends that have too many examples of how dumb I've been.

It is naive to think that I can keep my kids from experimenting or over-indulging. I certainly can't point to myself as a model example. They know of my fondness for the fruit of the vine, having seen me indulge with my husband and with my friends on many occasions.  I can only hope that the lessons they learn, from school and from us speaking openly with them, will somehow allow them to stay on this side of that precarious edge.

When the song "We are Young", by Fun, comes on the radio while the kids are in the car, I always sing along:

So if by the time the bar closes
And you feel like falling down

I'll carry you home

Tonight.

And then I add: if by the time the bar closes you feel like falling down, call me and I will come to pick you up, or take a taxi home, and we'll discuss it in the morning.

A vase of wilting roses

For a week now, the roses

bloom white, in a glass vase,

their green leaves stuffed

like crackers into a box.

As they open, the

scent of honey and

a dampness

on their folds.

The white petals peel away

and fall unnoticed

to the floor, where

they gather with dust and cat hair.

Now fading,

now wilting,

they seem more lovely

than when first bought,

more lovely and

more loved, as I and

the stars around me

bloom, white, and falling.

The sweetness, and wonder, of patience.

Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet. -- Aristotle

My amaryllis is blooming for a third time. It's coming out so sloooooowly. I was excited to see the third stem emerge from the bulb a few weeks ago--a small green pearl of promise. The plant, a gift from a friend before Christmas, had already given me two stems of trumpeting flowers. Over the course of two months I have been observing as each stem produced first one flower, then a second, then a third and finally a fourth so that all four were in full bloom simultaneously before wilting and dropping their petals.

The amaryllis sits in a white pot on the coffee table, topped with small pebbles and surrounded by branches of redwood. Every morning, as I descend the stairs to the family room to start the day, my eyes rest on the flower pot to check on its progress. For weeks, centimeter by centimeter, the stem has pushed upwards, reaching towards the sun. Yesterday, I cut back the second stem, its petals having drooped and fallen several days ago. I watered the plant for the first time in several weeks (mercifully, this plant needs very little water). The petals are enclosed in a green pocket, biding their sweet time until they are ready. This week, the pocket began to open. No matter how long I sit watching them, hoping to catch the actual moment of blooming, I cannot speed their progress.

I am impatient. This weekend I brought a knitting project to an abrupt close. I had started to knit an afghan two months ago--my first big project after several scarves and neck warmers--but at the rate I was knitting and purling I would not likely have completed it until June, long past the time when I could use it this winter season. Besides, I was constantly losing track of the pattern and the bigger it got the more noticeable that would be. So on this, the coldest weekend of the winter so far, I chose to cast off, and re-branded the project a "writing shawl". Mission accomplished.

My daughter, on the other hand, spent a good eight hours making cookies today: we shopped for icing and decorating supplies, then she measured and mixed the ingredients, chilled the dough for an hour (while I napped), rolled it and cut out two dozen shapes by hand using a hand-drawn template, mixed four colours of icing, and then baked, iced and decorated each one individually, turning down numerous offers of assistance from me and my husband. Each, "Here, let me help you," or "Hey, can I do some for you?" was met with an icy stare, narrowed eyes and a brusque "No, I'll do it myself." Eight hours.

Many people criticize young people for not being patient enough: "Kids these days, attention spans of zero, they only want something if it's convenient, they want things handed to them on a platter and don't know how to work for them, they can't focus...."

And then there's my children. Grace and her baking. Gabriel, at 14, waiting out a year before he can play contact sports again in order to avoid another head injury. Jacob, at 13, saving up $600 of allowance and gift money to buy himself an iPhone. They have their trying moments, as all kids do, but their level of patience and focus far exceeds mine and I poke fun at myself for not keeping up with them. But I also wonder, when--and how--did they become this capable of putting in the time to achieve their goals?

I like to think we can take responsibility for it--their successes confirmation of our stellar parenting skills--but I recognize in them the traits found in generations past: tenacity, creativity, steadfastness, spirit and patience. They are in constant motion, experiencing constant growth, even when I am not still enough to notice. I feel small in the face of their potential, inadequate in the face of their capacity, and curious about all that is yet to come for them. Observing them, as observing the amaryllis, allows me to practice patience. For days, weeks, months and years there were baby steps, imperceptible changes, seemingly endless nights, coupled with my longing for liberation.

(I am ashamed at my use of that word. What do I know of "liberation"? This week, South Africa celebrated the 26th anniversary of Nelson Mandela's release from prison, after an incarceration of 27 years. For a period of time longer than half my lifetime, that great man sat imprisoned in a tiny cell at the very ends of the earth, and emerged with both humility and vindication, his pride and sanity intact, to lead his country and inspire a generation (myself included) of people who hadn't even been born when he was first sentenced. And I dare to say I felt liberated when my children could tie their own shoes, take their own baths, make their own lunches, plan their own priorities.)

This week brought another example of the power of patience and perseverance: confirmation of gravitational waves in the universe. The calculations, complex; the implications, mind-boggling. According to one very clear explanation: "If you could see [gravitational waves], you can see back past where you can’t see with physical light. That would be cool. We’d have direct access to something that’s farther away than we can hope to see otherwise." (http://www.vox.com/2016/2/13/10981548/gravitational-waves-significance). It took one hundred years to determine, following Einstein's prediction in 1916. Perhaps the symmetry should not be surprising.

I, too, have had proof of their existence. I see and feel the vibrations of the universe every day. If only I stop to observe.

On writing

There are so many things I want to write about: memories (my own) and memory (good vs bad, real vs imagined); loss and grief; space and time and their elasticity (is it like the plasticity of the brain? is that why we speak of time as healing or of the universe as expanding?); friends, family, the people in my life (who are the real characters and what do I learn from them?).

I could also write about faith and belief, my own and how it mixes with those (or lack thereof) in people close to me. Water, as a theme, and light. Mountains and sea, as place. Flight, departure and arrival. Death and dying: the act of, the rituals for, the fear, the beauty, the finality, the continuity. The sense of drowning -- the pull of weightlessness against the push of gravity -- when I feel consumed by sadness. How I cannot bear emotion within song and music. The internal soaring when I experience joy.

I think of the writers I admire most:  Isabel Allende, Timothy Findley, Salman Rushdie, Alice Munro, Ann-Marie MacDonald, Michael Ondaatje, Maya Angelou…  At a writing course I took I was told to imitate the writers I admire. Imitate them? Really? The short lines, consisting of a single word sometimes, of Findley. The fogginess of Ondaatje. The poetry of Angelou. The sense of place of Munro and the shock of Atwood. They write about the personal: real, or imagined.

A moment of self-doubt. Random self-doubt. Never ending loops of self-doubt: What could I possibly write that has not been written before? What could I possibly say that has not been said before?  

It’s hard to write. It's harder not to. 

Sometimes I have very little energy, and my brain feels numb. Nevertheless, I try to push on. Quantity, not quality, the pros say -- just get the words out and onto a page. Listen to the words, and hear them whisper. Brush them away if they are bad or don’t make sense. Better yet, invite them in to visit for awhile. I am learning the value of just writing: to clear the cobwebs, to open up the mind, to loosen the senses, to begin to see or perceive things differently. I am staying open to possibility and inspiration. Or insanity. Yes, I am open to insanity, and the inspiration that may lie within that.

My relationship with water

There are thousands of lakes, and rivers and creeks in our country. Last summer, the icy chill of Lake Huron numbed my feet. It was July, but after the coldest winter in a hundred years, the water pierced my skin like shards of glass, my bones ached instantly and I retreated to the sand to watch the sun set and my son and nephew skip stones over the water, which was still and grey. The summer before, I coasted with my family on rolling, gentle waves on the green Ottawa river, jumping out of a raft to be carried on a current; gravity, for a moment, irrelevant. Last winter, we walked across the frozen Skootamatta and built a fire. It was warm enough to remove our coats, to hang our mittens on a tree, yet the ice was solid and snow crystals sparkled in the sun. With my daughter, I snowshoed patterns in the unmarked patches of the whitest snow: a flower, the sun, H-E-L-L-O.
***
There are seas here, too, but because I don't see them, sometimes I forget they are also ours. They are cold, and feisty. They are overbearing, and dangerous. They provide livelihoods but they also take lives. Our seas are not merciful. The seas I love are warm, and blue. The waves roll out on sandy beaches or--even better--on rugged rocks. I like to feel stone beneath my feet, slippery with a soft film of seaweed or firm with jagged edges. Standing on the rocks, I am grounded to the shore and I stand on the edge of the earth's shelf, the waves crashing around me. The water neither knows nor acknowledges me.

***

I sometimes fear emotional depths. I don't like to hear raised voices. I don't crave the adrenaline that comes from excitement or fear. But I feel emotions deeply: I experience love like a wave or a waterfall, pain or sadness as though I am sinking.
***
I don't fear the depths of water. When I swim, I swim farther and farther. I like to look outward, with the shore behind me.

On Breathing

I almost choked on a chick pea last week. I was eating lunch at work, and one slipped down my throat before I could chew it. I felt it move into my esophagus. Slowly. There was a thickness as I breathed, a weight pushing on the inside of my chest as though an unseen hand was squeezing me from inside. I fingered my chest, hoping to coax the errant legume down faster. I drank some leftover cold coffee and felt it nudge the chick pea along. I stood up. I slowed my breathing. I took another sip of the coffee and I waited.

I was reminded of a similar episode years ago--a piece of apple slipped down my throat without my having chewed it. I was walking behind the building where I worked. There was no one else around and if I had choked no one would have noticed at that moment. I was pregnant at the time. I wondered what would happen to the baby if I collapsed, how long it would take for someone to walk by and find me. The dull pressure inside my esophagus winded me.  I could feel this internal organ squeezing and palpitating as it attempted to move the chunk of apple down towards my stomach. I stopped walking, breathed slowly and shallowly, and I waited.

In both instances, I had to turn over control to my body.

As someone who has asthma, I think about breathing a lot. There are times at night when my airwaves close and I wake in a fit of coughing; the spasms within my chest feel like water rushing into my lungs. At other times, a ride on a crowded, dusty bus will bring on a tickle at the base of my throat as my breathing passages tighten, clearing only with a puff from my inhaler. In yoga classes, we are told to focus on the breath, to inhale and exhale to the very depths of our abdomen, by contracting the diaphragm, and fully filling and emptying the lungs. Sometimes it makes me dizzy. If I've had a cold or am experiencing seasonal allergies, I am physically unable to breathe that deeply. But when all is clear within my breathing passages, deep breathing has the calming effect of aloe on a sunburn, the freshness of summer rain.

The thinnest air I have breathed was in Tibet, in Lhasa, at 3,650 meters above sea level. Walking up a flight of 4 or 5 stairs at the hostel winded me as though I had climbed a mountain or crawled in prostration, as some Tibetan pilgrims do for thousands of kilometers from their villages to that holy city where prayer flags whisper blessings into the air. The purest air I have breathed was in Hobart, Tasmania, said to have some of the cleanest air in the world. Breathing, there, was like skating on the smoothest, clearest ice: effortless and liberating.

This morning I awoke abruptly from a dream. I was on a boat, or more like a flat barge. Grace ran away from me just as we crashed into a wave. Water poured over the deck and pushed her off to the side.  She grabbed onto the railing as I lunged towards her--and then I woke. I was lying face down, my nose and mouth planted into my pillow, my breathing slow and laboured. I turned and gulped the air as if I had been suffocating or drowning.

"Breathe deeply," I tell the kids when they are anxious or upset. "It calms your body on the inside, and when the inside of your body is calm, the outside of your body calms down too." It works. It's true. Try it: breathe in for five seconds, hold for five more, breathe out for five again. Slowly. Repeat.

The Lung Association's tagline is "when you can't breathe, nothing else matters". Indeed, time seems to stand still at those moments. There is no before, there is no after. There is only air and the reaching towards it.

David Bowie, Death Doula

Yes.  I'm going to blog about David Bowie.  With all that's been said in the days since he passed, what more is left to say about the man who brought us Ziggy Stardust?  I've never been a huge Bowie fan, though I certainly enjoy some of his iconic songs.  But I appreciate the genius he represented -- he didn't push boundaries so much as he trampled over them.  He experimented and provoked, taunted and flaunted.  You didn't have to like him, but you couldn't ignore him.

An icon from my childhood and youth, and an inspiration to both the geeks and the cool kids worldwide, he was certainly unique.  He deserves the accolades, the outpouring of grief, the comparisons to the likes of Beethoven and Mozart in terms of impact on music and culture (see the CBC's panel, which included Jeff Melanson, CEO of the Toronto Symphony orchestra, discussing David Bowie's legacy:  http://www.cbc.ca/player/play/2681722085).  But, after the fashion statements, weird music, bold makeup, and duet with Bing Crosby, it appears that David Bowie's lasting legacy may be in how he has made a generation of antiseptic and overprotected baby boomer offspring face the ugliness of death and find beauty within it.

I remember the first funeral I attended.  I was maybe eight or ten years old.  It was for the grandmother of friends of ours from church.  She was tiny and ancient, and she always dressed in black, in constant mourning for the husband who had died many years before her.  A classic Greek yiayia, she cooked and baked the most amazing food and pastries, and blessed her granddaughters and their friends with a firm grip of wrinkled hands and kiss of thin, leathery lips. On the nights she stayed home alone, when the family was out visiting or at Greek community dances, she would watch Dracula movies in the darkened house -- she laughed at these movies and never seemed afraid.

Her funeral was attended by the whole community, she was everyone's grandmother.  I remember approaching her coffin, with some trepidation.  What I saw was a shell of the woman, her eyes closed, with a greyness to her flesh, white hair combed and stilled with hair spray.  Her hands, cold to the touch, were crossed over her, possibly holding onto a small icon.  My fear and sadness immediately evaporated.  It wasn't her.  She wasn't there.  There was nothing to fear.

I admit to not having thought of David Bowie or his music for many years, so I was caught off guard by the release of his last album, and the subsequent news of his death two days later.  Hearing him now, and seeing him as an older and sick man, is disturbing and humbling.  He makes us look him in the eyes -- while he himself is staring down death -- and forces us to watch as he retreats before the grim reaper's arrival, to whom he says simply: come and get me.  It's a last laugh -- if nothing else, a stroke of marketing genius -- but also a gift and a reality check:  He forces us to consider, and to talk about, death in all its ugly glory.

Is it sad that he could not imagine a more beautiful death?  Yes, maybe.  Perhaps in the end he felt some peace and went softly into the night.  But to watch the videos of Lazarus and Blackstar it seems that was not what he was expecting.  I'm reminded of my mother's final hours.  They didn't feel peaceful, for her or for those of us around her.  She didn't go softly.  I think she was angry.  She, too, was staring down death, making it come to her.  She wasn't going down without a fight.  In the end, it wasn't quite what she had planned.  There was pain.  There was breathing anxiety.  There was confusion.  Her skin was sallow, her eyes sunken.

But there was beauty.

As her breathing slowed, we retreated, taking comfort in each other and drifting to sleep to the sound of her rhythmic breaths.  There was beauty in that.  I wrapped her prayer shawl around me, feeling warmth and comfort.  There was beauty in that.  I remember my aunt's soft voice, whispering tenderly to her sister: It's time.  You've given good witness.  Go.  There was beauty in that.  As we left the hospice and accompanied her body to the hearse, a flock of starlings circled overhead as if taking her spirit with them. There was beauty in that.

There was a lot of ugliness in Bowie's music, in the lyrics and the images that accompanied them.  And there was beauty. In his face, his skin almost transluscent; in his clothing, colourful and flamboyant; in the videos, with candles and chanting.  In the midst of so much ugliness in the world, he compelled us to take notice:  to acknowledge that beauty and art are what we make of it and with it; to realize that creativity is to be celebrated and shared;  to remember that we may have a single moment -- or a lifetime -- to find our calling, to create something, to find beauty in ugliness; and to learn, that when death does come -- as it will, for a mother, a grandmother or a famous singer -- we can meet it proudly, defiantly, confidently, creatively, knowing that our energy will continue, unfolding through the expanding universe where there is immeasurable and unending beauty.

Into the weeds

Something about supper on the weekend always takes me back to childhood.  Tonight, I'm making risotto and pan-fried tilapia fillets with lemon juice and olive oil and a bit of dried oregano from my father's garden in Greece.  Gabriel likes fish, when he turned three he requested salmon for his birthday dinner.  Jacob will only eat it fried, with lots of tartar sauce.  Grace will probably make herself an egg sandwich.  I get it, fish is not to everyone's taste.

My husband Dan talks of growing up eating fish sticks on Fridays -- his dad was in charge of supper while his mom did the weekly grocery store run in town and treated herself to Chinese food for dinner, her one night "off" from parenting a large family -- apparently it didn't go over so well.

My Dad used to make my brother and I take the bones out of our own fish at dinnertime.  He showed us how to cut along the edge, sliding the knife into the side of the fish, to open it up like a book.  He took the heads and the tails -- he loved to chew around the bones -- and left the rest to us.  Taking one end of the spine, we would peel it away from the meat and lift up the remaining bones with a knife, making sure to suck off any remaining bits of the lemony fish. They used to say that the cats in Athens didn't bother going to my family's residence, because there was no meat left on the bones. Clearly, we had learned well as we continued the tradition.

I always knew that the food we ate was not what you'd find on the dinner table at most of my friends' homes, where meat and potatoes were the mainstay and lasagna was considered a treat.  Grocery stores weren't what they are today so it meant some extra effort to find the right ingredients.  My mother would ask the grocer if he had any fresh parsley, and sometimes he would have a bunch out at the back, which he gave to her for free.  The only place in town that you could buy feta and kalamata olives was at the Italian store.  And I remember picking dandelion leaves with my mother and her friends from church, summer afternoons along the side of the main road near our house, before the newer subdivisions were built.  I prayed to God that none of my friends would drive by and wonder why we were weeding public property.  We collected bags of them, to be washed at home, then boiled and served with olive oil and lemon juice to take away the bitterness, together with the fish -- my dad's favourite meal: horta (dandelion leaves) and psari (fish).

My parents went to a Portuguese fish monger to buy whole fish, which he would clean for them, taking care to show them that the eyes were clear, not cloudy, testifying to the freshness.  You couldn't buy that kind of freshness, or the variety, at a regular grocery store in those days, so going to the fish store was a special outing.  Thursday evenings brought the latest catch, just in time for Friday supper. I thought it was something only immigrant families did -- in my hometown it was largely Greeks, Italians or Portuguese at the time -- so I was surprised one evening to see my sixth grade teacher there, her blond hair and blue eyes distinctly out of place in the smelly shop.  A sense of relief washed over me, seeing her there...maybe we weren't so strange after all.

These days, I buy my fish frozen in fillets but have two kitchen drawers full of spices of every scent and flavour.  I cook dishes of my Greek and Puerto Rican heritage, and also from all around the world: Italian, Indian, Chinese.  We live in a neighbourhood that is a veritable United Nations. Feta and olives are standard fare at grocery stores across the country, Food Basics has an enormous "Foods of the World" section, and you even can buy njera at the local Quickie.

The kids are now taking turns making supper in our house, so on Sundays we're planning the week's meals.  Up ahead this week: spaghetti and meatballs, a roast in the crock pot, and homemade pizza. Maybe this summer I'll take them out to pick dandelion leaves.

So I've become my mother. I'm writing a blog.

My mother wrote a blog (http://chaplaintogo.blogspot.ca/).  It was read by a small but vibrant community of friends and family, as well as some random strangers across the planet.  Writing the blog helped her get through the worst of chemotherapy and radiation during treatment for metastatic breast cancer.  Sadly, we lost her in 2012.  But she and her words live on eternally, in our memories and in the blog-o-sphere.

She used to repeat a saying, "as boring as a Sunday afternoon in Ontario", and I often felt sorry for her when she said it.  To my mind, she seemed to be missing some form of excitement in her weekend that made her feel the need to broadcast her disappointment.  I, on the other hand, always enjoyed Sunday afternoons.  As a child, it was often a peaceful and pleasant day: church in the morning, followed by lunch at Swiss Chalet with family friends and then a quiet afternoon at home. Dad would retreat to his study to read the paper or mark exams, and Mom to the living room curled up on the green velour sofa with a book - usually a mystery.  My brother, laconic at the best of times, usually retreated to his room, and I to mine.  I could read, talk to my friends on the phone, write in my journal, do homework, play with our cat. For dinner we could snack on weekend leftovers; Mom stayed in the living room.

Now, as a parent, Sunday afternoons tend to be filled with family visits, outdoor activities, and bulk cooking for the week ahead.  But as the kids grow older, I find myself with a few more minutes to call my own so I, too, retreat to the living room to read, or check Facebook status updates.  I used to call my mother.

Since I can't do that any more, I've decided to use the time to write. I don't have a particular focus or theme for this blog (yet), and maybe I never will. I don't expect a very wide audience (perhaps my husband will be my audience of one), nor do I anticipate fame and fortune will follow.  But I will dedicate an hour or so to myself and I will use this space to practice this strange craft.

I used to think that my mother actually did find Sunday afternoons boring, but now I'm thinking she probably got it right.

Faster, Stronger, Higher

Who are these youngsters? What are they looking at?  Whom do they see?  Where do they want to go?  

These are my children, on summer vacation last August.  They are looking down at the Seine, at Paris, from the Eiffel Tower.  They see a city of dwellers below them, and wonder if there is anyone like them down there.  They want to go higher up the tower, but their mother is afraid of heights.

My children always make me push my boundaries, and reach for new heights.  

This afternoon, for example, my daughter wanted to bake, to relieve the stress of returning to school tomorrow after two weeks of Christmas bliss.  She got a new cookbook as a gift and wanted to try making macarons. We had lovely macarons in Paris.  She's never made macarons before, and neither have I.  I can make a mean spaghetti sauce or chili, but baking is not my forte.  It has been an exercise in patience (mine) and perseverence (hers).  The batter oozes out more quickly than it should.  The food colouring doesn't come out like the pictures in the book.  The circles are not perfect.  My daughter flees from the kitchen, her wails following close behind as she slams the door and retreats to her room to ponder her next steps.  I lick my fingers - the taste, at least, is pleasing.

My older son has spent the past few days applying to a new high school.  He wants to study drama.  Or rather, he wants to escape his current high school and he's hoping against hope that the local arts school will be happy to have new male students.  I consider suggesting he ask his younger sister for advice, but think better of it. She doesn't seem to be in the mood for conversation.  He has worked hard over the past few days to complete three concise paragraphs on why he wants to attend, how he will contribute to the school, what his other interests are.  In the past, these interests have included competitive lacrosse, mountain biking and cross-country running, but after suffering five concussions in an 18-month period, he would do well to take on a more cerebral but less brain-bashing activity.  In the section to be completed by parents, I write a compelling 700-character explanation of why I think my son will benefit from studying in an arts program, and cross my fingers.

My younger son is saving for an iPhone.  He wants a new one, the latest version, with all the bells and whistles.  Nothing less (even a used one, if it could be found) will do.  At a $600-900 price tag, I told him to save his pennies.  His Christmas wishlist had but one word on it: money. He looks at my mini Samsung (I'm not even sure what version it is), purchased only three years ago -- sporting crumbs and dust in the interior from so many explosive drops -- with disdain.  In future, I suppose his children will communicate with their friends through microchips implanted in their brains and they will shake their heads at his handheld device.  I invited him to help me with the laundry in order to earn a few extra dollars, and his father put him to work painting the living room.

After almost fifteen years of parenting them, I still feel like I'm getting to know them.  New heights, indeed. No wonder I feel so queasy.  As for climbing higher on the Eiffel Tower, I sent them further up -- on their own.