Secret Colours

Magpie 91
Secret Colours

In lavender mist where shadows creep
A young girl's dreams green and weep.
Her yearning glances can't fill the chairs
with flesh and purple and curtain prayers.
But hope cannot be contained, so
ashen grey sings a rose red glow.
Immortality, a summer blue
enrobes her heart with silver dew.
And faintly golden chairs now gleam
for passion in rainbow buds unseen.

Waning Summer

I have read that the song cycle of the nightingale lasts three minutes whilst that of the whale lasts twenty-four hours. Once slowed down and sped up respectively, they are apparently very similar. Maybe as human beings we are simply on varying frequencies of song. Perhaps the way we use language ... to speak, to write, to dream, to think ... is like a sonic map of our personalities. I am a woman who needs solitude at times.

As summer wanes and the drowsy, full-blown ripeness of August comes to an end, I look forward to crisp the September days.

(My grandson J, contemplates a butterfly.)

Canada Day Celebrations

Full bellies and daylong feasting, sipping iced lemonade, a study in red and white, the boundless, permanent summer of Canadian multiculturalism. Today we celebrated our first Canada Day here in our new home. Gem and I meandered through Riverside Park ... thronged with hundreds of people absorbing the food and colour and music which erupted in a kaleidoscope of scents and sights and sounds.

I indulged in a henna hand tattoo.


Gem bought an original watercolour from the Art Fair.


Living here in Canada, I am thankful for so much ....

Thankful for the ebb and flow of so many cultural traditions which cover this country like a blessed wave.


For the elegant women wearing jewelled saris.


I am thankful for the giggling, exuberant First nations children dancing to the plangent sound of the drums.

For the Asian men and women I saw gracefully engaged in Tai Chi by the river’s edge.

Thankful for the voices and laughter I heard today in English and French and Cantonese and Ukrainian and Italian and Afrikaans and Greek and Hindu.

Thankful for the connections that let me know the kindred in human beings who are different from me.


Later, candlelight anointed the table as Gem and I ate our barbecued salmon dinner and the homemade pavlova I made for dessert.


I am thankful, too, for the sense of belonging given in the ritual of celebration.

Treasures

Gem and I love to while away hours poking around thrift stores and garage sales. This weekend we went on one of our treasure hunts. Some objects reach down to the marrow of my bones. I trace my fingers along them and something in me responds. They are endearing, inexplicably comforting. There is a meaning, an indwelling of connection which enhances my sense of belonging.

This week’s finds:

A Crown Clarence Staffordshire sauce boat - $1.50.
I love its summery, shimmery blue, just the colour of a Robin's egg.

A retro, hinged tin - 50 cents.
I’m going to keep my collection of teaspoons in it.

A Japanese calligraphy set - $3.00.

This was Gem’s find. He has long dabbled in the art of pen and ink drawing and sketching, and plans to use it.

And perhaps my favourite find, this 1970’s knitting book in immaculate condition - $1.
Although I did a fair bit of knitting when my children were small, I haven’t had much time in recent years. Now, though, I have a few knitting projects planned and hope to make good use of this book. My granddaughter, Ariana, who will be nine in August, will be the first beneficiary. She is very excited and has requested a purple poncho and a pink sparkly sweater. After speaking with her, I was reminded of the year my mother-in-law knit my three children sweaters for Christmas. They were all beautifully made, but I still remember the look on my eldest son’s face when he opened his gift. His expression momentarily reflected his thoughts: No eleven year old boy would be caught dead wearing a sweater with a huge yellow image of Sesame Street’s Big Bird on the front of it! His eyes flew to mine, startled, unsure of what to say. Thankfully, he swallowed his chagrin and thanked his Oma nicely.

Objects can be saturated with spirit, imbued with the layers of life from the places where they rest, the people they touch. They are remnants, the bearers of our fragile being, our mortality.

Bikes, Bikes and More Bikes!

I knew before we went to Holland that bicycles are very popular there, but no one could have prepared me for the sheer scope and number of them! 85 percent of the population own at least one bicycle. They use it regularly, most on a daily basis. There are about 16 million bicycles in Holland, slightly more than one for every man, woman and child in the country. It's cradle to grave biking; Whole families with the youngest child in a seat in front of the rider, and another child (or two!) in seats at the back. Business men and women in smart suits. Teenagers. The elderly.

From the first day of our holiday, I was fascinated and started taking pictures of bikes.

The multi-tiered bike parking garage near the train station in downtown Amsterdam. Never, in a million years, would I find my bike again if I were parked there!

Mother and children out on the family bike. This was a common sight in Holland.

There’s the wheelbarrow approach as well: a big bucket in the front. Great for hauling shopping and children.

Often we saw bikes decked out with a personal sense of style. We came across these on various walks in 'our' neighbourhood. My granddaughter thought they were very cool.

Mum perches at the back behind Dad.

I didn't see anyone, old or young, wearing a bike helmet the entire time we were in Holland. The laws there are very strictly in favour of the biker. In all cases the law says that if a vehicle is involved in an accident with a bike, it is ALWAYS the vehicle's fault for insurance purposes. Thus, drivers in Holland are extremely careful of the masses of bicycles around them. Also, there are numerous safe biking paths everywhere. We found that it's the pedestrians, who share the narrow streets with the bikes, who need to be especially careful. The first few days it was quite daunting. I clutched A to me tightly at every step. Later, though, we became more comfortable and learned to nimbly and swiftly step out of the path of passing bicycles without a second thought.

A row of bikes, A and I by the train station in Haarlem.

We watched in fascination the ingenius method for negotiating bikes up the stairs from the station; a grooved ramp alongside the stairs.

I took this picture of bikes silhouetted against the sky from a canal boat.

Gem's cousin's son, Marius, waves to us as he arrives home from work.

One lovely evening Gem called me out to the balcony of our hotel room in Haarlem. From there we watched as a couple, a beautiful young woman in a summer dress, her hair in a blonde chignon, and a handsome young man in a suit and tie, arrived at a restaurant from two different directions. They waved at each other and then got off their bikes. He greeted her with the bouquet of flowers which had been resting in the basket at the back of his bike. Obviously a date. It was like a scene from a movie, only it was real.

"Can you believe, we're really here?" Gem and I had said to each other at various times since our arrival in Holland. The romance and beauty of that moment spilled into the fragrant night and remains etched in my heart.

Cousins

This easter was a rare occasion when all our grandchildren, from three different families and cities, were able to spend time together. The moment they saw each other love rushed from somewhere undefined and settled deep. They shared a wonderful two days with us and each other; hiking, bowling, swimming, reading, playing, sleeping, eating meals, creating the connections which are both life-giving and life-long.

On our walks, trees, their new buds swollen with the hope of new life, mirror the children, whose greening hearts leap towards spring. Chattering, giggling, sharing tidbits of each others' lives, calls of "Nana, Papa, look!", abound. The boys get show-off silly. A, physically only a month older than her considerably taller next in age cousin, grimaces indulgently at their antics.

Most of us are far better at affirming arrivals than departures. Saying goodbye is both difficult and painful. I stand waving, blowing kisses over and over again, blinking tears from my eyes. As each family drives away, my heart is pulled along with them.

James' Dollhouse

In the children's section of the book store where I work stands a beautiful wooden dollhouse. It is painted apple green with window shutters of white. Its six rooms boast simply fashioned wood furniture and appliances. Its inhabitants; doll Mama, doll Daddy, doll Girl and doll Boy, reside within in its walls in poses placed by the many little hands which visit the book store everyday. Sometimes they are joined by a litany of small plastic sculpted animals borrowed from a nearby shelf. This dollhouse is on display, an enticement for its more pristine neighbours who wait in boxes for flesh and blood families of their own.

The children's area of my book store is a place of enchantment. Shelves filled with books of every description, spaces to lie on your belly and read, or to cuddle and be read to, and wonderful toys; some to look at and dream, some to play with and discover.

As I work almost exclusively in this section, I have come to know several children and their parents quite well. For the past few months weekly visits by a little boy named James and his mother have become pilgrimages to the dollhouse. James, nearly four, is an endearing, quirky little guy with unruly dark blonde hair and animated features. Other children play with the dollhouse intermittently as other attractions beckon them, but he spends his entire hour on his knees in front of it, engaged in an elaborate play of his own creation. One day doll Girl is banished to the roof for being naughty, two plastic penguins visit the kitchen and entertain doll Boy, doll Mama sings as she dances around the livingroom, and doll Daddy emits a series of rich burps as he jumps from the diningroom chairs. James' mother is somewhat embarrassed by this and gently admonishes him.

At the end of each visit, James always asks the same question, "Can I have my dollhouse for my birthday?" I notice that he always uses the word 'my' when he refers to it. Clearly, despite often the presence of other children, a sense of belonging dwells in his heart.

One morning his mother tells me that James will soon be four and she's mentioned the dollhouse to his father, who is not very keen on the idea.

It is a rainy day and the store is quiet, when I am approached by a man I have never seen before. He asks to see the dollhouse. He examines it with his hands as well as his eyes, smoothing the wood with workworn hands.

"It's well made", he says, but I discern a note of reluctance. "My son wants nothing else for his birthday." There is a rueful smile.

"Oh, you must be James' father", I say eagerly.

He is surprized and I tell him how much James loves the dollhouse and the wonderful, creative play which fills and engages his little being.

"I wanted to get him a train set or some lego", he says. He stands for a few moments, lips compressed, heart and brain bespoken in a silent duel.

"Okay," he says. "I'll take it."

I smile widely as he hefts the large box into his arms. "James will be so happy!", I tell him.

"Yeah", he says, and grins. "That's the main thing."

The sweetness of that moment both nourishes and elates me. In the infinite abyss of love's hunger sometimes the greatest gift of all is simply to acquiesce.

The Poetics of Play

I was watching two of my grandsons play the other day. Playing … real physical play … the kind that involves muddy hands and scratched knees, and unbounded imagination. The kind of play which is becoming increasingly rare.

The strange thing about play, especially play within a wonderful landscape, is that it exists as everything … a magnitude of possibilities. That mound of dirt is a mountain. That puddle is a lake where dreams sail as small fingers float leaves and tiny twigs. Seeing my grandsons’ shining eyes as they play outdoors in the melting snowy rivulets of a newly awakening spring, something stirs in me from my own childhood. The interaction of child and environment that is an integral leap of physical and emotional joy.

This the kind of play that is the physical equivalent of music and poetry. Strangeness, wonder, paradox … the art of real play speaks its own language. It is, I believe, of immeasurable benefit to the health of the body and soul. No one can be really well in a world that continually sacrifices real play.

Jordan's Gift

Friday I received my first Christmas card of the season, one that has a very interesting and poignant history. The only time I connect with its givers is at Christmas and they always include a little letter telling of their latest family doings. This sounds very ordinary, but it has a far from ordinary beginning.

About ten years ago I was working in the emergency department one summer when late in the afternoon an eleven year old boy was brought in lifeless, the victim of a drowning. Heroic measures were attempted for well over an hour, but despite this, the boy died. As his heartbroken parents gathered his body into their arms, they told me their story in broken sobs. Jordan was their only child. After a number of childless years they had adopted him as a newborn infant. He was the joy and light of their existence. They were very cautious parents and had only just started allowing him a little more freedom. Jordan and his friend were rowing a rubber dingy in the lake when it capsized. For some inexplicable reason he had taken off his life jacket. His friend made it to shore. Jordan did not.

I spent several hours with Jordan and his parents after his death. When his mother cried and asked for blankets to warm his cold body, I brought them to her. When his father asked "why?" over and over again, I gave whatever poor comfort I could. When they asked that I wait until friends brought Jordan's favourite stuffed dog to accompany him to the morgue, I told them I'd wait as long his parents needed. Mostly, I just listened, helpless in the whyfors of such undeserved suffering.

I didn't cry until I was at home, the images of the past evening flowing through my mind endlessly. I thought of that beautiful child, so unmarred and peaceful looking. I thought of how his dark tendrils of damp hair had gradually dried. I thought of his parents' anguish and grief, of his mother's begging, keening wail, "Please tell me this hasn't happened!" I thought of all they must now go through.

Two summers later, I went into work one gorgeous blue and golden morning. I was working in the O.R. and as I looked at my slate list, one name seemed vaguely familiar; a woman to be prepped for a Caesarian section. As I pulled the curtains aside, her eyes met mine. The smile froze on my face. The last time I had seen those eyes was that sorrowing day in the E.R. wracked in anguish over the body of her little boy. She recognized me immediately. Instinctively, she held out her arms to me, and we hugged.

As she was prepped, with her husband now gowned by her side, she told me about their miracle. After twenty-one years of marriage, at the age of forty-four, she was about to give birth to her first biological child. She told me about how difficult it been after Jordan's death, how there had been times when they had felt they couldn't go on, that life had seemed hopeless and over for them. They saw this new baby not only as a promise of a new beginning but also as a precious cosmic gift from Jordan. Their excitement stretched like a tent over a framework of hope.

"Do you know what day it is today?", she asked with tears in her eyes. "It's exactly two years ago to the day since Jordan died." Then she added, softly, "It is only fitting that you are here today. It was meant to be."

I was immeasurably moved, and I stood with a very full heart as the surgery commenced. By now all the staff working the room that day had heard the story, and the hope and good wishes of everyone was palpable. A healthy, beautiful baby boy was born to collective sighs of relief and joy.

At the end of my shift I made a quick visit to the maternity ward. Baby Matthew's mother cradled him in her arms, her eyes shining with happiness. One of his tiny hands was clasped around his father's finger. Both parents faces were alight with love and the amazement of discovery. On the bedside table next to them rested a framed photograph of a dark haired, smiling boy; the big brother that Matthew will only ever know through stories and pictures.

Since that time, once a year, at Christmas, I receive a card from Jordan's family. Matthew is now nine years old, a wonderful, loving child, full of life and normal boyhood joys.

Life can indeed be mysterious. I had only worked in the Emergency Department for a short time choosing to return to my previous position in the Operating Room after only a month. The day of Matthew's birth, I had originally been assigned to another room but a colleague had asked if I would switch with her.

Through the loss of one child and the birth of another, I am enfolded in the love of a family who have been both scarred and graced. Jordan's gift is one of hope.

(Giovani Battista Salvi Sassoferrato, 1685. Madonna and Child.)

Tante Adrie

(A is delighted to find that Tante Adrie has the exact same initials and last name as her own.)

Gem's Tante Adrie is the only surviving member of his father's birth family, his father's 'baby' sister. At nearly 90, she lives on her own in a little apartment in Haarlem, a beautiful old city about forty minutes by train from Amsterdam. We arranged a Monday afternoon visit for coffee. The logistics involved several calls to iron out the details, as her English is limited and Gem's Dutch only somewhat better.

The day before our visit, our cell phone rang. It was Tante Adrie. Our conversation went something like this:

"Yah, you come coffee (Dutch words). Appel coek. More Dutch words."

"Danku (thank you; one of the few Dutch words I am sure of), Tante Adrie. I'll get Gem for you."

Gem reassures her several times that, yes, we will be there at about 2 P.M.

The next morning the phone rings again. 'Are we coming? I am worried you will get lost." More soothing words from Gem.

We arrive, Gem, A and I, about ten minutes late. Tante Adrie is standing on her tiny flower laden balcony eagerly watching for us. She is tall, big boned, smiling, her brown eyes sparkle with humour. Each of us in turn is engulfed in an enormous hug accompanied by the usual Dutch greeting of a kiss on each cheek. Her words flow in a kindly torrent. Gem picks out about one in four, but is able to make out the gist of what she says, and interprets for me. "We are to leave our shoes outside. We are to sit down. Gem looks so much like his late father, it makes her cry. How old is our beautiful granddaughter? Don't mind the dog."

The apartment sparkles with cleanliness. Elaborate doilies edged with scalloped lace, curtains and tablecloth, all snowy white, contrast with the dark, gleaming wood. Numerous thriving house plants in blue and red china pots vie for space with even more numerous knicks-knacks. A is particularly enamoured of a china figurine of a lady in a pink china evening gown with roses in her china golden hair.

Tante Adrie won't allow any help, and we sit a little awkwardly as she ushers in cups of coffee, plates and forks. A plump apple cake sits in the middle of the coffee table next to a bowl of whipped cream. Orange juice is brought for A. We are just about to tuck in when Tante Adrie folds her hands, closes her eyes and begins to pray. Our names are mentioned in the prayer.

The cake, served with lashings of cream, is delicious. The coffee is dark and luscious. A second helping of each doesn't take much urging. The dog, a fat puggish little creature, named Bepo, waddles over to Tante Adrie, who feeds him bits of cake. A is soon giggling delightedly as he licks crumbs from her fingers, too.

Later Tante Adrie brings out old photos of Gem's father, and of other now deceased siblings, of her late husband, her children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, most now residing in Australia. Snippets of stories are told, some understood, some not, but the love and warmth of them, their soul and essence, nourish without precise meaning. The tears and laughter of old forgotten joys and sorrows fill the room. A reads her book for a time, and then wanders around the room delicately caressing various objects with the tips of her fingers.

Before we leave we give her our gift of a box of maple-cream cookies from Canada, and we take pictures. My husband, a big man and 6 ft, 5 ins, lovingly referred to by friends as 'the gentle giant', dwarfs most people but Tante Adrie holds her own next to him.

Last hugs, last kisses ... and last good-byes, for Gem and I both know that this is the last time we will see Tante Adrie. It is a final earthly farewell. I reach over and squeeze Gem's hand for I know his heart is very full. Having lost both his parents, he is once again dancing with the part of himself that holds all the love and sweetnesses of his childhood.

(Tante Adrie and my Gem. I love this photo!)