What We Leave Behind...

I'm not sure if it was the full moon, or a DQ Skor Blizzard at a late hour that caused a sleepless night recently. I'd had a busy day. I taught two classes at the bead shop and came home feeling the need to unwind with a catnap. After that brief repose Garnet and I took Zoe for a long walk. It was a beautiful evening and we decided to extend it with a stop at the Dairy Queen. Back home, I settled in to finish some jewelry repairs and craft a new necklace. At eleven o'clock I closed up shop, got ready for bed and read until sleep made nonsense of the storyline. Then it was lights out. 

But it seemed like turning off the light, turned my mind on. I opened my eyes and noticed the full moon grinning through the bedroom window; casting its hollow light in the room. I thought about the moon and all it's seen and wondered at its ready smile. I considered all I have to be thankful for and said a prayer of sorts, asking for blessings on those I love. I listened to my husband's steady breath punctuated by the occasional sighs and wiggles from the dog. I even tried some yoga breathing. Then my mind wandered to the events of the day, specifically to the classes I taught at the bead shop.

The morning class was new. It was a bead-weaving class called "The Daisy Drape". All the participants were seasoned 'stitchers' and after the first daisy they were well on their way. Conversation flowed and in no time they were linking their daisies stem to stem. The afternoon class was pearl-knotting. As much as I love knotting pearls I dread teaching the class. I always grapple with what I think the expectations of the participants will be and whether I will be able to teach the technique adequately. Pearl-knotting is challenging and seldom is the first effort a winning entry. The class was full.

We went through introductions. Then I shared some interesting facts about pearls, gave an overview of what they would be learning to do, had each of them lay out their pearls in the order they wanted them strung and unwind all six feet of silk cord they would use for knotting. I proceeded to go around to each one and demonstrate the technique. As always, I did this repeatedly. They were tentative at first, but I assured them we were just practicing. I showed them the importance of positioning the knot, giving it a pinch, then creating a tightrope for their pearls to dangle from while maintaining the tension, pushing and pulling until knot and pearl meet. They struggled. I walked them through the steps again. Then the first brave soul placed a knot. We cheered. Soon the rest followed. Not perfection by any means, but a good start. This was short-lived.

Everything that could go wrong in that class did. Missplaced knots marred paths to success and I had to discern the anatomy of each one and dissect it. Some of the pearls' holes were too small for the cord to pass through and I had to ream them out. Some pearls cracked under the pressure and the French wire unraveled. But with each obstacle came new learning; learning I couldn't possibly have shared with them in a three-hour workshop otherwise. They were better prepared 'knotters' because of it and each one proudly wore their imperfectly knotted strand of pearls home. 

I took home their gratitude for my patience, knowledge, and unfailing good humor. Many of them had been waiting months to take the class, were so excited to learn how and pleased they had a good instructor, especially since I knew my way around a tough knot. Their praise made me wonder why I wasted my energy dreading the class.

Under the spell of the moonlight I wondered something else - what we leave behind. Not only through life, but each moment. I thought of my novice pearl-knotters; the metaphor-for-life experience we shared and the impressions we left on each other. I thought of my parents and what they've left me. All the love, guidance, hope, tears and laughter. None tangible, but all of them gifts, precious gifts.

We all possess gifts. Like pearls, some occur naturally, others are cultivated. Whatever the case they are meant to be shared. This night of wakefulness beneath the moon's gaze revealed to me that we come into this world a bare soul and should leave this world, a soul bared. This is what we leave behind.

The rest is pixie dust...

Change...

No question, change is hard; inevitable and hard. It's also radical and subtle. As I age, change has become more the former than the latter. When I was younger, change was sometimes so subtle I barely noticed it. Or maybe I just wasn't paying attention. One thing is for certain, change is constant - in varying degrees. 

Perhaps the constancy of change becomes more evident when you have amassed a few years to look back on. Age gives you a bird's eye view of change and this old bird is amazed at what she's seen. If I swoop in on my childhood I see a life in a state of perpetual growth. Every second I was changing, although it didn't seem like that to me. Years seemed to grind by and I was sure I would never turn eighteen. So I jumped that gun and got married at sixteen instead. I had no concept of the permanence of this decision and like most young adults, I was very clever. At least this life-changing event seemed to speed things up a bit. 

My teenaged-self took the adult world by storm; I dropped out of high school, eloped, found full-time employment, cooked, cleaned, got pregnant. Big change. When the baby came, he soon became a toddler, I got a new job, and we moved fourteen times in three years. Busy change. Then the second baby came.  In the blink of an eye she too became a toddler, but by that time her brother was a full-fledged boy; going to school, making new friends, needing me less. Crazy change. By the time his sister was in school he was a pre-teen, writing a girl's name on his sneakers, testing boundaries, letting go of my hand. Sad change. Suddenly, my daughter turned twelve and left her brain on her pillow; cuddled less, challenged more. Hormonal change. Through all this, people came and went from my life, many were born and only a few died. Then my marriage ended and I found myself living alone without my children and the comforts of what I thought was home. This was transition. I was neither here nor there. I was dangling in mid-air from some invisible string; hoping for a soft landing if and when the string broke. Painful change. 

It was while I was hovering in that transitory state that I realized something about myself. I always looked forward to what came next instead of experiencing the present, and in doing so, wished my life away. I missed so much by hurrying things up. Transition gave me the gift of trying to live more consciously in the moment. I say 'trying' because I'm still working on it. Let's face it, I am a work in progress. I am change. 

This past year has brought radical change; my Mom's decline and eventual passing, my husband's career winding down and his retirement, the sale of our home and the purchase of a new one, and soon, the move from Edmonton to Sherwood Park. I was contemplating all this change in a quiet moment while writing a letter to my cousin. I looked around and thought how sad I will feel to see this home emptied of its contents in just two short weeks and how hard it will be to close the door for the last time. I caught myself actually wanting to slow things down; not just live in the moment, but relive moments. I stamped and sealed the envelope, put the halter on the dog, and went out to mail the letter and take a brisk head-clearing stroll. 

I dropped the letter in the mailbox and we headed south down our street toward the walking path. The house at the end of the block sold shortly after ours and the new neighbors were just moving in - the U Haul truck was still parked in the driveway. Zoe and I wandered in that direction thinking we might get a glimpse of the new neighbors. We weren't disappointed. Out from behind the truck came a fellow dressed in baggy grey sweatpants, his billowing muffin-top on display and his chest and shoulders abundantly tattooed. He was stuffing empty boxes behind the fence. It didn't seem the appropriate time to give a 'hey neighbor' greeting so we kept walking. The truck was blocking the sidewalk. We had to walk around it and into the street to continue on our charted course. As soon as we came around the truck a massive pit bull-like canine tethered to a piece of string lunged at us, snarling, growling and gnashing his great-white-shark jaws. I gasped and shouted a dirty brown expletive while Zoe wound herself around my legs several times. We didn't wait to see how long the string would hold or try to pet the nice doggy. We kept moving. 

From the safety of the other side of the fence I had an epiphany; some change is bad, some change is good. Sometimes change is for the best. So I'll start packing, consciously, one box at a time. 

Still standing...

Six Boxes...

They have been sitting in the garage for more than two years now. Two columns of three. Six boxes. They contain the last of my Mom's belongings. Things we moved from her home in the assisted living facility in Medicine Hat, to The Churchill residence in downtown Edmonton, to our garage. I've been ignoring them; pretending they aren't there. But we're moving and it doesn't make sense to move them again. So they've been looming; beckoning; almost reaching out like thirsty tendrils of a parched houseplant. They're begging for attention; for someone to go through their contents, touch the once cherished items, sort them; decide where they go. That someone is me.

Proximity seems to be what designates someone for certain roles or tasks. Sifting through my Mom's life wasn't something I signed up for at birth. It came from years of knowing her, loving her and caring for her. She trusted me. She entrusted this to me. She believed I would know what to do - what to give to whom. It was the emotional and physical proximity that made me the keeper of the boxes.

So I cracked the first box on the same day the garage door cracked me on the head. That was how the gong show of a walk with the dog ended. It was a walk where I fought a losing game of tug-o'-war with a rogue pair of underwear; was a blood meal for swarms of hungry mosquitoes; suffered a lack of integrity with the second poop bag, and struggled with the third bag as my dog shamelessly dragged her furry little bottom all over the grassy boulevard. Needless to say, after these events and the garage door assault, I was feeling more than a little off kilter and decided it was a good day to unleash the contents of the six boxes. 

The first few items freed from their cardboard confines were her bowling awards. She was an excellent bowler - even with macular degeneration. In one of her journals I found some of her higher scores documented; one-ninety-nine, two-forty. I decided to set these treasures aside for her Grandkids. They knew of their Granny's bowling prowess and even went to the lanes with her on occasion. She loved that. Then I found the ornate old box where she kept favorite pieces of costume jewelry. Inside I found the sparkly brooch I bought her that said, "I ❤ 2 Bowl". She wore that for luck. It also contained her initialed sterling silver compact - when I opened it, the pressed powder smell that was my Mom filled my nostrils. The next box yielded four more years of journals I didn't know were missing and numerous pads of lined paper, manuscripts, envelopes, Lifesavers, and ledgers. As I went through each box I tried to sort in piles where items should go, but by the time I got around to the sixth box, I had nothing that resembled any order. It was strewn about on the garage floor as though I'd thrown it there - proof I am my Mother's daughter. But the last box delivered the most unexpected treasures. 

Box six contained my Mom's purse, she'd been looking for it for a very long time and I'm sure she'd be relieved to know I found it. The wallet I bought her was inside but there were no dollar bills tucked into its folds, just two diaper pins attached to the lining of the purse. Blue diaper pins - the kind used when I was having babies. Sturdy, straight, industrial strength diaper pins; perfect for pearl-knotting, so just like Mom would do, I pinned them to my shirt for safekeeping. There were photos and books and balled up in a corner of the box was one of the T-shirts she got for submitting a photo, poem, or story to the Alberta Council on Aging (ACA) magazine. The caption on the shirt reads, "Not only wine and cheese get better with age.". Then, in the bottom of the same box was a notebook. Inside it were two letters she wrote in her own hand and never mailed. One was to Jenny, the mother of my grandchildren, the other one was to me and Garnet. It said; "Thanks for all the writing paper and books and time spent and the gum and all the small important things. You're just great! Whoever raised you did a wonderful job - you're so cheerful and helpful to this old Mother. I'm very lucky. Sure lucky to have a great son-in-law as well - how on earth did you manage that? Love to you both, Mom."

If proximity designated me the keeper of the boxes - then I'm the lucky one. All that's left is a little pressed powder.

And the rest is pixie dust...

Unencumbered...

My Mom offered her future son-in-law a warm welcome long before Oprah said it was the right thing to do. Maybe she knew what he could expect from the men in our family and tried to provide some balance. Or maybe she understood the psychology of not opposing her grown daughter's choice of a suitor. Whatever her reasoning, I'll never forget her for it. After all, Garnet certainly didn't have the smoothest of introductions when it came to meeting my brother, my son, or my Dad. 

When Garnet met my brother they sat across from each other in the living room. Ted leaned back in his chair, folded his arms and said in a big brotherly way, "So... Garnet, just what ARE your intentions toward my little sister?". If looks could kill, when I introduced him to my son, Garnet should have self-combusted. But worst of all, when he shook hands with my Dad for the first time, it was over the pistol laying in Dad's lap. This was likely staged after he noticed the extra plate Mom set at the dinner table and when she told him I was bringing Garnet for dinner he asked, "Do we have to feed the stray?". It's a miracle Garnet stuck around at all.

Mom and I were both glad that he weathered that storm. Not many Mothers can say they adored their son-in-law like my Mom did. They became good friends and talked at length about a variety of topics. Garnet enjoyed Mom's company and she his. I remember her saying that she felt so close to Garnet it was as if he was her own son. But what you see is what you get with Garnet. He's not one to hide behind a facade or put on airs. 

He is the same man today that he was when we first met; an elegant, respectful, honest, gentle man, with a quick wit and keen mind. When we first started dating he told me I'd never meet anyone else like him and he was right. Knowing and loving him has made me a better person. He looks for the good and has the fortitude to tell you what you need to hear. He's my sounding board, my cheerleader, my partner, my defender, my friend. When I sing, he claps. He is true to his name - he is a gem. 

I'm not the only one who thinks so. Garnet retired this week after thirty-five years with one company. He had many great opportunities and worked with countless people over the span of his career. As many that could, gathered together at his retirement celebration to congratulate him and wish him well. Tributes to him mentioned his integrity, his consistency, his fairness, and his values. Some mentioned how glad they were he took a chance on hiring them, others said they still look for the "golden nugget of opportunity" he coached them to seek out. He was credited with an uncanny ability to get the job done, give sound advice and mentor with ease. I was not surprised by what I heard. I was overwhelmed with pride in what he had accomplished and honored to share my life with this remarkable man. 

I thought of my Mom and how much she would have enjoyed seeing him celebrated. I felt sad that she wasn't there to share the moment and applaud his achievement. She would've wanted to stand up and shout, "That's my boy!" even though he wasn't. I know she would be happy for us - for this new chapter in our life together. Sometimes I feel like she stepped out of the way so we could move forward - no longer encumbered with her care. She was selfless that way. Maybe, since she lives on in my heart, she felt my admiration for this cherished man and gave a rousing cheer. Just maybe...

And the rest is pixie dust...