Vulnerability and Renewal

We have entered the ranks of the suburban folk by getting a membership at Costco. Initially, it felt rather exciting, but then it became overwhelming. I had a frustrating time at the Coquitlam branch last week, realizing that Don and I did not need a litre of oyster sauce or Thai chili sauce, two of the things I had on my grocery list to make the very un-Asian ‘egg roll in a bowl’ recipe I had found on the internet. I ended up at a much smaller grocery store to do the bulk of my shopping, but I did manage to snag a bathing suit for 20 dollars at Costco. On the subject of bathing suits, it’s been my contention for the last 30 or so years that the pool is not for me. In between a phobia of cold water, a bit of a body image issue along with a fear of submerging my head, I’ve not been much of a pool attendee other than to watch my fleet-fish daughters with awe and a bit of jealousy.

If you’re not a listener to my podcast, my word of the year is renew. With Emily out of the physical sphere, I find that I am willing to experience things that I wasn’t before, perhaps because everything feels new and different in the post-Emily era. This is a small but significant blessing that has quietly sat alongside the all-encompassing grief.

I had a free evening last week. Charlotte returned to her dorm for a few nights and Don had gone out for dinner with a friend. I had a few ideas up my sleeve as I always love my ‘Leah Time:’ variations on the theme of popcorn, bathing, books and clever sitcoms - my solitary standbys. But it was not to be. A few days prior I had come across a free Tony Robbins seminar on my Facebook feed and decided to sign up for it. Many years ago, I had read Unleash the Power Within and became a fan of Tony. He may seem like a bit of a stereotype in his big, brash way, but he served as an inspiration to me, who in my teenage, churchgoing years considered becoming “lady evangelist,” ministering to the millions. I can spin a good story and I’ve been known to be quite inspirational. Though no longer an aspiring evangelist, Tony’s book motivated me to join Toastmasters International and I consequently went on to become the Toastmasters champion of China! So, there. 

On the morning of my free evening, I had listened to three hours of Tony pontificating and had gotten myself stirred up, albeit in a rather muffled way in the basement of our bungalow. Long story short, my free evening combined with Tony’s motivational acumen, found me at The Hyde Creek Recreation Centre, already clad in my 20 dollar Costco bathing suit under my layers of clothing, whitest of white legs and an impish smile. Renewal creeping…

I’ve been joking about joining aqua fit classes for a long time now, but there were none available on this particular evening. The pool area was positively packed with people, predominantly older folks and young kids with their daddies, when I arrived just short of seven pm. Lessons were happening in the big pool, but there was a shallow lazy river pool  that flowed similarly to a river with a slow current for gliding. I thought I might try walking backward in it to get a bit of a resistance workout. I slipped in, finding it not spasm-inducingly cold, but more like a tepid bath.

I decided on ten rounds backwards up the lazy river, which was surprisingly challenging to navigate, rather like running up the down escalator at a mall. (Emily has watched me try this and nearly fallen over laughing in my failed attempt.) As rafting children with dads at the helm and fit older folks floated past me, I scrabbled in the opposite direction, joking that I was going the wrong way down a one way street. Some drifters seemed mildly amused by my antics, but there was no real interest in the 50-something woman in the Costco bathing suit trying to swim upstream.

A preadolescent son and his father bobbed by me several times, discussing the merits of various phones and how the son might afford (through jobs around the home) to purchase one; two young boys tossed a beach ball back and forth as they floated around me, not even giving me a glance; a dad with two gangly kids clinging to his neck and laughing boisterously glided past; older folks of all shapes and ethnicities meandered through, some on their backs, others forward-forging.

I observed two lifeguards trying to coax a teenage boy with Autism out of the pool. He kept holding his hands to his ears, ignoring them with a persistence that was admirable. He was in his happy place and was going to be damned if anybody took him out of it. Eventually, his mother waded in, fully clothed in jeans and a hoodie, gently leading him out: love in its purest form. I saw the exhaustion in her eyes, how much she cared for him and wanted to enter the world he lived in, and how he responded to her gently taking his hand and caressing it, acceding to her wishes. It was a love that took my breath away and brought me back to Emily because I know that love. I know that I have and would do anything to take care of my cherished children. 

During the entire time I had been navigating the currents of the lazy river, a man had been in the shallow lagoon of the pool, doing his own version of strengthening, minus an aqua fit class. His curly longish greying hair, his expansive chest, his eyes receptive and warm, and how he was rooted to the floor of the pool as he exercised independently, spoke to me. On my last round, not quite ready to end my workout, I swam-walked over to him and asked if he had any tips for me to create my own resistance program.

Matt introduced himself and was only too happy to show me his routine and discuss our respective injuries and what a fantastic way this was to accomplish both cardio and strengthening without injury. He was a good twenty years younger than me, yet I felt a connection, a knowing that we each had something to give one another. As we continued chatting, all the while forging on with our exercises, I realised that these kinds of moving meet-ups (in both senses of the word) were such a valuable way to develop and have community. I do not join exercise classes; I do not go to events with strangers; I do not get into pools - but somehow my preconceived notions were challenged on this day, offering me the gift of renewal, that discreet and patient friend of grief.

I told Matt about how my oldest daughter Charlotte was a lifeguard and instructor for the city of Vancouver; I told him I was a teacher; he talked about his journeyman ticket and some of the reinvention he was experiencing and learning to accept after his accident. I felt compelled to tell him about Emily - why I was at this pool in Port Coquitlam kicking my legs alongside of him on a Thursday night in January. I told Matt that Emily had ended her life and how Don and I had found ourselves here, on another continent, quite suddenly, starting this whole new life. He asked if he might hug me - previously we had been fist-bumping - and both of us cried in the lagoon of the lazy river pool. Matt told me that he had tried to end his life more than a handful of times over the course of his life, how depression had dogged him, how he had heard the attempts to help, and the commiseration through a ‘veil of gauze,’ as he called it, never being able to quite take in and accept the love, the empathy, the assistance that was being offered. He spoke gently, explaining the nature of his depression and how he was learning to heal, but what a rapid-filled river it was. As he shared, my understanding of and mercy for my daughter grew. 

“Don’t ever blame Emily,” he told me. “She is not to blame.” I realised I had not been blaming myself, but I had not entirely released my blame of her. Couldn’t she have tried just a little bit harder? Hung on a little bit longer? She was so very strong in so many ways. She was the one who had told her Uncle Carl some years ago, when he couldn’t quite perform the martial arts that she was demonstrating for him, “Get stronger.” She was always so strong until she wasn’t. The blame that I was still clutching began to drift away on a current of compassion.

Eventually, we said our goodbyes, I went to the jacuzzi and sat beside a woman in a hijab, and we smiled shyly at each other. Then I went to the steam room and just breathed for a while, sweating away the toxins, feeling released. I ended my evening in the sauna, remembering that Tony Robbins also sat in a sauna for 20 minutes every night before bed. 

Vulnerability: it’s a gift. When I share my stories, others can share theirs. And we both can heal and renew.

Dreaming

 

Last night I had a dream that enlivened me and gave me hope. I began my sleep routine by retreating to my imaginary house on the lake and asking all my divine guides to bless me there as I pottered around, and then ended my interlude by dozing off on a boat that posed as a cosy bed laden with down blankets and pillows; the bedboat floated peacefully on the lake as I gazed up at the northern lights, feeling at one with the universe. 

It took me some months to create this haven that I can frequent before falling asleep. I had a delightful time designing my own house and garden in the perfect locale. It’s a wooden cabin sitting on the edge of a lake, surrounded by a myriad of trees. Except for a furry fat cat, there is nobody else here. It is for me only. I am completely self-sufficient, and have no technology and no visitors aside from my spiritual guides who usually hover on the periphery and provide divine energy, but do not stop by for chats unless I ask.

For about a year now, this has been an important part of my falling asleep ritual, but when Emily died, it went by the wayside. When I would try to call it back, I could only stay with it for seconds at a time before my mind would drift toward trauma or sadness or worry about the future.

Last night, I visited my cabin in all its glory. I stayed under my white duvet in the peaceful attic with the large window overlooking the lake and the mountains rising beyond it in misty swirls of changing morning light. I padded downstairs to my stone fireplace with an already-lit fire, a book perched on my voluminous, well-worn sofa, an afghan blanket waiting to hug me. The soft, woolen carpets embellished the well-worn wood floors as I ambled to the kitchen to percolate coffee, bake some bread that had been rising overnight, chop apples from my own trees for a pie, pick basil and tomatoes and cucumbers from my expansive garden to make a salad for later, and also laze on my front porch and feel the sun on my cheeks. All seasons and all energies were encompassed in a few moments of idyllic repose.

My vivid visualisation helped me to ease into dreams that were of a very positive nature, especially given my propsensity for nightmares. In the final dream of the night, I discovered I had set up an entire living studio in the hayloft of my childhood barn. It was expansive and decorated with stylish aplomb. I was hosting a significant-sized party and had invited everyone up to come and take whatever they wanted, including an extensive collection of clothing that I had accrued during my teenage thrift shopping years. I renewed a friendship from long ago, and discovered the two of us would be attending the same university, starting any day. One of my recurring nightmares is that I am set to head off to university and I find I have either forgotten to apply or I have no place to live. In this dream, I was packed up and ready to go. Everything was in place for my move to the next chapter. It was the resolution to my 40 years of not being able to quite make it to where I was trying to get to. It felt significant.

Yesterday, in real-life, we gave notice to our tenants and let them know that we would be moving into our house on Vancouver Island in two months. Last week, we came to a more-than-satisfactory agreement with our school that we would not be returning to Beijing to complete our teaching contracts. We found ourselves untethered. At first it felt like we were flying in the wind, perhaps to be blown away, but as each day passes and another future-forward decision is made, we are more surefooted and ready to do the next best thing.

We don’t clearly see the path ahead of us, just the next few steps, but we are taking them with greater ease and courage, quite certain we are heading in the right direction or at least certain that there is not a wrong way to go. Everything is so new. Living without Emily’s physical presence is, of course, the newest of all. It colours everything in this expansive forest we find ourselves in. Interestingly, this place that felt gloomy and terrifying a short time ago, now has some rays of sun tentatively fingering their way through the old growth trees. The greens are verdant and diverse: the ferns contrasting with the moss and with the tree needles. Who knew there were so many greens that muddle so exquisitely with the inky bruised sky and the damp, textured bark of century trees. The ground is soft beneath our feet and we are treading with more confidence on the spongy earth, not tripping over protruding roots nearly as often. I am warming up, getting stronger, appreciating the beauty and aromas of the air and redolence of nature. I am readying myself for this new life. I am already in it.

Anchoring Emily

 

If you listen to my podcast, 2 Chit Chat Chicks, you will know that I love a good tip or a trick. I am finding there are some powerful ones that can be employed, even when dealing with grief. These days, I am conversing with Emily more often. I have eased into acceptance that she is gone and also allowed myself to believe that her soul-self is always present, and I can access that part of her, particularly when I am in a non-resisting, peaceful state.

Several weeks ago, I was getting ready to go out for some mundane task - perhaps grocery shopping - donned in my standard these days: a turtleneck, jeans and my Blundstone boots. Since I lived in Korea some 30 years ago and was always complimented when I wore makeup and asked if I were feeling ill when I did not, I have been in the habit of putting on at least a little bit of something to give the impression of glowing vitality. Lately, it’s not been much of a priority, nor have I been getting out and about much. After my final ablutions of brushing my teeth and hair, I glanced at my cosmetics bag and thought, “Nah - why would I bother?” At that moment, I heart-heard (a new word I have just coined) the voice: But mama, you always like to put on make up. It’s fun for you. 

Emily was a girl who eschewed all makeup, except when her cosmetic-loving sister insisted she try out Egyptian eyes or dramatic brows on boring Covid days when all other entertainment options had been exhausted. I acknowledged that it was fun for me to muddle around with makeup, and has been since I was a teenager putting on globs of creamy blue eyeshadow and Bonnie Bell bubble gum scented lipgloss. It’s not like you don’t have time, she joked.

So, in the dimly lit bathroom, I began to moisturise, pat on some foundation, brighten my eyes, dab on a bit of lip gloss. During this meditative regimen, I spoke amiably with my Emily and felt lighthearted. The next time I wondered about applying makeup, there she was, encouraging me to go for it. So we chatted again. These days I’m rather excited to gaze into the mirror  because I know it’s a time we can easily connect. I’ve anchored it as a little tidbit of time to chat with my youngest daughter in a playful, sunny way.

Shortly before my mama died five years ago, I told her she would be on my shoulder so often that I’d probably see her more than I would if we were living down the road from each other, rather than me being halfway across the world in China. She laughed and acknowledged this to be true. My mama is anchored for me in colourful birds that I see all the time and also when I glance at my phone and it comes up with 12:34 or the beginning digits of our old phone number or anything that feels in any way significant. I will just smile and say, “Hi, Mommy!” It gives me such a joy-spasm (another new word!) that it can carry me forward with positive intention and happiness for hours. 

This is my intent for my ongoing relationship with Emily: to find those moments that occur frequently and afford me some space, and use them to commune together. I also desire to have those serendipitous times when Emily is called to mind and I can just say easily and without longing, “Hi, Sweetie,” and I’ll know that she is sitting on my shoulder along with my mama, protecting me, loving me, and being a part of me as well as a meaningful part of my life. Logic is not a part of this anchoring game, rather I’m finding that faith combined with a bit of fun is what is needed for me to go forward with purpose.

Eagle’s Nest

 

I started a Pilates challenge on YouTube several days after the new year had already begun. It’s been a centering and strengthening process for my body and mind. I’m not being ‘all or nothing’ about it, determined not to fizzle out because I miss a day. On Saturday, I was too sad to get out of my pjs, and even though Pilates is a pjs kind of exercise, it still wasn’t enough to get me on the ground and going.

Yesterday I missed too because we were in transit to Vancouver Island, which will be our new home sometime soon. We are staying at our dear friend Heather’s house, a place that has always felt like a retreat of serenity for me, but the resurgence of memories knocked us down. I had naively expected to be enveloped in tranquility at Heather’s home, but we first needed to get through the inevitable initiation. The first time going somewhere Emily-connected AE (After Emily) is always hard. We’ve been through this ritual before.

There is a lovely aerie of a space at the top of Heather’s stairs, and it’s where Emily slept when we visited last summer. I had hoped Heather would make this our living quarters, but she put us in the more suitable bedroom downstairs. At first I was disappointed, but realised we could use this as our hideaway, our go-to spot to meditate and have time on our own or together. 

I came up within the first few minutes of arriving and started to furtively scope out the room, feeling certain Emily had left something from last summer during her stay. I just sensed something must be here waiting for me. I opened drawers and the closet, looked behind the sofa, scanned the bookshelf, all to no avail. I came up several more times, certain there was a clue or a gift she had left for me. I just felt it so strongly and desperately.

During the middle of the night, when I couldn’t sleep, I came up again, with my blanket, my Kindle and a crossword. Still no peace. I eventually grew sleepy and returned to the warmth of my slumbering Don.

When I woke to a new morning, a peace had settled over me. I sat and chatted with Heather over coffee and my morning NYT puzzles. Everything felt easier and the flow I always feel with my beloved friend was back.

After breakfast, I climbed up to the Emily eagle’s nest with my computer to do my morning Pilates routine and as soon as I entered, I knew: it wasn’t a physical thing I was searching for at all. It was Emily in her soul-self. The room was permeated with her spirit. I just needed to be still. To be here. To quietly allow her gentle love to lull its way into me.

Doing my Pilates, I was completely centered and in the zone in a way I had not been yet. She is here all around me as I write. My Emily has been here all along. Now I can rest. There is nothing to find. She has found me.

Sadness, Soup, and Snow

I don’t usually know what I am going to write about until my fingers touch the keyboard. It’s the way I have always written. All the lessons we tend to teach as English teachers are about coming up with a plan - making sure you have a clear introduction, body and conclusion in factual writing; ensuring that your creative efforts are plotted out before you actually begin your stories. This has seldom worked for me, except in the most academic of pursuits.

I’m spontaneous and a bit haphazard by nature, and my best writing seems to come out of the same place my dreams do: some subconscious well of knowing and depth that I can easily tap into. I guess it is a combination of intuition and practice that gets me there.  I love to go plumbing for the treasures that are shining at the bottom of the sea where one can’t for too stay too long without air, yet there is such beauty to bring back to the surface.

I went to bed agitated last night. The day had been pleasant. It was a blue-sky-white- ground day in an area of the world that is always lush with green and the palette of blue and white is seldom seen together. Everything looked different to me, as if I were in a completely new habitat. The looming mountains had woken up, finally christened with the long-awaited snow, and everything gleamed as the sunlight reflected off the mirrors of snow,. Don and I went thrift shopping for kitchen supplies. Now that we know our new lives are starting soon in this part of the world, we’ve decided it’s okay to start finding useful items to set up our Vancouver Island home. Today, we came away with a few old Corning Ware pieces that our mothers had used when we were kids, some 1970s vinyls to add to our growing collection that is still without a turntable, a griddle pan so Don can make Charlotte pancakes this morning, and a Pyrex bowl that we can make my family’s famous bread in. (I will leave the recipe for you at the bottom of the blog. My sister makes it at least once a week and it is better than anything you can buy at a store, and surprisingly easy to make.)

I made soup in the afternoon - my Oma Rempel’s grune borscht or summer borscht. Some people call it weed soup because it is so full of greens: summer sorrel or beet leaves, dill, parsley, green onions. Barley and potatoes give it starch, and is flourished with buttermilk and farmer sausage. A boiled egg is plopped into each bowl, and you slice it in, using the edge of your spoon. It’s an odd combo, but a famous one in Mennonite circles, especially for those who lived in Ukraine during those years of extreme dearth. It’s a soup borne of necessity, carried on through tradition, and loved by those of us whose grandmothers lovingly prepared this repast for us while telling stories of their pasts all the while. Memories of sitting at my Oma’s arborite kitchen table with the orange upholstered daisy chairs as she chopped potatoes and stirred vigorously, always in her modest dresses with an apron on and her green cat eye glasses - these cannot grow old for me. She may well have given me my own storytelling genes. I can’t seem to write without telling a story…

So we feasted on soup, repaired to the living room and lounged, reading and crosswording, and feeling cozy, but I just kept shifting back from how lovely this scene was to why we were in this scene to begin with. We were in this bungalow in Vancouver having a lovely day together because our Emily took her life. We are here to mourn. Emily should be here with us, laughing and telling us she’s not a soup girl but eating it anyway, and then making commentary on the Northern Exposure we just watched and telling us how she’d like to live in a small town in Alaska and build a cabin there; she’d be the disciplined one, heading to her bed early to get a good night’s sleep so she could start with her routine in the morning. She should be the one making us coffee, and she would be mortified that we are using a Keurig coffee machine, coffee snob and barista that she had become. She would be the one insisting I do my Pilates challenge for the day (I didn’t), saying, “C’mon Mama, I’ll do it with you.” And we’d laugh our way through it, her the flexible, lithe one, me the pudgy one in my pajamas.

But we are here because of her. Because she is no more in her physical form. So I have to go out and seek her - through walks and meditation, through my writing, in my dreams. I need to believe she manifested this little house for us and that she is keeping us tucked in and cozy. 

The day after Emily died, when I was finally able to come up for air and shower, I heard her voice in my mind saying, “Now it’s my turn to take care of you, Mama.” Please do so, baby girl. Please align with the universe and care for your heartbroken mama and papa and sister and friends and family. We all need your caretaking and comfort. 

Transcendence

 

In Grade 7, I created a goddess for a school assignment: I named her Lavender, and made a shield representing her traits of wisdom, mercy and kindness. As I recall, part of the assignment was to write a letter to our god or goddess. I was mesmerised by this project that harnessed my creative energies under the auspices of studying Greek and Roman mythology.

That year, I found myself writing to Lavender in the diary my parents had given me for Christmas: it was a small lined booklet with a picture of a young woman and man holding hands in the woods on its cover. It had a little lock on it and I kept the key hidden in my underwear drawer. For me, my love of writing was ignited as soon as I began reading, and I did so voraciously. I would read, always with the thought humming in the background, “You can do this, too!”

This writing, however, was different. It began as the diurnal dronings of an adolescent. Lee Ann invited me to her house after school today. We made ice cream sundaes and drove her dad’s truck in the backfield. Then we listened to the Bay City Rollers. It was fun. But then it gradually began shifting. As I wrote about my daily doings, I began to let my mind wander to anxieties that I was experiencing. What can I do to make the popular girls like me? Why do I feel so ugly? Am I going to hell?  The questions went from shallow to cavernous, but all of them mattered deeply to me.

As I asked these questions, addressed to Lavender, I found that she could answer with wisdom and compassion. I began saving one side of my journal for questions and the other side for answers. The Lavender answers began taking up more room than my diary had room for. I graduated to notebooks. Throughout high school we wrote back and forth, and I began talking to Lavender, realising she could respond through me, talking with my voice. All I needed was to be still and open.

What took me a long time to recognise was that Lavender was indeed the wise part of me. Some people call this the Wise Sage. I never considered my relationship with Lavender odd, though I have guarded her closely and shared of her fleetingly and with very few people.  This relationship felt private and like something people might not understand. These days, however, I have nothing to lose. I bare my soul willingly, having received so many gifts of acknowledgement that what I share is helping others as they heal from their various maladies. I would suggest that you all have your own wise sages within.

I am in the position of wanting relief so badly that I am open to all modalities that can help me heal. I don’t want to ‘get over’ Emily, but I do want to get over the intense grief that has gripped me until very recently. Sometimes all I’ve had energy in the day for beyond my gentle healing rituals that I’m engaging in is to eat some granola and Greek yogurt with some frozen blueberries. Taking out and putting away those three things can feel exhausting. Heart work is hard work.

Because I’ve been open to this quintessence or spiritual side of me for much of my life, I am not closed off to healing through any number of ways. I’ve been doing some hypnosis and guided meditations that are providing me much needed calm in my life. I am meditating and reading words of wisdom from spiritual masters; also, I’ve allowed myself to be back in touch with my wise self, my Lavender, as I start to come up for air. I am remembering that she is the greater part of me: the part that can help me to make decisions, find clarity, be present, and find gratitude and purpose, even in life’s deepest tragedies.

Earlier this week, I embarked on a guided meditation with my therapist that I found enormously comforting. As I am always one to make myself at home, I kicked off my boots, laid prone on the sofa in her office, swaddled my feet with the hood of my down coat, and commenced deep breathing. The first thing we did was focus on the subtle vibration all around my body, that tingling in the extremities that you can feel when you are tuned in and still. Then she asked me to bring into that energy field all the love, well wishes, prayers, and comfort that people had been sending to me, and I felt this deep acceptance of what so many of you have been offering. I’ve often wondered how to receive prayers and such, and in that moment I understood. I took them all in.

Next, I began envisioning people who might want to join me in my relaxed state, whether passed or present, imaginary or real. Immediately, I felt two warm occupants to my left: my Emily and my Mama, who passed five years ago. I smiled, happy that they were together. Lavender was there, too, hovering respectfully at a distance. On my right hand side were all my grandparents, whom I had adored. Nothing was said. I just felt completely bathed in love and acceptance. Interestingly, the only living person who showed up was my soul sister, Heather. She has been a deep and abiding presence in my life now for more than 30 years. Our connection has always gone well beyond the distance we’ve been apart in miles. Joyously, we will be together very soon: this week when we head over to Vancouver Island to stay with her; and soon, after all these many years of distance, she will be my near-neighbour when we relocate to our Little River home this summer.

This short foray into the surreal left me with so much peace, so much acceptance. I know I can call forth this divine wisdom I have from Lavender and I can envision the golden light of love I am surrounded by with all those who love me here and beyond at any time I become quiet and ready to receive. 

After reading the blog today, my friend, Sharon, and one of Emily's homeroom teachers from Grade 8
shared this photo with me. Serendipity...

Snowy Day

Credit to: @mkdrone_

It’s a snowy day here in Vancouver, a rare and wondrous occasion, if you are not forced to drive. In next-to-no time there will be slush and more incessant drizzle, but today the world around me has been white with flurries and that muffled quiet that comes with accumulating snow. My little world, I might add, has been confined to the turquoise and orange granny bungalow we are snuggled up in; it’s now 5:30 pm and I remain in my pajamas, cloaked in a warm faux cashmere sweater and woolly grey socks.

Yesterday was our daughter Charlotte’s first shift working for the city of Vancouver as a swim instructor and lifeguard. She has two shifts a week in addition to her university studies - on Wednesday and Sunday evenings. We told her that as long as we are residing here in Vancouver, we will pick her up after she finishes work and drive her back to her dormitory on Burnaby Mountain. Happily, last night she wanted to come back to the bungalow that she call home: “I want to come home with you,” she says. I love it that wherever our family is, whether it be guesthouse or couch surfing or actually in our residence, we have always called it home. When we are together as a family, it is home. What joy it gave us to have this delightful daughter of ours want to be with us! We spent her entire three week winter break together, and she still hasn’t had enough of us. We are so fortunate.

Family has always been paramount for Don and me. We’ve been lucky to raise our daughters in Hong Kong and China (the country of their births) with teaching careers that allowed us to eat dinner together each night and have glorious family vacations in the summers as well as many adventurous forays during our abundant holidays. Our unit of four has been tightly knit. Because we don’t have a lot on the docket right now in terms of “have-to’s,” and because family has now taken on a whole new level of priority in our fragility, the fact that these two parents can pick up their kid from her job twice a week is more than a pleasure: we are framing all of our other activities around it!

Our dear friends, Steph and Aman, live a few minutes away from the pool, so we now have a standing date for dinner at their place on Charlotte’s days of employment. Last night, we brought a deliciously fragrant chilli along with crusty buns that another dear friend Donna had made for us - how spoiled we are - and we all gathered around the table, laughing and basking in the happiness we all feel when we are together. So easy. Family and chosen family. We are richly blessed on both accounts.

Tonight we will venture down the road in the Mini Cooper that my father has loaned us - while he walks the roads of Abbotsford on foot, eschewing the need for a vehicle, gallant man that he is - and we will have some steaming bowls of wonton soup and gailan (Chinese broccoli) and then come home and watch some Modern Family together.

Yes, I cried today. Yes, I miss my Emily every minute of every day. But, I also celebrate the wonderful folks who are here. There is much to be thankful for. Children in China are called ten thousand pieces of gold.  We have been wealthy beyond measure. 

I Have Two Daughters

Bear with me today as I explore a step beyond where I am today, a step that will surely come, and that I feel the need to prepare for.

I have two sweet daughters. I will never say anything different. Presently, everyone in my vortex knows that Emily is no longer living on earth, but a time will come when I will meet new people, and the yet unspoken will linger in the air. “How many children do you have?” And I’ll pause, perhaps tear up, and will have no choice but to answer that I have two. But what then? For strangers, I don’t owe an explanation, but for those verging on friendship, those I feel a tug toward, I shall have to add on to that simple sentence. 

One on earth; one in heaven. I’ve heard that said. I’m not sure it fits for me. Might Emily be an angel? I believe she is, not in the sense that she has wings and a halo, but that she is a sort of pure positive energy that is indeed watching over us, her chosen family, as well as all those she loved, including her friends, who miss her so.

One on earth; one an angel. I rather like it. Charlotte and Don will find their own nomenclature to explain the loss of this beloved sister and daughter. But for now, I believe this works for me. Until I find a better way to express the depth of this concept, this will be what I have in my back pocket, when I am caught by surprise and wish to share.

How quickly I came to this conclusion! You’ve not needed to go on a serpentine expedition with me after all. As I allowed myself to think about this that has been hovering and I’ve not allowed space for until now, it simply came to me. As I breathe and allow ease and flow, I receive the answers I need in the moment.

I will always honour my Emily. I will always and ever have two daughters. 

Here's an update: I just received an AHA suggestion from my friend, Amanda: one on earth and one in my heart. I truly love this. Now I will have two ways to share both my Charlotte and my Emily.

The Three Friends of Winter

The pine, the bamboo and the plum tree are what the Chinese call The Three Friends of Winter. Unlike many other plants, these three do not falter as the days deepen into bitter winter chill. They respectively symbolise steadfastness, perseverance, and resilience.

I love the contemplative Chinese mythology and how imagery of nature is interwoven into teachings. The idea that the pine, bamboo, and plum trees sustain themselves during piercingly cold times gives me solace as I am both in the winter season and the winter of my grief. I look toward a spring where I will be able to hold Emily in my heart with a greater ease and where I will grow ever more comfortable with a flowering relationship of soul-to-soul connection.

The pine tree, an evergreen, remains verdant throughout the seasons. It resists the elements, reaching relentlessly upward, longevity in its very roots. My own steadfastness shall remain in my devotion to Emily; I will also be steadfast in the faith that our connection can continue; finally, I will be steadfast in love for my Don and my Charlotte. 

The bamboo, displaying perseverance in the face of freezing temperatures, continues to grow. As winds buffet these robust, ringed stalks, they remain upright, with deeply entrenched, ever expanding roots: flexible, bending with the elements, but not overcome by them. I, too, will persevere in the face of this present hardship. I have a fortitude that has given me an inner, rooted strength I didn’t know I possessed. I will persevere in the willingness to examine my feelings and share them because I recognise how helpful my self-examination and vulnerability are to so many others who are in the winter of their own griefs. I will persevere with my writing in the hope that it will give me healing and be a balm for others, a tiny offering that can hug the hearts of those who suffer similarly.

The plum tree, representing resilience, is one of the first trees to bloom as the liminal season recedes and spring emerges. This will be me. Even the day after Emily passed, Don and I murmured to one another between sobs that we could not let this take us down: that we would need to not only go through this fire of sorrow, but emerge with purpose and even joy. I will need resilience in this new life in a new place with new experiences. I will not wither and die as the garden annuals do, but push forth blossoms of renewal and shiny green growth that display my commitment to taking a tragedy and turning it into something that can bring beauty and purpose.

 

Yes, its winter,  but I will endure. And spring will come.

Hope

“Hope” is the thing with feathers - 

That perches in the soul -

That sings the tune without words -

And never stops - at all -

Emily Dickinson

My mom always said, “I live in Hope,” which she did literally. But also figuratively.

When my parents retired, they moved to Hope, a small town in the Fraser Canyon, at the confluence of the Fraser and Coquihalla Rivers, about an hour and a half outside of Vancouver. It was a town we all came to love, but Emily especially. Some years ago she pointed to a spot nestled in the mountains a little way out of town and said definitively to her Opa, my father, “This is where I will build my house.” For years now and up until just recently, she had been designing her dream house in a notebook.

Hope and its environs are an outdoor person’s paradise, abundant with trails running along rivers and up mountains;  trains cling to the ridges of the Cascade mountain range, their horns echoing through the antechambers of canyons, an ostinato in this cathedral. Hope is a sacred site.

The Sto:lo First Nations people were here first, establishing this community somewhere between eight and 10,000 years ago as a major transportation hub and a stopping point for trade between nearby communities. Most people from Vancouver see Hope as a pit stop for gas and a bite to eat (I recommend The Blue Moose) on the way to the Rocky Mountains or the Okanagon or other vacation locales. Few stay long enough to immerse themselves in the subtle, vibrating mysticism of this town. 

Our Emily recognised magic. She looked for it. And she knew it when she found it. This was one of her chosen places. With the old growth trees, the jade green and bruised blue of the two rivers merging, the swooping eagles, the bears, the ever-present clouds bearing down and holding in the mystery and magic of this tiny town, it is a sanctuary for those who take the time to recognise it. The First Nations people knew then and know now. Emily knew when she first came and knows now.  It’s nuanced thrums and sotto voce murmurs are evident to those who have an open heart.

One of the memories we hold of this little town is my parents’ apartment, a little jewel box of treasures and treasured sitting atop the local bank on the corner of the main street of Hope. Large kitchen and living rooms windows face the action of the town and the comings and goings of the people. This, along with Mount Hope looming outside the windows, where one can see the first snows of the season and the mighty Fraser rushing and eddying to the right of their view, made for a rich movie played out in front of us. 

My mother always called it “Kino ohne Geld,” or theatre without money. Indeed, we could gaze out of those second story windows for hours. My parents always knew when we were coming because they could watch us pulling up in our old camper van, spilling out of the doors, Emily and Charlotte racing up the stairs and into the arms of their Omi and Opa. 

There would be long, happy days of hiking and trekking around the rivers, finding walking sticks, sorting stones, always with Emily, skipping stones into the rivers and creeks alongside her daddy or uncles or grandfather. The girls would come home and bake with their Oma, and be in awe of Opa’s meticulously organised but packrat-full “shop” in the back of their house, which held shelf upon shelf of tools and collections of all manner, including belts and screws and bolts of fabric and books. At the very back of the shop was the “honeymoon suite” where Don and I would sleep, the bathroom full of clocks, ticking vigorously, none ever displaying the correct time, as our en-suite.

The girls would stay in the room next to Omi and Opa’s, living in the lap of love. Our children were not expected by my parents. By the time Emily and Charlotte came along, all their other grandchildren were merging on adulthood. The joy they took in our daughters was a delight. 

This part of the world, redolent with moss and ferns and incessant drizzly days, within a canopy of fir and pine and spruce and hemlock trees, is a holy shrine. When the time is right, we will be taking Emily’s ashes to Hope to distribute them at the confluence of the two rivers - the intersection of magic. We had already decided this when I clicked the image on Emily’s profile photo on her wechat app, the one we use for everyday communication in China. It was a silhouette, and I had assumed it was simply a generic photo, as people’s often are. I should have known better. Emily infused most of what she did with meaning. There was Emily, holding a stick and standing at this intersection of rivers in Hope. She knew where she wanted to be. We will honour this.

She will live in Hope and we continue to live in hope.