Wednesday 25 November 2015

Holes

Inside my head
I repeat the nasty
things I heard you say.

Allow them to echo
through the corridors of
who I am.

Though
I know it's the same thing
as repeatedly stabbing myself with
your sword, I somehow
cannot stop myself
even as it tears holes 
in the central core
of my being.

With every reverberation
I convince me
that I am getting stronger.

I rearrange the words
searching for the one which
holds the key to their power
then dismantle
until it is a pile of useless
letters strewn across
my heart.

Breathless, I pick through
the tender landscape of myself.
I match each letter I encounter
with something loving, something kind, something
ME,
then use the new word
to plug a hole.

When I am done I sit back
and see that I am
unmistakably me yet also
stronger and free.

- Vera

Monday 23 November 2015

Blink - Poem



Fragile things can fall and break
in the simple time it takes
to breathe.

They can slip from 
the careless hands 
of a woman, child or man 
and break. 

Some breaks 
can be rectified 
Some no matter how 
you try 
they're broken... 

from the falling or the 
dropping or the 
careless words spoken. 

In the blinking of an eye 
they slip, they crash, they drop 
they die. 
Then you're left to moan and cry 
their passing. 

Be careful with the 
things you love 
never place them high above 
where they can fall and drop and break 
in the simple time it takes 
to breathe. 

Put them in the 
safest space, 
handle with care 
and watch your pace! 
Curl your fingers 
round it's shape 
for fragile things will 
fall and break 
in the simple time it takes 
to blink. 

- Vera

Thursday 12 November 2015

Fourty-Five




 WOW 45... I Remember when, at 15 I moved to NJ to live with my Aunt and Uncle to ostensibly get to know my American relatives better but in reality to break free from the limiting role my siblings had put me in and recast my role as, not the youngest sister, but as me.

Auntie June and Uncle Kevin seemed ancient back then yet now looking back I they were even younger than I am now.

I never would have guessed that breaking free of other people's image of me to stand in the light of the truth of who I am would become a lifelong journey.

At 45 life is an interesting mix of predictability and beautiful surprises. I am grateful for the people I am surrounded by; for every moment I have spent mothering, friending, cooking, cleaning, driving, teaching, learning and loving.

I used to think that I gave too much of my time and attention to causes and people who didn't deserve it, now I realize that few of us (me included) deserve the mercy and grace others extend.

I used to believe the choices my kids make should reflect the values I instilled, now (thanks Zoe, Antonios, Miles and Athena) I insist that their choices reflect who they are and who they want to be in this world.

I used to suppress the part of me that wanted to connect with God, now I actively seek out and pay attention to the Divine.

At 45 I am old enough to know that freedom is more about the ability to be who you are than the ability to go where you want.

Until I sit down to capture a moment, create a poem, or offer encouragement and support, my 15-year-old self would hardly recognize this me. A me who willingly admits to not having the answers; who makes the bed even before leaving the bedroom; who has learned to celebrate as vigorously as she grieves; who doesn't need to hide her tears; who voices her opinions and who actively explores her spirituality. A me who has learned that no matter what the problem is, love is usually the answer; who belongs wherever I choose to find common ground (there is always common ground). A me who believes you can never be grateful enough for the gift of life - regardless of its condition; as long as you are alive  you have something to offer.

If I have 45 more years or a day I want to spend my time accepting and loving and perhaps putting a few more words on paper because there are always more words.

Thursday 5 November 2015

Rising - Poem


I lay down my head to go to sleep
and all the secrets my heart keeps
floated up in to my head
causing me to think instead.

First came joys that I have felt
then pain with which I haven't dealt
I faced the wrongs that I made right
then the ones I hide from sight.
the ones that cause the greatest pain
the ones I hide from guilt and shame.

The sheets grew wet with falling tears
for all the scars that my soul bears
then in the deepest darkest hour
gratitude, with all her power
showed me all the lessons learned
showed me all the badges earned.

By the time the day had come
I accepted those few some
regrets that I will carry 'round
as burdens that I can't lay down.

I blinked against the ended night
my heart and mind had both grown light
like the dark, my work was done
my heart re-packed before the sun
had finished lighting up the sky.
At least today if I should die
I'd do it with a whole-ish heart
for falling down is only part
of
Rising.


- Vera



Tuesday 3 November 2015

Reaction



One seed
burst forth from
one ground
producing one plant
yet
clinging to one stalk
nourished from
one soil
fed by one stream
warmed by
one sun
are
two different
leaves
reacting in two different
ways
yet
you expect
me
Who was born from
a different seed
in a different womb
with different
parents
and different
circumstances
to need the same things
make the same choices
and
be the same
as
you.

Monday 2 November 2015

Profound Happiness




This is November? It's a beautiful way for the month to begin - weather wise. Even though my partner was fighting off some sort of bug, we packed up the four kids we had at home and travelled to explore a local park.

When we arrived at Jack Darling we - according to our personality - skipped, walked and ambled along the path. A path which changed from cinder to wooden planks to asphalt as it wound through trees and over or around the water.

All the while, to the left Lake Ontario beckoned with its rushing waves and strip of beach.

Though we made it past the first playground, our seven year old made sure we didn't make it past the second by breaking free from our small pack and rushing toward it. One by one the other kids followed, until we were left to enjoy a moment of quiet aloneness on the path - well as quiet and alone as two people can be standing 5 feet from a playground infested with kids while other walkers pass by (bliss).

After an hour or so we have walked all of the path that we want. Some of us have crawled across the massive felled trees while others still have been brave enough to climb along the three foot high railings which enclose the wooden path.

Exhausted of our desire to walk, we meander to the shore where, as if repelled, we spread to skip rocks, skitter across boulders or in my case fully lay down on the asphalt outcropping where I watch the birds soar through my line of vision in the cloud sprinkled sky.

After a few moments, I sit up and look across the water to marvel at its expanse and its movement on this beautifully mild Autumn day.

I don't know why the water does what it does to me; why it makes me feel alive yet also at peace. I don't know why the sound and the sight start me to rejoicing inside to the point where at times fills my heart to overflowing from my eyes. I don't know why it's easier to breathe or why I want to draw its scent deeply so as to fill myself with the experience as much as I possibly can. I don't know why.

As my partner comes to lay his head in my lap the peacefulness and the joy of the moment coarse through to touch me and I don't care why. I am just profoundly happy.

Friday 16 October 2015

Twelve

Time frickin' flies...

Twelve years already since, a little freaked out and alone, I drove to Groves Memorial Hospital in Fergus and had this crazy kid.

Twelve years of trying to figure out how (sometimes if) his brain works and how (sometimes if) I need to mother him.

Twelve years of watching him interact with the world and figure out how he can influence it more than it influences him.

Twelve years of seeing him master his body and use it to perform feats which have often stopped my heart and started my mouth to yelling.

Twelve years of getting to say good morning and goodnight and wipe that look off your face before I do it for you.

Twelve years of laughter and tears and love and pain which has sometimes engulfed him but has never broken him.

Twelve years of noting who he looks up to and why.

Twelve years of wondering which bone he will break next and how.

Twelve years of being grateful that I didn't crash my car on the way to the hospital.

Happy Birthday young man, let's see if we can get you to thirteen intact!

Friday 9 October 2015

Seven


 SEVEN!

At 7, she is funnier than I care to admit, more dramatic than Meryl Streep, smarter than she has a right to be and sassier than I could ever imagine.

Athena  is starting to lose her baby parts. Tooth by tooth she takes baby steps closer to the adult world. Year by year she takes giant
steps from the shelter of childhood.

For now, the magic of life still clings to her. The certainty that she is loved and loveable are the cornerstones of her universe.

One day last week as we walked to school hand-in-hand she suddenlty stopped on the sidewalk and waited for her dead weight to halt me.  When the limited length of our arms forced me to turn I
found Athena looking at me thoughtfully. Satisfied that she had my full attention, she raised her right leg and ever so dramatically allowed it to dangle before swinging it forward and deliberately stepping on the crack.  Perplexed, I watched her crumble in a fit of giggles before regaining her composure and asking in a sweetly syrupy voice: "So Mom, how is your back today?"

Every day is like that. Every day has a moment when Athena's unexpected sassiness or flare for the dramatic stops us dead in our tracks, breath held as we wait for the pause to be overtaken by the fit of laughter which always lays on the other side.

And just when you think you know all there is to know about this remarkable child, she displays a deep sensitivity for the environment and humanity creating insightfully heartfelt prayers which I wish I had thought to pray myself.

Happy Birthday Little Girl!

Tuesday 29 September 2015

Teachers and other Resources...


My children go to public school. I have two in the elementary level and two above. My partner is a teacher in the Catholic system so I think I'm pretty well invested and fairly well versed in the current teacher's situation.

It is interesting to me that so many parents are ill-informed about what teachers do and what teachers want and even about what is best for their children.

This looming strike is not about money but if it were, if these escalating job actions were solely based on teachers wanting an extreme amount of money, why wouldn't we want them to get it? Because they don't deserve it? Because our kids aren't worth it? Because we would rather our kids try learning from some pissed off, underpaid person?

For some of you, I know the answer is yes. I know that because you are the same people who have a child and choose the cheapest possible daycare for them. You consider the money but don't consider that the person you are paying can't afford to live on what you are paying them. Don't consider or care that they may not have any experience or have and certification in first aid or CPR. You're the same people who take your kids to the park and sit on your cell phones while they try to pump themselves on the swing. Me? I'm the person who always ends up pushing them.

I see this entire teacher's problem as a reflection of the provincial government's inability to handle its resources. They have the ability to fix this yet aren't at the table. How much are these negotiations costing us in time, in frustration? It's clearly NOT an election year. If it were, they (Ms. Wynne's puppets) would be at the table yes, yes, yessing to get this matter resolved. Before you ask me how I know this, ask yourself why you don't know that?

Public school isn't something I have always believed in. It isn't a service or resource I have always availed myself of. When my older two were younger, I home schooled. I had luxury and the privilege of being their teacher as well as their mother for eight fun and hard years which I treasure.

Now that my kids are in "the system" I value their teachers. I take the time to get to know the environment my kids are spending time in. Just yesterday I stayed to the END of the assembly at my daughter's school just so I could watch how teachers, students and parents interact. So I could see if/how they value their leaders. I recognize that teachers are one of the biggest allies I have in this life. Why? Because a) they want to see my children succeed and b) the hours they spend together gives these teachers immense influence and insight into who my child is when they are not in my care.

Sounds like rhetoric right? It's not. Just yesterday morning I wrote a note in my son's agenda asking for 5 minutes of his teacher's time. This is time she didn't have to give me, especially in light of the current work-to-rule conditions which their union has adopted...but she did. She met my son and I at the end of the day. THE END OF HER DAY.

Teachers are resources. The government is doing a poor job of managing their resources not just with the teachers but look also at what is happening with healthcare, with our doctors salaries and with Ontario Hydro.

For whatever reason, Kathleen Wynne and this Liberal government are having a difficult time getting a handle on its resources.

Consider this: let's assume you are an accountant and have an employer. Now, let's assume your employer made you unhappy....made you work longer than you wanted to or took away half of your lunch break or demanded that you meet with their disgruntled clients on your own time. You would have the option of joining a different firm, looking for a different employer or working for yourself. Your friends and family would be hammering you quit so you could stop complaining or be more available to them. Teachers don't have this option. The government is the only employer.

I can appreciate the frustration of my fellow parents but I think we're frustrated with the wrong people here. Why don't we demand the government get back to the table and spend their time negotiating instead of trying to instill fear in us?

Why do we want a leader who, rather than find a way to circumvent problems, is content to sit back and point out what we should be afraid of ? Liz Sandals, isn't it your job to make sure teachers are able to work? Isn't it your job to make sure the school environment is safe for our children? Aren't you responsible for managing these resources? Why don't you feel accountable?

These are our children...why would we want anything less than a positive experience for them at school? And when it's not positive? Who provides us with the insight into our children, their abilities and challenges? Who do we turn to? The government who has shown that they may or may not show up at the table? Or the teachers?

It's scary, the comments I see online about teachers, the lack of understanding and compassion, the straight out disrespect and dismissal.

In 20 days we will go to the polls and elect a federal government to lead us for the next four years...if you can't take the time to educate yourselves about the smaller issues surrounding our teachers and make informed comments, how can you educate yourselves about the larger issues concerning our nation and make an informed choice at the polls?

Wednesday 23 September 2015

How Do I Love Thee


Anyone who knows me knows that I believe love is the single most important thing one human being can offer another.

At 45 (soon), I can honestly say that I have offered it freely, accepted it graciously (don't overthink it) as a daughter, sister, cousin, niece, aunt, mother, friend, lover, partner, wife and questioned it rarely - until now. I don't question it's existence, it's power or it's purpose. Let me explain...

The last few years, through divorce and other family issues (aren't there always issues?) I have learned that someone loving me isn't enough and shouldn't be enough to have them take up my most precious resource - time.

I have learned to stop allowing myself to get distracted by a profession of love. To look deeper and harder at how and why I am loved. To watch the behaviors and language and ask myself if the love being offered allows me to honor who I am and what I believe in.

Not all love is created equal. Not all love is healthy. Not all love is meant to last and most importantly, not all love is love, though it may have a lot of the same trademarks.

A lot of emotional needs masquerade themselves as love, the most prevalent of which I believe is fear; fear of being alone, fear of being abandoned, fear of failure, fear of unworthiness, fear of fear.

Like most people, my kids have been the easiest people for me to love. This may be because I understand them almost as well as I understand myself. It may also be because they are still relatively young. I know that my love for them is unconditional. It will exist long after I do.

Not everyone believes that conditional love is love, but I do. It's important for everyone to know their limits, to decide what they will and will not tolerate infesting their world. If I can answer the how's and why of the love others offer me, I can decide if I want to open their gift. Do they cheat, lie, dismiss, ignore and call it love? Do they want to control, manipulate and demean someone else?

Perhaps you sense pessimism or bitterness, I have neither. I am eternally optimistic and incredibly open to whatever gift of love the universe brings to me both conditionally and unconditionally. I have been well loved and am grateful for those who love me and those who I have loved in my short lifetime.

To me, love is so much more than a word or an emotion. It is a set of values, a code of conduct, a mountain with many plateaus many of which we will not reach with everyone who crosses our path. Love is an opportunity to both offer and accept the gifts of humanity, an opportunity which sometimes comes with a price of admission and other times is beautifully free.

Either way, I don't believe time spent loving is ever wasted. It connects us to the universe and her people more securely and more profoundly than anything else can. It teaches us who we are and who we are not and if we allow it, through love's joy and pain it helps us to grow.


Monday 21 September 2015

Isn't it Ironic...

Listening to CBC this morning I was struck by what I see as an incredible irony.

A story about Toronto-based Dewson Street Junior Public School trying to raise $30,000 in 30 days to sponsor and resettle a displaced Syrian family was followed by a citation from The Daily Bread Food Bank Annual Report.

According to the report, food bank use is up 45% in Toronto suburbs and the length of time families are dependent on the food banks has increased from 12 months to 2 years.

So what is it, I wonder that spurs some people to action? Why is it that there are desperate families within the cradle of Toronto who are being passed over in favor of supporting refugees half a world away?

One could argue that annual Easter and Thanksgiving food drives have desensitized us to the needs of those around us, or that we are disillusioned into thinking that sending our kids to school with packages of pasta and jars of peanut butter tucked into their backpacks is making a bigger difference than it is. Or perhaps we believe that being poor and desperate in Toronto is nothing compared to the blatant and very real images of despair we see being prostituted by our media outlets and talked about by our politicians.  Some of the same polititions, I might add, who have a far greater ability to impact a larger number of lives than the population of Dewson Junior Public School.

One could argue that visibility breeds compassion, that the refugees are the current “hot topic.” That they occupy the nation's eye and therefore demand attention. While I agree that despair is always worthy, I wonder at the logic of bringing even one family to Toronto, a city in which, also according to CBC, the poor are being priced out of the housing market; also in which a refugee family is bound to be relegated to rely upon those same overtaxed food banks once the nation's eye falls upon a new "hot topic".

I am all for eradicating desperation from all the small and large hollows in which it lives and also all for activating compassion and global citizenship in our young. What I question is this...how visible will a new Syrian refugee family be, in the very suburb which is diligently working to sponsor it, once is has been here for a hot minute. When the citizens are finished patting themselves and each other on the back. When the family has become just like every other impoverished family in the GTA, where will the community's attention turn and how does this benefit anyone?

There are already people in Toronto living in despair, people without jobs and without adequate housing, clothing or food. Individuals sleeping on the streets and families working daily yet finding themselves falling behind the rate of inflation.

With winter looming, we will again hear stories of people who can't afford to heat their homes, others freezing to death on Toronto streets and also of Toronto shelters struggling under the weight of demand from the community they are attempting to service.

It's interesting to me the value we give to some lives over others. The value we see in possibly creating a newly desperate situation for Syrians by transplanting them into a City which may or may not have the ability to support it emotionally, financially and socially on a long term basis, while we ignore those among us who are equally desperate and equally deserving.

As I sit in my decidedly comfortable yet far from decadent kitchen, I sip my tea and ask the empty room, "Isn't it ironic?"

Sunday 20 September 2015

Time for Falling...

It's cheesy, I know, the title and yet it's fitting for the season and the reason.

Day by day I am falling in love with my life again.  Funny thing is that I didn't even really realize that I had fallen out of love.

I was too busy driving to soccer and swimming and soccer and rowing and soccer and guitar and soccer and basketball and soccer to realize that I was also driving myself into the ground.  I was too busy to think. With adrenaline riding side-saddle I planned events and executed them with precision. I managed to be in three places at once; to make sure bags were packed; water bottles filled; to home make lasagnes; to shop and shower and dress but I failed to show up.

I was too busy mentally pre-planning bedtime; lunches; practices; games; life; that I was too busy to live it. Thankfully there were days when I snapped out of my self-imposed walking coma long enough to absorb and enjoy but they were too few and too far between for me to take pride in this.

It is only now that I have waded through the hazy days and made it to the shore on the other side of summer, and soccer, that I recognize myself.

In recognition of this, I have made a momentous decision. This year, no rep soccer.  No soccer of any kind until spring. Guitar - yes because it requires more from the player than it does from me. Swimming - no because in spite of my strong feelings about it my little swimmer loves swimming but some of that love gets lost when it comes to lessons.

I already feel the shift. We are laughing more and playing more together.  There is more time for long dinners and visits from friends.  There is time for cuddling and family movies and laying on the couch.  There is time to watch baseball and go to the driving range and the library. There is time to walk and get lost in our new neighborhood. There is time for me to sit and listen, really listen and not just critique, my budding musician. There is time for me to shoot hoops with my bballer instead of just waving goodbye as he heads to the court. Time to teach the young one to ride a two-wheeler; to get on my own bike and ride alongside. Time to strap on my roller blades and stretch before placing one foot in front of the other and feel the solid earth roll past beneath me, to push harder and feel myself fly.

In all this time and through all these moments I feel myself breathing. I feel myself falling in love again with motherhood, with my body, with my life and myself.








Friday 10 July 2015

When in Rome

The Vatican Museum with it's Sistine Chapel is a tourist attraction. One in which for most, the orgy of art and artifacts far outweighs the religious meaning or value of the Vatican.

Even though the Museum has been open for only half an hour, the line up outside is 150 deep. Our pre purchased passes (so worthy of a high five here!) has us around the corner and through the doors before sweat begins to bead and roll down my back.

Inside, the Museum is crawling, at a snails pace, with groups and individuals like ourselves anxious to get our turn inside the famous Sistine Chapel. First though, we are shepherded through many halls ornately decorated from floor to ceiling with paintings, gold thread infused tapestries bigger than my living room and row upon row of marble columns thicker than my house.

 By the time we reach the Chapel, I feel queasy.  Sick to my stomach that so much has been crammed into this place. I am not a Catholic, but I consider those who are and consider it a shame that millions of them will never enter this place and see these beautiful creations.

When I enter into the Holy place I hear the shushin hiss of security. Silence cannot be achieved let alone maintained. I see many surreptitiously taking photographs and videos. Some are caught and asked to stop but many others grin as they paplm their smart phones and snap away as though being disrespectful in this of all places makes them really super intelligent.

I watch the people more than I look at the paintings for by now my appreciation for the art has been diminished by the sheer volume of it. I would liken it to walking into a hoarders home and not knowing where to rest your eyes because there is so much vying for their attention. There is a small group of seven or eight priests who I enjoy watching as they wander taking in the surroundings. There are also a handful of security guards weaving through the crowd.

I gradually drift to the back of the room then turn toward the altar and contemplate the magnitude of the space. I think of Michelangelo reading the Bible and working diligently until his paintings were complete. I think of the Pope entering this space. I think of the babies baptized and people of all faiths who walk through the doors and manage to remember the Holy part embodied by the space.

I bow my head, thankful that the paintings, whispers and whirring cameras fall away and I am again alone with myself and my creator. I take a moment to breathe and to remember who I am and whose I am before returning my attention to the physical world around me. After 45-minutes or so we exit the Chapel and move into the adjourning room. Like the others, it is massive, adourned with paintings and lined with glass cases which hold gold and silver dust collectors. Who on earth has to keep all of those cases and all of that stuff clean?

As I take in my surroundings, I notice a Priest sitting and reading in the corner to my left. Before him is a desk and two chairs as well as a sign which reads "Art and Faith, A Priest for you." I watch a hundred or more people stream past him and on through the room. Though many stop to crowd around the lady beside him who is selling DVD's of the Chapel, not one looks twice at the robed figure. He is bypassed as everyone rushes on, feeding their gluttonous need to electronically capture the material smorgasbord before them.

Still watching, I cross to the other side of the room before backtracking and sitting opposite him at the desk. I am surprised, really that I made it back across the floor and to him, but also not surprised. I have no desire to talk about art and I explain this as we begin chatting.

What I want is simple and two pronged: to acknowledge him and to continue infusing this journey of mine with spirituality, wherever I may be and with whomever has the ability to keep me moving in that direction.

 Non-Catholicism declared, we go on to enjoy a 25-minute conversatioin which makes him late for prayers in the Chapel. After rising, shaking his hand and gaining permission to take this photo, I am able to walk away and through the numerous ensuing rooms of "valuables" knowing that I took the time to find and speak to the most valuable treasure of all - a human being.


Thursday 2 July 2015

Digitally Yours

I watch your
life unfold
on the ten second
chats you snap;
see your face 
in my online book
and wonder 
where our timeline is
going.

You 
twitter 
when I 
tweet 
but our
digital lives keep
us from getting any
face time.

I troll around and
Google 
you,
sift through your 
instant pictures 
for
proof of your 
(p)interest;
read between the lines
of your 
text.

As my hope goes
up in smoke like 
Tinder
my 
Candy-coated crush
begins to fade
and I remind
myself that 
WOW
there are 
Plenty of fish
in the sea.


- Vera

Wednesday 1 July 2015

On Terrorists and Travelling

The day before we left for Paris, there were three terrorist attacks reported worldwide; one in Tunisia, one in Kuwait and the other in Lyon, France which happens to be the second stop on this European trip.

Before boarding the plane, a flight attendant announced that it would be a full flight. A brief montage of video clips from the news of flights gone wrong passed through my mind. I stepped into the jetway wondering if the flight would make it to its destination yet I did it anyway.

Ten hours and two take-offs later, we landed safely in Paris.

As we tour around, I have an awareness which I admit that I never had before.  One which has me always looking at those around me and making sure that nobody gets too close.  Admittedly I am looking not just for a terrorist - whatever that looks like - but also for the pickpocket or his more violent cousin the mugger.

Today's tourist destination? The Eiffel Tower.  As we rounded the corner and the monument came into view, I was overcome with joy.  It was exciting, seeing something so significant in person after seeing it so many millions of times on tv and in pictures.  It was overwhelming standing beneath it and looking up through it to the blue of the sky.  It was incredible and simultaneously unnerving noticing the sheer volume of people streaming around me.

To enter the toilette, one had to reveal the contents of ones purse - for me, a backpack - before permission was granted from the security guard on duty. This experience was a double-edged sword. One that made me feel like I was ok in the underground ladies rooms but also made me feel more vulnerable when I returned to the open courtyard above.

My fear of heights and aversion to waiting more than two hours in extreme heat while strangers pressed against me was enough to have me just stroll through the area with my feet planted firmly on the ground.

As we rode the very crowded subway back to our Paris base, I asked myself the big "what if" question; "what if there were a terrorist on the subway?"  I have to admit that while it crosses my mind and even while I look at the people around me, it feels more like a game that I am playing. In these moments I am not filled with fear so much as I am filled with a curiosity about myself and the people I live in the world with.

We make it safely back, as odds would predict, and I spend an enjoyable time preparing the first meal I have cooked in days. With a full belly I wonder...did the terrorists win because they have influenced the way that I think as I move through the world or have I for knowing they exist yet travelling anyway?

Sunday 21 June 2015

Happy Father's Day

This Father's Day I salute Marty Umanetz and every other man who has stepped forward to raise children who are not biologically their own.

Because you generously share yourself, I have watched my kids learn to believe they are worthy of a father's attention and love.

I have watched you fit soccer shoes on anxious feet, kiss away tears, speak reasonably, then loudly, then not really speak at all...I think it's called yelling?

I have watched the thrill on my son's face as he used a chainsaw; watched the kids paddle through calm waters; hike through deer riddled woods; fly down tobagganing hills which I am still not convinced were particularly safe...we'll have to talk about that!

You have taught them to fish, to paint; play guitar. To hope; set goals; work hard; be accountable; be responsible; take pride in their work; laugh; and love even when it means letting go.

I have watched you apologize; accept; regret; reconcile; and fall in love.

Every day my appreciation and respect for you grows as does my love and theirs.

Many men are father's because they have children, you have chosen to be a father when you didn't have to and for that I will always love and respect you.

Happy Father's Day

Monday 15 June 2015

Friendship



I was driving down the street yesterday when I saw these two ladies strolling through the afternoon sunshine. They were walking and laughing and I, passing on the side of the road was roped in by the simple joy of it. I drove two blocks further down the road before I remembered that my camera was in the car.

I pulled a U-turn and found them, still walking and still laughing as they continued on their path to wherever. In my minds-eye, I pictured myself 30 years from now, walking with a good friend, sharing tales of our youth and remembering the times we were footloose and fancy free or found ourselves sharing a laugh in spite of the fact that we were encumbered and heavy with the weight of our world.

In spite of the obvious reasons why I shouldn't, I put the camera to my eye and took this pic. Now at a busy intersection, I wished the women were someplace I could pull over and talk to them. Where I could ask them about their friendship and joy or ask them if they had any advice they wished to share. I wished I had a moment to thank them for being on my path, to offer them a copy of the pic.

Instead, I pulled another U-turn and continued on my way, thinking of the friends I would like to take as far forward into the future as my life stretches and of the joy and support I hope we continue to give each other as we move through this lifetime.

I hope that when I realize my time here is running out that I decide to make up for the 40+ years I didn't wear eyeshadow and try to wear them all at once as this lady – for whatever reason – does and I hope that the friends I have will be able to overlook it enough to want to hold my hand anyway.

I hope that, no matter how slowly, I am able to walk freely without the aid of a walker or cane. That my hands are free for holding and that I have enough control over them that I can manage to hold on to another.

I hope that my memory is good enough that I can remember who my friends are and what they bring to my life but also that it is short enough that the laughter matters more than the tears.

I hope that I still want to be touched.

I don't know why these women were holding hands. I know that over the years many women have held my hands both literally and figuratively and that it was always a reflection of a deep emotional connection that we shared.


As I arrive in my driveway, the warmth in my heart causes me to send a prayer of peace and gratitude to these women. To all women and the friendships that hold us together when it feels for all the world like we're falling apart.

Saturday 13 June 2015

Stronger

Stronger
when I say yes instead of no
Stronger 
when I relax and let life flow
Stronger
when I let a weakness show
Stronger
when I absorb the blow
Stronger
when I breathe and let it go
Stronger
when I feel my spirit grow
Stronger 
when I celebrate your glow
Stronger
when I eat my plate of crow
Stronger
when I reap the seeds I sew
Stronger
when my ducks get out of row
Stronger
when I love and let you know.

- Vera

Wednesday 10 June 2015

The Tale




If you ignore the multitude
red white and green signs against
trespass
walk through the silent
fallen and their sentries standing
guard
tiptoe 'round the poison ivy
on the path well worn by 
dissenters who have come before
hoping patrollers of this
man-made free environment
fail
to see necessity of taking their
job too seriously
you will come to
the place.

A long shoreline
where beaver deer bear 
congregate with birds and
their prey
A place where you try to
spill only the blood of the battling worm
before you arc rod
snap it forward
watching
hooked bait sail across
calm waters.

The world and it's trappings fall
away
relaxed yet poised to react 
you
breathe life into dreams
while 
mosquitoes buzz away drunk with gratitude

Whether the fish bite or not is
irrelavant
you have a grand tale of adventure and daring
that every 11-year-old boy should
have in his arsenal to
tell.

- Vera

Thursday 28 May 2015

The Fallen - Poem



No longer do they
tower
over all that lies
below clothed in
shades of green, or red
or gold.

Weakened by storms
disease and time
they fall; some into
the outstretched
arms of the young
where suspended they wait
for whatever event will
allow their descent
to continue to the forest
floor where majestic limbs
which once
sheltered the wild
and bent in resistance
to the wind
lay hollowing,
full of air yet
breathless.

The tough bark
which protected will
slide to the ground.
Nakedly the fallen will beseech
the young to stand
guard and bear witness
to the growing moss and
fading glory; to
remember a time when
the fallen were the shelter
from the storm.

Some young will twist away
embarrassed by what
their elders have become
yet even as they pretend
the limbs they stretch toward
the sky are invincible, their
roots dig deep and deeper still
to feed on the nutrients which
the past offers to the present
and the future.

And I who walks
among the silence of
their cycle watching limbs
bare or full of leaves that dance
or fall, sit down upon the fallen
in awe and wonder how we so different
in our purpose and our structure
can be so very much alike.

- Vera


Friday 15 May 2015

The Mother of all Evils

While I wash my daughter's hair after swim lessons I listen to the mother/daughter exchange taking place in the shower next to ours.

"Do you want to wash your hair here or at home?" the mother asks.

I look at the child who can't be more than 4 and wonder why she's asking the question.  She is already in the shower, shampoo in hand and the mother has already taken off her footwear and sidled up to the young girl.

"Here," she says in her thin voice.

"Are you sure?" the mother asks even as she reaches for the shampoo and starts to squeeze it over the bowed head. "I think we can do a better job if we do it at home."

At the end of the row of showers, a baby buggy sits. It is being jiggled from within.  This mother has another child patiently waiting for them to leave the community centre.

"Here," the child says again.

I look at the woman who appears to be in her 30s.  She clearly has a command of the English language yet seems to have difficulty communicating her own desire to her daughter clearly.

Who gives a sh*t what the kid wants?

Then I remember.  She is where I used to be and where I am still struggling to leave. She is so used to putting what she wants and what she needs at the bottom of the list, so much so, that she is willing to do whatever her daughter decides.

And it clicks... The clarity of how I came to self-neglect.

When I was in my 20s and expecting my first child, I thought that learning how to take care of her was going to be the hardest thing I ever had to do.  I read non-stop the entire time I was pregnant and when that wasn't terrifying enough I sought out conversation with mothers and doctors and watched television shows which were more than happy to educate me on how hard having a newborn would be.  By the end of it all, it wasn't really the thought or the experience of the 24 hours of labour I went through but the thoughts of the hours and days and weeks and years during which I had to continue to make the right decisions so as not to mess up this perfect blank canvas I had been entrusted with.

It was a glorious journey.  It was also one which over the course of her first few hours, days, weeks and months, taught me how little my personal needs mattered compared to hers.  As many people who stay at home with a newborn know, those first weeks are spent blurry-eyed. Babies don't respect your need for sleep, your need for food or your need to practise a little hygiene.

For me, who nursed on demand, my daughter's sleep schedule dictated the limited scope of things I could allow into my life. Every time she fell asleep I was faced with the same choices.  Should I a) eat b) sleep or c) shower. Almost everything else ceased to exist and I focused on these three core needs.  Eating always seemed to make it to the top of the list.  It was necessary if I wanted to be able to keep nursing and necessary if I wanted to keep my addled brain from slipping further into it's sleep deprived state.

Everything else was optional. I adapted, eventually to cook, clean and use the toilet one-handed because there was a problem. When my daughter cried, my milk come rushing in making me uncomfortable and wet and making it more difficult for her to latch on for her feed.

And this, right here is where I pinpoint my cycle of self-neglect as having begun.

Before the habit which formed from necessity could be eradicated, I had another child which reinforced my habit of putting myself on the bottom of my own to-do list.  Throughout the ensuing 18 years, I had two more kids boosting my total to 4 but also repeatedly reinforcing my new habit.

To compound the situation, I chose to homeschool until 4 years ago when my oldest reached grade 9.  Against her wishes and over her loud protests, I packed her off to high school where she flourished. By the time she was in grade 11, I found myself at home without children. With one in JK, I was slowly learning how to navigate the elementary school system and how to become a before and after school parent.

I was also slowly beginning to realise how burnt out and lost I had become. When the kids were home I would cook whatever they liked. Left on my own I realized that somewhere along the way I had lost my sense of what  my personal preferences were.  Given the choice between fixing myself lunch and folding my kids clothes, I overwhelmingly chose the latter. I allowed habit, the need to compensate for having shipped them off  as well as the sudden shift in our living conditions to hijack my right to re-discover the joy of being me.

It took a little while for me to understand that I didn't have to eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch; to learn that it is OK to cook shrimp even though I'm the only person in the house who likes them; to comprehend that the 6 hours a day that I am home alone can be spent doing something other than cleaning or laundry or shopping or cooking.  I can cook lunch for one and I can write, or read or sleep without guilt.

I joined the local YMCA to start moving my body and started cleaning out closets, not to feel organised but because not hanging on to ice skates that nobody has used in three years creates space for new and exciting things to enter into our lives.

Admittedly, I sometimes slip and find myself doing things for a friend or my partner or my mother when I have things on my own list to attend to. I'm tyring to take it easy on myself, however and trying to remember that I am still unlearning bad habits.

So, now in my 40s I know that taking care of kids is pretty simple. Their needs change as they grow and you simply fill them and move forward. The things we sweat over, like the potty training and when to take away the soother and whether or not to co-sleep are pretty innocuous.  At the end of the day I'm pretty sure they're going to blame me for all their problems and I'm going to hope they choose a college that's far enough away that I can visit when I miss them. When one by one they ship out I'm going to hug them while silently praying they have a child who challenges them as much as they have challenged me and that I live long enough and close enough to be able to witness it.

In the interim, my recovery continues.







Tuesday 12 May 2015

Fairy Tales - Poem

Princesses singing of
loves that will come,
godmother's granted to 
few lucky some;

Princes and knights
that slay all the dragons,
Horses that gallop
and pull forth the wagons;

Ships that set sail 
from the shore just in time,
Monsters get letters
written in rhyme;

Evil and apples
and stepmoms who kill,
hunchbacks and maidens
discover their will;

Wicked-y witches who fly
through the air,
children get captured
escape when they dare;

Fairies and magic and
carpets that glide,
trees that are willows with
grandma inside;

Ogres drink potions and
stones become soup,
arrogant emperors 
always get duped;

Mermaids want legs that
can stand up on land,
pumpkins are carriages
balls are all grand;

A daughter as small as
her mother's thumb,
A girl with long hair and
dwarves who are dumb...

Fairy tales ended with 
happy conclusions,
the writers, they suffered from
some grand delusions.

Life isn't like all 
the stories I read,
Endings are not like
the books in my head;

They're messy and painful
and when they are over,
Like Horton, we search
for that one lucky clover.

- Vera

Thursday 7 May 2015

Letting Go

Letting go is hard.  It's something that we all acknowledge and mostly agree upon. Even as adults, it can be tricky to pry open our hands and let hopes, dreams and aspirations fall from them.

Truth be told, holding on to what no longer serves us or to what will never be realized means that we prolong our own suffering. It also means that we lack the ability to grab ahold of new opportunities and possibilities and there are ALWAYS new opportunities; even when we have our eyes averted and our hands full.

In the early months of this year, we had the honour of helping one of our kids let go of the past; let go of some pain and loosen his grasp on hope. The sounds odd, having him let go of hope rather than helping him learn how to reach for and cherish it but sometimes this too is necessary.

Now, months later, freed from the need to hold so tightly to something with remote possiblities, his energy is being used to discover new interests and fulfill his desire to become a better athlete and healthier human.

I'm proud of this kid for learning that letting go doesn't mean you don't care and don't hurt. Rather, it means you acknowledge the pain and the possibility then let go of the responsibility of hoping. It means that you care about your life and your responsibility to yourself so much that you stop getting angry and frustrated at how ineffective you can be in forcefully creating what you want. It means you start being responsible enough for yourself that you invest in becoming healthy and strong and happy.

It also means that if and when the tides of the universe turn and the thing that you have longed for comes to you, you are equipped with the knowledge that you never really needed it at all.  That you were worthy of having it but you are strong enough without it.  That you have the ability to both embrace it and walk away from it at the same time. In that moment, if it ever comes to him, he will be able to remember, this is the thing that I hoped for and this is the thing that I let go of and now, after all this time, I can choose to grab it.

It also means that if the universe chooses to remain silent for the rest of his days, he can live with the knowledge that he let go.  That he moved on, moved past and grew strong without it.

Live long and prosper young one.

Thursday 30 April 2015

Wisdom

This week my 17-year-old went through what seems to have become a right of passage for teenagers today, the removal of her wisdom teeth.

It's been a while since I have had a child go under general anethestic, 5, years to be precise, and the same kid too while I'm thinking about it although last time it was emergency surgery so there wasn't really any time to think about or prepare for it.

Still, Zoe's surgery has meant a few things not the least of which has been that I have been home all week. Perhaps because the intensity of her needs or the dedication with which I filled them, it slowly dawned on me that I haven't been doing a great job of taking care of myself.

Oh, I've been eating (sometimes) and sporadically flexing my new YMCA membership muscles but I do it in between the time I spend taking care of the kids and taking care of my relationship and taking care of my mother who this year has developed a heart condition and a need to be taken care of.

I spend a lot of time in my van driving back and forth between Hamilton and St. Catharines and Hamilton and Mississauga. A lot of time driving to soccer and guitar and piano and youth group and boot camp.  A lot of time cooking and shopping and cleaning in not just my home but in my other two part time locations.

My life has somehow flipped upside down so that I am taking care of myself in between, like it's a hobby rather than the main event. I have a list of things I need to do and a list of things I want to do and I find myself knocking that list down so incredibly slowly because the list never makes it to the top of my list.

Case in point, it's almost May and my snow tires are still on my ever-moving van. I have an appointment for tomorrow (which I called four different service stations and waited three days to get) to fix this and to change the oil but my mother has an appointment she forgot to tell me about and nobody else to take her. Van/mother/Van/Mother....

In the mix, I have a writing workshop in two days. I signed up for it two months ago when I was more productive. I haven't written very much recently even though I have all these letters crashing around in my head forming words. I don't have the time to sit with them long enough to let them course their way from my head to the tips of my fingers.

I love my family.  Love that I get the honour of facilitating their lives and watching them grow.  This year, however, as I look forward to watching the eldest walk across the stage and get her high school diploma then take off for University, I can't help but think about how time flies; how just yesterday it was me being launched and how I have spent way too much of my time and energy helping other people chase their dreams instead of chasing my own.

As I look at my calendar for May, I vow to make sure that my time doesn't get sucked down the rabbit hole of facilitating other people's lives; to make sure more of me ends up on paper and more things get crossed off my personal to-do list.

But that's for May...it's still April and, well, two kids have swimming lessons and one has boot camp so I better go!




Monday 27 April 2015

The Fisherman and Passerby

Freed from ice the surface rushes
forming waves which dance
together joyfully before collapsing.

The eager fisherman
stands holding his rod
on the wind-battered shore,
line dangling below the frigid
surface, hoping fish will rise
to his bait.

A passerby scurries past, small dog
on a leash walking quickly behind.
He shakes his aroogant head while
tsk, tsking the fisherman's
foolishness.

The fisherman hears the
reproach and silently chuckles
as he watches passerby sink
deeper into the upturned collar of
his spring jacket, dusted
off and donned too soon for the
winter chill which lingers.

Smugly the fisherman barely has time
to sip from his nearby coffee cup, tug
down the rim of his warm woollen hat and
flex toes inside his winter boots before his line
is jumping.

Boyishly he grins and reels in his
catch which he admires while
removing the hook. He holds the
floppping fish up, quickly stoops over
the water to release it before standing to
replace the bait.

"Why waste your time?"

Fisherman turns to see the passerby has
circled back to ask the question.

"I don't know," said the fisherman pointing
to the dog. "Why do you waste yours?"

- Vera

Petrified

The sun rides low
in April's sky
while winter's wind
continues to terrorize,
daring petrified leaves
to burst forth
from their buds.

Squirrels scurry tree's
limbs anxious to return
to the warmth of their
Dreys and the few nuts
they have left.

Overhead birds chirp
of the newly hatched
before loudly complaining of
their exposed nests
watching intently wondering
when and where nature's greenery
will first be gleaned.

As sky darkens
sun sets taking
its empty promises
of warmth while silencing
their chatter with an answer
of not today.

I slide between my
cold sheets
shiver off the chill
while taking comfort
from the knowledge
that tomorrow the answer
or the question may
change.

- Vera

Thursday 22 January 2015

Indigestion



My doctor says I'm
suffering from verbal 
indigestion.

I have letters on my mind,
words in my heart and
sentences on either side of
my semi-colon.

As she prescribes,
I drink a lot of water.
What comes out is sometimes
pure sh*t
But other times it's
Sheer poetry.

- Vera

Friday 16 January 2015

Forgiveness

One of the hardest things I am learning to do is forgive myself. Not because I maim and torture puppies, drown kittens or am generally a horrible person.  Not because I cheat or steal or live my life with a careless disregard for others, but for sometimes taking too long to see the truth; for allowing fear to get in my way; for sometimes unintentionally hurting people I care about.

That's how I am starting this year, with a need to forgive myself.

Perhaps my expectations of myself are too high for wanting to be able to step outside who I am and already be who I am in the process of becoming.  Perhaps I need to remember that the mistakes and the consequences that come with them are the process that makes the change possible.  Perhaps I need to remember that my intentions are almost always set with only the best outcome in mind, even if that's not the outcome I reap.

If I was watching a friend encounter what I am going through, I would generously tell him/her that they were being way too hard on themselves. That they did the best they could at the time and if that's not acceptable then so be it, but it's not a friend, it's me.

It's hard enough to watch people hurt, harder still to know I'm the reason for it.


Thursday 15 January 2015

Possibility - Poem

I held his heart
so closely that I could
feel it beat inside me.
I could taste the breath
he took into his lungs.

When he ate
my belly became full.
His laughter bubbled and
spilled from my lips
while moisture from his
tears clung to my lashes.

Now his sadness echoes
through my empty chest,
His hot despair rides the
current through my veins and
acid leaks from my eyes
masking my beauty
even from myself.

Still somehow the knowledge
that love's light lays in
our eyes and God's goodness
is embedded in the
very thought of our touch
penetrates the illusion.

My heart holds fast to the truth
and has no ears to hear differently
So I open my hands
and my hears in hopes that
he will feel
me beating inside  him.
That he will taste the hope
I breathe into my lungs
and that when I eat, he
will become full with possibility.

- Vera

Sunday 4 January 2015

Failing Greatly - Me, Not the Book

I first read Dr. Brene Brown's book Daring Greatly just over a year ago.  At the time I felt so encouraged and inspired to authentically share myself.

After this last week, when I found myself stuffing very raw and very real emotions down into every dark corner I could find within, I realize that I need a refresher course. A reminder of how not just appropriate but necessary it is for me to show myself.  If not to everyone then at least to a few somebodies.

The funniest thing about vulnerability is that I can't really hide it.  

Mask, yes.  I can make it look like anger, like sadness, like incredible competence or, wait for it...I don't give a shit and you can't make me."

Depending on the depth of my challenge, I will rub through the list once or twice which is really handy for keeping people wondering what the fuck is going on but also robs me of the opportunity to get my needs met. 

As emotionally savvy as I think my magical mask makes me, I haven't found a way to make my vulnerability look like happiness or joy or anything else that remotely resembles a positive emotion.  

So, here I am on January 4, me who doesn't make resolutions, gritting my teeth and preparing to give myself a kick in the ego by rereading this book.

I would like to say I'm surprised I need the reminder, that I expected the first reading to sink in and take root, forevermore providing me with courage an wisdom.

Truth is, I am a voracious reader and it is one of only four books that I keep at my bedside. One, out of all the thousands of books that I have read which has the ability to put out my emotional flame while setting my soul on fire.

This evening I will be pouring my glass of wine, adding bubbles to my bath and setting out on this journey so that 2015 is as joyous and fulfilling as it is meant to be.


Thursday 1 January 2015

A Walk Along the Beach


Being in Destin Florida has allowed me to indulge one of my most decadent desires...daily walks along the beach.

Day after day miles and miles of white sand squished through my toes and adhered to most surfaces of my skin. I didn't mind the sand. It's one of the best parts, really. It's unpredictable and shifting nature causes me to slow my gait and enjoy the walk. Standing still, feet firmly planted in wet sand as the sea rushes in to wash over me is especially delightful for as the water recedes, it slowly erodes the platform on which I stand, reminding me of how impermanent everything is.


Almost every day, I have taken some time to examine and collect seashells. I like picking them up to admire their colors before running my fingers over their various textures. Some shells I keep, others I show to whoever happens to be sharing my walk before I let them fall back to the sand. On any such walk I would find uniform shells, exceedingly smooth, startlingly white and available by the handful. I'm always surprised, however, by the ones that find their way into my pockets. They are decidedly different from each other, suggesting to me that I don't have a set criteria.

On New Year's Eve I took one such walk. I bent and picked, bent and picked my way down the coastline until I found myself standing a fair ways down from where I started holding this shell in my hand...



I turned it over curiously. As always, it was different than any of the others I had collected. It was far from uniform in shape. I guess some might even call it broken, yet it was also totally perfect for whatever calm seas and stormy weather caused it to wash up on shore.

I didn't stop to look for the missing pieces...didn't ponder why it doesn't look like the others. Rather I palmed it, admired the gleaming innards, stroked it's ridged exterior, ran my thumb along the jagged edges then placed it in my pocket. In that moment I was blessed with the knowledge that I have found a handful of friends who do the same with me.

As I moved farther down the beach I tilted my head toward the darkening sky and opened my heart to everything the universe held in her open hand.