Once in a blue moon...

July 31^st was a blue moon. We thought it entirely apt, as we have shaken up our lives to a degree that is unusual to the average person…in our lives. And, once in a blue moon, we do that. Well today, after too many years to want to put in writing, our accident-free record was undone by a fender bender in a parking lot. So, that is also a once in a blue moon for us.

While DH pondered the blue moon implications, in the midst of the turmoil of the moment, I could not help but also put on my writer’s cap. I truly felt as though I were above on a crane, filming the moment, aware of all of the actors involved. It was disconcerting and interesting. Luckily, DH understands, and I will not be subjected to a battery of tests by the local psychologist. Not yet. Truth? Between you, me and the cyber wall? He really should be asking me to stretch out on a couch and spew forth. But, he’s a patient man. A good man. A once in a blue moon kinda man. J

Camera #1 pans the couple. They have just received license plates and insurance for their new province. Pictures are taken of the dear husband putting the plates on the car. It is a moment. It is something to celebrate. They drive across the plaza and park and go in to buy a little bubbly with which to toast this landmark moment in their transition. A man runs in asking who owns a vehicle with such and such a license plate. Having only owned the plates for maybe, fifteen minutes, it takes a minute to register that they are the grand winners in his bingo callout. The car has been hit.

Camera #2 pans to the bystanders. They insist that the police need to be called. One man thought his vehicle was going to be hit. He is visiting his children and grandchildren and had been sitting in the van with them. He is angry that this woman has hit the couple's car and insistent that they need to ensure she does not leave the parking lot. He is rattled. It could have been him and his precious grandbaby. Another man hands over his card, apologizes that he has to run but says he saw it all and would be happy to speak to the police. A third man stays nearby for support while DH goes in to phone the police.

(God bless the bystanders willing to speak out. Seriously, this is a new experience for us and we had no idea what to do. We had a line up of witnesses who left their names and numbers and hung on as long as they could waiting for the police to arrive--the police we called at these people’s insistence. For, we are new to the province and, have I mentioned, too many years to count as accident free? They were concerned for us, but they were also concerned because the driver had driven over a very high meridian and hit us…twice.)

Camera #3 pans to the driver of the car, a woman. She is disengaged from the events, standing in the hot sun by her car, sweating, calmly waiting for the police to come. No fuss and few words, despite attempts to draw her into conversation. The only thing she said was that she was having a really bad day. When the RCMP arrive she raises her hands and says, "I'm the culprit." She willingly takes the breathalyser test and fails. She is put in the back of the cruiser, her car impounded.

My story is pretty linear (Camera #1). License plates, insurance, sense of celebration, a few minutes later, deflation. A man and a woman who could not decide whether to laugh or cry at the impossibility of the timing. (We did choose laughter in the end. Possibly a tad hysterical, but laughter nonetheless.)

The bystanders are the heroes of the tale (Camera #2). They saw not only injustice (apparently, the driver was going to leave until someone jumped out to tell her they had seen it), but the potential for harm that this woman could do in their community. They displayed incredible vigilance and support on the Friday of a long weekend, when you know everyone had somewhere to be. I do believe I am officially in love with my new province.

Camera #3. That’s the camera filming the heartbreaking part of the story. The woman stood, dishevelled, almost disoriented. Remnants of her last meal sat nestled on her chin, the preceding appetizer drizzled down the front of her t-shirt. I would estimate her age to be mid-sixties. Old enough to know better and old enough to know that sometimes life sucks and you wallow in it until you drown. She was drowning.

As a writer, I dissect point of view on a regular basis. I clearly understand my POV. Happily putting on the plates, newly insured, we truck across to the other side of the plaza and are hit by a drunk driver while selecting our champagne. I do believe this situation sets itself up for the exploration of the concept of irony, but I will leave that for another post. J

 

I love the just and righteous POV of the bystanders. Amazing. I applaud them for living up to what we wish for in this world. If more people spoke up when they saw a wrong, more importantly, when they saw a danger to their community, the world would be a better place.

It is her POV that I cannot leave be, that haunts me. What is her story? What leads someone to drunk driving, arrest, and impoundment at 2 PM on a Friday afternoon? What leads them to stand there willingly in a hot parking lot without a word of defense or defiance, placidly waiting for the police to arrive? Regardless of the answer, it is a sad story. It is a weighted POV.

My car is just a car. A lump of metal with a motor, it can be repaired. But what of her? Will this be a catalyst to change? To help? I know not, for that is not information that I will ever be privy too. I feel guilt about making her already bad day, worse. But, then I think of the alternative. She would have been out on the roads. She jumped a high meridian and hit our car twice. What damage might she have done if allowed to go back on the road? What other POV’s might I see? The child on the bicycle? The old man crossing the road? The family heading out for their once a year vacation?

I regret camera #3, I really do. It saddens me. But it is not tragic. What might have happened had this poor woman continued on the road, Camera #4, that would be tragedy. And, quite frankly, I prefer my tragedies to lie between the pages of a book.

 

I NEED TO WRITE TO BE HAPPY. —NORA ROBERTS

I’m at an odd crossroads. I have a whole lot going on, while a lot of nothing is happening. We have moved into our new home and have been busy scouring, repairing and painting. In between that hard core, get down on your knees or up on a ladder kinda work, we run to and fro between the various communities in our area, filling in the “holes” we see in the house. We have ordered closet systems and interior shutters, have purchased a new central vacuum system and bought a new King bed. We have dealt with the mundane but necessary: septic pumping, new hot water heater, repair on dishwasher.

We are settling down in paradise. I kid you not. I exaggerate not one bit. I step out onto the balcony—doves coo and hawks circle the back farmer’s field while horses frolic in the distance. The mountain sits quietly, majestic and beneficent, warming me with its presence. The pastoral land between my backyard and the ocean that endlessly beckons is calming, balm to my ravaged soul. For, at the moment that is what it is, ravaged. (Keep in mind, I do have a flare for drama.J)

I love my life. I hate my life. Well, perhaps hate is too strong a word. I am disgruntled, unhappy that it is all work and no play. We have moved to this spectacular province and the only thing I know, about the area I live, is the location of the nearest Home Depot or Costco. While I am not anxious to play tourist, it would be nice to see something beyond the hardware stores.

More defeating than that is the fact that we still have no furniture. I have nowhere to sit comfortably and write. And I crave writing. I am positively antsy and, if you speak with DH he will verify, downright cranky about the whole not-conducive-to-writing environment. Writing is who I am, it is what I need. It is right up there with eat well and exercise. It makes me healthy and whole. So, I can hardly wait until everything arrives and I can unpack and get back to the business of being me…which is writing.

Having said that, a ray shone over my frustrations this week. An agent read the first thirty pages of Raven’s Path and requested the full manuscript. I am not naïve enough to think that this leads to a happy-ever-after agent/writer contract, but I cannot tell you how heartening it was to get her email in the midst of my present turmoil.

It helped to remind me of part of the reason I moved out here: to shake up my life, to try something new, to sit on the couch and drink in the vista as I write…and write…and write.

Home is the nicest word there is. — Laura Ingalls Wilder

I am a confident person. In my career, and in my life, I have made decisions without hesitation. Some of them miniscule in the grand scheme of things, some of them incredibly important to all involved. I always weigh the pros and cons, tally the cost and move forward with a sense of sureness that I am doing what is best with the information I have at hand and in the moment.

Yet, I questioned our new house purchase. I did not doubt that moving to the west coast was a good idea. I grew up on the east coast. I was raised with mountains at my back door and the ocean at my front. Ontario has been good to me, but I did not wish to die in a metropolis…well, a mini metropolis, if truth be told. And, just let me note, I have no intention of dying in the near future. I’m banking on another 35+ years, thank you very much.

I had no qualms with shaking up my secure comfortable life. Complacency is enemy to creativity. I crave change, challenge and new experiences. Moving offered all of those things. So, not a glance back as we headed across Canada.

But, we looked at houses our second day on the island. We owned this one on the third. It was a frenzy of bartering, house inspection and septic inspection, followed by the arduous task of securing everything from insurance to hydro. We moved in two weeks after landing in British Columbia. We took a chance and sold our house, not knowing when or where we would secure another one. We flew without a safety net and landed with aplomb.

I had no idea how it could happen that quickly. And, so, I was filled with doubt. Is this the right house? The right area? Did we take on too much with the work that needs to be done? Did we jump too fast? My excitement was tempered by trepidation.

Then, friends came by. Now, friends alone are enough to bring joy to a home. The fact that they made time to come see our new, as yet to be furnished house, is solace to the doubtful heart. They were positive and glowing as they took the tour. Fantastic. But it was watching them look out our windows, seeing their smiles as they walked out onto the balcony, that brought true comfort. The affirmation of our choice was clear in their faces.

Any time I fret or doubt our quick decision, I will stand at a window and trace the direction of their gazes…and drink in the vista: pastoral lands wrapped in mountains with a glimpse of the ocean.

I am home.

 

Do the planets align or do we make our own luck?

I talked last week about how blessed I am in life: my life’s partner, my fur babies, my friends and my plethora of career choices. The question I have pondered this week, since I do have time to ponder…oodles of time—a discomforting state for me, if truth be told…is Have I worked to invite such amazing gifts into my life or is it sheer luck?

For certain, the circumstance of my birth is pure providence. It is the foundation upon which all other things have been constructed. Did I build the tower of my life or is it all about fate, a big game of Ker Plunk and I am just pulling out the right sticks through happenstance? I don’t know for certain, of course, lacking the surety of a preacher or a prophet, but I do believe there is an element of both at play.

Born in a country of opportunity, I have had access to good health care, free education and (when I did mine) affordable post secondary education. Times were not always easy and money not always ready, but I found that if I worked hard, kept my eyes on the goal, the pay off was worth it. I built a career. I built a life. No stranger to sacrifice and hard work, I built me…from the ground floor up. And, I’m darn proud of it.

Yet, I know so many others who can claim the same thing. They have had goals and have worked hard their whole lives in the same bountiful country as me. Despite that, their lives are filled with setbacks, heartaches and loss. They have done everything right but too many things go wrong. How do I account for that?

“The harder I work, the luckier I get,” a quote oft attributed to Samuel Goldwyn, sums up my general philosophy in life. I have applied it with great success. However, a little voice niggles in the back of my mind, always. Others work just as hard. Work harder. Why you? Why do your stars align? I have no answer. None.

But, Universe, know that I am ever so grateful.

O Canada

I often think about my blessed life. I'm in good health. I live with a man I admire, respect and love. I cuddle each day with sweet little pups. I am surrounded by kind and generous friends. I have enjoyed a successful career and can indulge in exploring yet another one. I am also graced with the cognitive ability to accomplish things on an academic level and have the fortitude to face the unknown and to see tasks through.

On the heels of Canada Day, I am contemplating the full bounty of the gift that is my life. Through luck or destiny, I was born in a country that allows these blessings. Access to good health care and education is an incredible luxury. The freedom to choose who I love and spend my time with, and the right to choose my path and expect respect as a woman, are not things to be taken lightly.

I have always recognized that I live in a wonderful country, but our journey across its vast expanse has made me appreciate it even more. Canada, the land, is as varied as its people. It is spectacular, breathtaking, awe-inspiring. O Canada, with glowing heart, I have seen thee rise…and you are beautiful. Thank you Fate, for the gift of my home. May it forever be, strong and free.

 

Anyone?

If a tree falls in the forest, does it make a sound?

Blogging always makes me think of that question. As a blogger you fell your words and wonder if anyone sees them lying there. I suppose blogging is no different from being a radio or television announcer. You present to a theoretical audience and you have to hope that in the void of silence that you face, someone is listening, something is resonating with someone.

Recently, I have had a lot of email in response to posts. It is gratifying to know that friends and strangers are checking in regularly. As I prepare to leave my life here and move across the country, it is comforting to know that the blog will remain a constant, a mobile connection to the world that can relocate with me.

Having said that, I am not sure what the next few weeks hold. I do know that I face busy days, heartfelt goodbyes and, no doubt, adventure. So, please forgive me if I skip a week or two of posting. When I am safely ensconced in the land of great forests, I will once again start making noise and wait breathlessly to see if you are still listening.

 

The Measure of a Man

I once read that the measure of a man is his children. I have searched for its author. Many attribute the phrase to Sidney Poitier but he, in fact, said that his father taught his sons that 'The measure of a man is how well he provides for his children.” While that certainly is an important element of being a good parent, I think my misrepresentation of the quote is a more accurate statement.

We had a wonderful visit yesterday with a dear friend. This friend is at a critical juncture in his life. He is questioning the choices he has made, wondering what to do next, unsure as to whether any of what he has done in life has been good enough. In essence, he is doubting his own worth. While it is not unusual for us to do that when we hit certain landmarks in our lives, it is an overwhelming feeling and often we cannot move beyond it to see in ourselves what others see.

This is what I saw yesterday. I saw a man who is a collector. Yes, he collects things, but he also collects people, he collects memories. There are pictures pinned throughout his workshop, marking the importance of those friends and those memories. I saw a man who is incredibly skilled and talented. He creates, he problem solves and he turns the battered and plain into the beautiful. He has done it in my home and he is doing it in his home. I saw a man connected to the land, a man who honours nature, and who is proud of the traditions and history he shares with it. But most importantly, I saw a man who values his family above all else. How do I know this? Well, because of his son.

His son joined us for the afternoon. Of an age where he should have no interest in spending time with his parents and their friends, he toured the property with us, his pride and pleasure equal to his father’s. He laughed at his father’s jokes, he listened attentively when his mother spoke and he contributed meaningfully to discussions that ranged from renovations to the state of society today. His sense of humour and his innate goodness were evident and it was an absolute pleasure to look beyond the child I knew and see the man he has become.

So, my friend, as you read this I hope you see that, while you have some hard decisions to make, you should never doubt your worth. And, if you ever do, look into the eyes of your son. There lies your measure.