What more can I do?

Often when I am talking to people about doing things for others the phrase, "It's the least I can do" comes up. I know I have said it myself when commenting about a hour spent here, a food bank donation made there, some things dropped off at a shelter or clothing depot, a casserole or soup made for an ailing friend or a bereaved family.

Realistically, many of us are not in the position financially to be as philanthropic as we might wish. We might even be feeling somewhat skeptical; the kinds of givers who never feel comfortable that our dollars are going where they should when our chosen charities are sending frequent multi-page, glossy colour brochures that cost five bucks each to mail. Wait! My money is supposed to be paying for Halima's education in Bangladesh . . .

Often over these past few festive weeks during times spent with others, eating well in warm lovely homes, surrounded by good health and plenty, discussions have turned to giving. As a student of the Buddha path, much of my studying has been about what it means to give and how by doing so, to develop one's spiritual nature. Giving with pure motivation is called dana paramita (Sanskrit), or dana parami (Pali), which means "perfection of giving." It comprises charity and the giving of material things, but also when one cannot give of those, the giving of lovingkindness to all and spiritual guidance to those who seek it.

One's motivation for giving is important, too. I ask myself  Why am I doing this now? and struggle sometimes with the thought that my giving is somehow self-serving. Being shamed or intimidated into giving; giving to receive a favor; giving to feel good about yourself are not pure motivations at all. The Buddha taught us to give without expectation of reward or even thanks. Giving quietly, even secretly, helps one to release attachment to material things and greed. There is a tradition in Japan where Buddhist monks carry out traditional alms begging with their faces obscured by broad straw hat brims so as not to be seen by the giver nor to see the giver's face.

Japanese Buddhist monk begging alms and praying.

How fortunate I am to know so many people with open, giving hearts. More than just giving to charity, their generosity shows a spirit of responding to the world and giving what is needed and appropriate at the time, all year long, locally and abroad, to all beings. Where once I was satisfied with an "It's the least I can do", but I will actively try and make it into "What more can I do?"

The Call

I am someone who really rather detests the telephone. If there is any way I can avoid being around one,  I do.  Yes, I've had a cell phone since 1999, but mostly for emergencies, and I just got into texting within the last year. A very select few people have my cell number. Anyone can call our home phone as we have a listed, searchable number, but if someone actually answers it, be surprised - be very surprised. Those who know Julie and me well know that we rarely answer our telephone.

My wife uses a phone for her living as a service advisor in the automotive world. She has to take calls all day long to book appointments, arrange for parts to be on site, hear complaints and sad stories. She is no bigger fan than I am when the phone rings at home. "Are you going to answer that, Cate?" "No." And the call goes to voicemail.

We have the same experiences that anyone in the general public has with telemarketers, surveys and robo-calls. We have caller ID so that, of course if it's a sibling or child we answer or call right back. We are not anti-social (at least not completely yet!), but if you can e-mail or message us via social media, we are guaranteed to respond in a more timely manner.

There are other exceptions of course. I have chatty days now and then, when hearing that certain person's actual voice is a delight, and conversation, not mere small talk, flows back and forth effortlessly. Those calls, whether initiated by me or the other party, fill my spirit when I'm low. A good laugh shared is irreplaceable, as are words of genuine empathy. A short newsy update is not amiss when the other party is not a Facebooker or e-mailer. But what can one offer by way of response if the caller seems only to want advice that they would never take, or for me to somehow affirm their belief that they have been grievously wronged by their spouse/child/boss or some corporate entity? You can only say, "I am so sorry that happened to you" so many times.

All this said, I was reminded recently by my dear Anne McMahon, my cousin Kevin's wife, of a call we would both dearly love to make or receive. With the Christmas season upon us, and warmest memories of how our late parents loved and celebrated the December festivities, she commented that she would so love to pick up the phone and call them. A catch came into my throat on reading it. How I would so love to hear Dad's or Mom's voice over the phone again! Dad, after many years of being on call at the clinic would pick up with a "Smith speaking", and Mom would follow her cheery "Hello?" with "What are you doing right now?" and be genuinely interested. Anne says it is almost automatic when she dials from Quebec to her brother in Truro to dial 1-902-893 . . . and almost call her folks' number to this day. When I moved back to Colonial Avenue almost 15 years ago, I actually asked Bell Aliant to keep the Smith phone number that they had had since the 1960s, and so, when I phone home, I am phoning HOME.

To all who are missing some certain loved ones, whether at this time of year or anytime, just imagine the flood of emotions and sheer joy if we could pick up the phone and hear those voices again! That is the call I would answer with no hesitation.

Having it all . . .

Just let me smell the fir and pine, cinnamon and vanilla within the warmth of our home. Let me walk outside in the brisk air, and hear the crunch of snow or sere leaves beneath my booted feet. Let the wan light of December sun play over the rooftops and bare trees outside my window while the playlist on my iPod encompasses everything from “Ave Maria” to “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer”.

But stop, please stop barking about having been saluted with “Happy Holidays” or “Season’s Greetings” instead of “Merry Christmas”, and declaring that those words mean taking sides in what some people have called (thanks, Fox News and Bill O’Reilly!) the “war on Christmas”.

There is no such thing. No amount of Grinchiness, no reminders that a nativity scene was not permitted in a school or government building, no inclusion of other seasonal observances can ever diminish Christmas in the hearts, minds and yes, pocketbooks (that’s another story!) of the masses in the western world.

It is not easy to impress on some people how embracing diversity does not mean turning their backs on their long-held religious views. You are not forsaking your beliefs by investigating, becoming educated or sharing in the rituals of another faith or creed. True, many of us in my peer group, growing up in Nova Scotia, did not see a menorah or Star of David in our neighbours’ homes, or know of Kwanzaa or Yule, other than with its references to a yule log cake. Still, how could knowing and learning about customs and traditions of others do anything but enrich us?

 

What makes people pit their beliefs against and focus such righteous outrage on others where Christmas is concerned? Kindness and compassion stand at the root of ancient and modern belief systems alike. Go to mass, have eight nights of lights, feast and frolic with abandon, be with those you love, give more or your time and less from the superficial “spend, spend, spend” mentality. Sing! Rejoice! Sit quietly. Observe or don’t.

That is having it all.

Here we go again!

This iPad thing is really catching on with me. At first I didn’t know if it was something that would be useful, but now I can hardly put it down. I think about all of the struggles of committing ideas to paper when you don’t happen to have paper or  a notebook with you. Oh yes, like most writers I have scribbled my thoughts on napkins, placemats even probably receipts. I  have written them down with lipstick, pencil crayon and sharpie marker, then relegated them to the bottom of my handbag where they live forever in obscurity until I clean it out.

 So how is the iPad any different you might ask? I simply take it everywhere with me now. It’s got a great camera -- I can get pictures and post them on the spot.  My ideas flow out of me and onto this little magic screen effortlessly. And this piece? You may wonder why it sounds so conversational. It’s because I’m using the voice recognition, speech to text feature in my word processor, Cloud On.

  It’s an Apple design and it’s nearly flawless! I simply speak into the iPad and the words magically appear on the screen where I can go back later and edit, add punctuation, change sentence length etc. What a convenient application! And how perfect for those who don’t actually keyboard well. Let’s face it; there are days when I’m just too lazy to type! This may revolutionize my world. Thanks for the great birthday present, Julie!

Virginia Woolf had a point . . .

"A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction."  I would even go so far as to say she might have stopped her sentence after the word "write", as I have long enjoyed writing memoirs, reviews, journals, critiques and more. In her time, Ms. Woolf and her contemporaries would have had precious little in the way of money or a room of their own, as these were privileges reserved for men alone. Today, women as writers enjoy equal advantages in areas of income and independence, thanks to those foremothers who fought to open the doors. And so I have both. Money, yes. Not vast fortunes, but enough. And a wonderful room . . .

In my lifetime, this room has had life as an office before. My dear friend Lizzy's father, the late Robert W. Healy was a surgeon here in Kentville for many years, and as a small child I passed through this room with its door to the back yard and gardens, mindful of and awed by the large oil portraits on the wall, the entire wall of bookshelves filled with books far beyond the scope of his medical texts, and the large mahogany desk and tufted leather chair. 

When my family moved into this home in 1967, the room had several purposes -- Dad's huge oak office desk was here, piled with all of the paperwork for the multitude of endeavours he had on the go (school board, town council, property developments) as well as all of his veterinary medical books and journals filling the bookcases, along with volumes of fiction, poetry, natural wonders and reference books. Very soon, a television and a long sofa were installed, so my six foot four Dad could grab a quick power nap before going back to work after lunch, or for evening office hours. Of course we all used it to pass through on our way outside, but it was very much his refuge and quiet place. From the huge picture window, he could survey the back yard, his roses and vegetable garden and watch sunsets with satisfaction. It was Dad's den.

After he died in 1983, my mother took over the den, having it repainted and papered, and buying new comfortable furniture more to her own taste. She took down his photos and framed degrees, replacing them with watercolour paintings and more feminine botanical prints. A desk was not a priority for her, but more comfortable chairs and a larger TV were. Why sit in a big open dining room when it's just you and your youngest son? The den became Alice's "nest" and she and Tony probably ate most of their dinners in there until he left for university. Here she did her daily crosswords, watched her soaps and had her tea. Grandchildren played on the floor with Grandma's toys, and I dropped in many days after work with my little one, often being asked to stay for supper.  

When she was so ill with cancer in 1999, this room became her bedroom and day room, with morphine drips and visitors, nurses and flowers. We were mere days from securing a hospital bed to be moved in here when her condition became grave enough to require transfer to Valley Regional. She left this room and never returned home.

And so, the den it remained. Reconfigured, redecorated, rearranged; still, it felt like Mom's place. Over the years after Quin moved out, we used it less and less. We're not big TV watchers and what little we do watch seems to be in our bedroom on the bigger screen set. With its door to the arbour and patio beyond, the room became more of a glorified hallway than a place to land and stay. 
 
From our veranda, cafés with free wifi, the backyard, to the kitchen island, I have done my writing everywhere. Feeling very much the homeless scribbler, about a year ago I embarked on the search for a desk. I didn't want anything bulky or heavy, just a simple surface, preferably real wood, on which to plunk my MacBook and write. I found the perfect piece of furniture with a multitude of possibilities that very day when Julie and I set out to look. Leon's. Good old Leon's. Seems it can be ordered from Amazon, too and several other stores. 

The beauty of it is that it can all fold up into a skinny console table or one leaf can fold out which is perfect for my applications. As shown in the image, both leaves fold out make a great square table for extra dining guests or what have you! Mine is somewhat darker in colour and the crisscrossed legs of the base have a sort of Asian sensibility which you know speaks to me! 

Because there are no drawers, I am forced to store things which might otherwise clutter my desktop in nice lidded boxes which I find for a song at Winners/Homesense and this makes the organizer in me deliriously happy. I change the accessories on the back of the desk as my mood demands . . . currently I have an antique green Remington manual typewriter here.

 Also a small stack of old hardback books with pretty bindings and a scarred painted alarm clock c.1927 with the hands stopped at 7:15. The typewriter and alarm clock were two of my gifts from colleague who quipped that now I would have all the time I wanted to write when I retired. She thrifted these vintage items and probably has no idea that similar ones are listed on Etsy and eBay for upwards of $250 and $70, respectively. I love them and their aged patina. One of my favorite Buddha busts sits on an upended vase for a pedestal.

My 2013 wall calendar for above my work spot is John Lennon's Imagine, with one of his whimsical sketches for each month, and I have to say my next purchase will be a corkboard for some of my favorite collectibles including the holographic Jerry Garcia stamp from Tanzania given to me my beloved audiophile and dear friend, Darrin Michael Harvey.  Once a Deadhead . . .

Yes, there's a couch with tons of comfy cushions and a thick woolly blanket for naps. Bookshelves have been purged some over time, leaving a modest selection of my very favorites and collected travel mementos. TV? Sure, for when the grandkids come and our conversation gets too boring. Music? Not always, but I move my Bose iPod dock from room to room as needed.

My room. From its window I can look out over the snowy landscape today and see black-capped chickadees at the feeder and the sun in the wan winter light slowly sinking. I have a room of my own.  
 

"Intelligence is the wife, imagination is the mistress, memory is the servant." ~ Victor Hugo

I just don't know if I can depend on my memory sometimes.

If this seems to be becoming a recurrent theme, it is because I am experiencing a love affair with the past and all it has given me, but there are moments of crystal recall when no one else other than I am able to verify the memory. Both of my parents have passed, so I can't ask them, "Did this really happen?" Many of my contemporaries have failing memories, too, or didn't attach the importance to a person, place or object that I seem to have. As time passes, I find myself questioning whether my brain has simply implanted situations and images from dreams, books I've read or other people's stories in its convoluted recesses.

At this point there is nothing grave about any of that. I have what most people think is a phenomenal memory, and I am grateful that it has serve me so well for fifty-nine years. I know phone numbers from years ago, even if I haven't dialed them recently. I don't forget birthdays or anniversaries, passwords or codes. I can use King Philip Came Over For Good Soup to remember Linnaean taxonomy and the other tried and true mnemonics for planetary order in the solar system and colours of the spectrum. If you were one of the more than six thousand students I encountered over my thirty-two years of teaching high school, chances are if you give me your last name, I can retrieve your first from the depths.

I am six years old and holding a smooth wooden box with a tiny key on the bottom which when I wind it, sets a brass cylinder in motion. I can see the intricate works through the glass in the box. Tiny teeth on the cylinder pluck teeth on a single metal comb and produce tinkling sounds - a lively waltz. I can read the words on the paper label on the inside of the music box lid –– "Faust Waltz", Gounod. It is only years later when as a teen I am consumed with all things dark that I actually read Faust and understand his relinquishing of his soul to Mephistopheles for "unlimited knowledge and worldly pleasures" that I realize what a strange choice this bit of melody is for a child's music box.

And I know I stood transfixed on the stairs ascending to the second floor of the house where we now live when it was owned by the Healys, examining prints in miniature of 17th century princes and princesses, portraits by Diego Velasquez and his peers, of little children garbed as royal adults in velvets and satin brocades.

I was fascinated by these tiny replicas of queens and kings; babies in rich robes, the Infanta Margarita Teresa, daughter of Philip of Spain. I can see the pewter-coloured frames and the diagonal arrangement Mrs. Healy has made of them as the stairway turns and rises. 













This week, I asked Liz if she remembered what prints were on the stairway. "The Bartletts," she replied. Mind you, she is three years my junior, and may not remember the Velasquezes but it is the miniatures that are indelibly printed in my mind. Yes, the Bartletts came later, pastoral scenes from 1840's Europe and North America. Yes, indeed. I can picture them now that she has provided the information.
































Perhaps memory is not so very fickle as I fear, but rather simply selective. Why don't I just relax, then and let it serve . . .?

Time was all we had . . .

Summer nights are like indelible ink - black, deep blue, forever. I feel carried away by the deepening darkness to other times in my life, always achingly summer.  I can transport myself to places and times long past simply by opening my spirit to the night air, sky and shadows.

In the liquid evening, there are sounds of mothers calling children in from days of hard play, laughter and popsicles. Screen doors slam and it is 1959. My baby brother is four months old, Mark is four, I am going to be six in three weeks. We are plunked into the tub to soak away the sand and grit of beach or sandbox, dried off  and dressed in lightweight seersucker pyjamas and nightgown respectively. One red lifesaver each, a drink; I will my eyes to stay open until it's first star wish time. Rarely do they cooperate.

Lights of all colours, strung from tree to tree come on down the street and laughter rings out from the patio. It is 1965, my twelfth birthday, and all the kids from the block are at the Healy's house. We are all ages, from Robert's age of eighteen down, and there is a record player and 45s for us to dance to. I swear sometimes that Kim Mitchell's song was written about that night - the nervous boys and girls, lemonade or punch to drink, but it's the Righteous Brothers and Billy Joe Royal I remember more than Bobby Vinton's "Blue On Blue". Am I really dancing with a boy to "You've Lost That Lovin' Feelin'"? The night is so warm, my cotton sleeveless dress is damp from fast dances and I'm so self-conscious as Kenny pulls me a little closer and sings along. It's over before I can believe it, and he's off to ask someone else to dance, and I am more relieved than anything.


Tires give a little squeal on the loose gravel before gripping the scorching pavement. That sound lands me in 1970, the year before my grad year from high school. My mother is pregnant at age 38, and I in my teenage mind think she has done this deliberately so I'll have to babysit forever. But sweet freedom is mine for all the summer nights because I have the car and can cruise with friends, or alone which I sometimes prefer. The moon follows all of our roads, windows rolled all the way down, radio turned all the way up. We are all in the same garb, long, center-parted hair, blue jean bell bottoms, t-shirts and water buffalo leather sandals. Seventeen means there's beer at parties and everyone gets high. Almost.

After a brilliant aquapeachgoldpink sunset at the bay shore, the stars come out one by one until the velvet dark sky is studded with a bazillion diamonds. Is it 1988 already? I'm peaceful in my heart, and my five-year old snuggles against me on a blanket beside our car. We are trying to see the shapes of the constellations and this wondrous little person knows many names from books that we have read and charts that we have looked at. "Cassiopoeia, Mommy! And Orion's Belt." We are a pair now, just the two of us, and we're going to be just fine.

A fish jumps just to the right of the dock on a sultry, navy-blue night, and a gentle voice whispers words of love and intimacy beside my ear. In one another's embrace, wrapped in a thick down comforter against the chill of late August's rehearsal for autumn, we kiss, look into each other's eyes and make promises that neither of us is certain we can keep. Our intentions are pure, our passion unquestionable, and I feel safer than I recall feeling, ever, before or since. 

Summer nights feel like all these times rolled together into one beating, grateful heart. My heart.

I think this just might work . . .

I have to write things down. 

My very full, distractible (see last post) brain just cannot hold all the things I want to write about for longer than a goldfish's, and some of my best ideas come and go like the scarce rains of this summer. When did I get out of the habit of having a notebook with me everywhere I go? Or a least scraps of paper to jot down a snippet of overheard conversation or a scene that is story fodder?

Maybe I have become over-confident in my memory's ability to snag and hold ideas. I know sometimes when I am researching something on the web, I open a new tab to find a related post and forget almost at once what it was I came for, sort of like walking into a room in my house with great purpose until I stop and say, "Wait. What am I here for?" It's frustrating, but in conversations with others I find that I am far from the only one. 


It's useless for me to try to retrieve the neural signal by concentrating harder. The more I struggle, the more elusive the idea gets. I retrace. It was a quote I read that got me pondering the complexities of . . . what? Arrghhhh. I tell myself to relax, clear my mind and it will come back. Sometimes in the fullness of time, it does. Sometimes, nada.


Deep breath. OK. I am going to strategically place notebooks and pens wherever I spend time -- in my handbag, in the car, by my bed, in the kitchen and maybe even the bathroom. (I do some fine thinking in there by times.) When the thought or inspiration comes, it will have no chance of escaping into the fargone-osphere anymore! (credit to my former husband for that word; it's where every lost thing ever goes.)


Wish me luck.

I got busy . . . living.

I get distracted.


If you know me, you get that. If you married me, you knew that coming in. If I gave birth to you, you really know that.


Could I call it Attention Deficit Disorder? In the best sense of the terminology flung about so readily these days, I suppose so. Having worked thirty plus years in the field of education, I know that the diagnosis rarely means the inability to pay attention, but the tendency to pay attention to everything, all the time. I think of it more as being pulled, drawn in . . . every sensory input requires acknowledgement and so I hear all the conversations within earshot, I see the tiniest movement of that branch . . . WAIT! Do I smell cinnamon? The fabric of that cushion on the display sofa is just begging me to caress it with my fingers, nay . . . both hands.


Sometimes the world is just much too interesting to get all my focus on the very thing or person that I am supposed to or wish to be attending to. This blog for example. So, I have about four other tasks, all pleasant ones, on hold while I write this entry, and I am laughing at my confession to you thinking that you do this too, in some regard. 


It's not pure procrastination nor lack of my muse visiting. Oh she visits, all right! When I want to sleep, drive, grocery shop, garden, have tea with a friend, she visits, unbidden and I write and write. But rarely on my blog, to my chagrin and to that of a few of my dear followers who I fear must have long forgotten and/or abandoned me. And who would blame them . . .? 


Living in the moment with mindfulness and gratitude almost requires one to be sensorily driven. How could I forego the minutes scratching my dogs' silken ears for anything else? I have the liberty to do nothing besides listen to Andrea Bocelli's voice for a whole hour if I so choose. Why would I multitask and do several things badly when I can just stop and look? Look and see the indescribable deep coral rose colour of the poppies in the vase on the coffee table?


Distractions as some would call them are everywhere --  the internet, Facebook and Pinterest, phone calls and people in store lineups,  photo opportunities in a ditch or orchard. Other people's babies in strollers, elderly faces with the wisdom of the ages on bodies bent by work and time; books, shops and photographs. I look at all the lighted windows down any road at night when we drive past, and wonder about the lives being lived in those houses. I don't want to miss any of it.


When I am brought back sharply at times from one of these moments, I'm often caught off guard by what else is happening, what someone has just asked me, or the cover rattling on a boiling pot that I've momentarily overlooked. How can all of this be happening at the same time? I want to concentrate on the smell of this fresh cut lemon. I want to feel and hear and taste it all. I want to will my eyes to take it all in, the beauty and the ugliness. To commit it to memory and savour it.

It sometimes feels like a marathon . . .

We as human beings carry out some very strange rituals in the name of preserving tradition, even though these practices may leave us spent, tired and craving some alone time after they have passed for another year. How I love Christmas and the lead up to the days of family gatherings, friends, food and laughter as we catch up with one another in person from our various homes, nearby and provinces away! I revel in making our home a welcoming place by cleaning, re-arranging and decorating its rooms for the yuletide times so that Jules comes home from work each night in December wondering what else I have strewn with lights, boughs and baubles. She smilingly approves and tells me how nice it looks, and I know she is sincere, for it is not this part of the celebrations that either of us find taxing.


Where things get tricky is the part where we are invited out or we invite others in. Is it my age or am I just becoming less inclined to socialize? The cast of characters remains pretty stable - old friends, neighbours, siblings, cousins and children. Jules is not a big fan of crowds and noise. She loves these people but in small doses, and if there's something about Christmas that is troublesome to her, it would be large, loud gatherings with voices raised above music, hockey games, and calling from one room (or storey, for that matter) to another to round up the crew to get going. This is why either one of us gets a "by" if we need it on occasion. We have an agreement that she or I can be excused from play if we have simply had our fill. How I love the way this works! Now and then, we both send our regrets because we are double-booked, or just want to stay home, on our own in our comfortable nest that time.


We are such creatures of habit within our own domain, all of us. For the first time this year, our home was occupied not just by us, but for a couple of days and nights by our son, his partner and three awesome young people. The other 357 (give or take!) days of the year, we are free to walk around in our pjs and not lock the bathroom door. Now there are seven people wanting the shower . . . Add to it Christmas gifts for four more people, two adorable and well-behaved Golden Retrievers, meals, snacks and drinks at all hours, and there is disruption however brief. We not only survived, but had a wonderful time together!

Some miraculous transformation has come over me in the past few years around this time of holiday joy. Where I once would have stressed and fretted about every tiny detail, I am now much more sanguine and relaxed. Not very single dog hair needs to be removed from every surface. Dogs live here. There are three varieties of cookies, not eight. Adjust. The tree has blue and silver and hot pink shatterproof ornaments and a kitten sleeping in it. Yaaaaay!


I loved the hive of activity at our home from the 23rd to 25th with the arrival of our little family from The Passage. My heart was so full when after dinner on the night they came, all of us were tucked into our beds for the night, under this roof where my own parents made so many wonderful Christmas memories for us. Christmas Eve was so nice with friends and family at our open house for gentle snowfall and the brass band and carolers. We broke tradition and opened our presents after the guests had left, leaving stockings for morning and then brunch before they had to leave for home and other celebrations.

Blended families have some extra pressure to share time with the former spouses and other families and we're not alone in this, as that same scenario plays out in our siblings' homes as well. Somehow we manage all the roadtrips and dinners and get the precious hours together with those we love. Christmas dinner and gifts in Upper Granville, Boxing Day at brother Number One's, the following night at Susie P's, New Year's Day at TNTZ's. Hugs and kisses. Peals of laughter. Go, go, go.

Give me the noise, confusion and people time every year - full on. We are very blessed. Sometimes the holidays are like a marathon, but it is so worth it!