Following the beat of....

I watched the Queen's funeral the other day and the procession that took her coffin to the Wellington Arch. Even several days later, the music of the march stayed with me. The scarlet uniforms of the Band of the Grenadier Guards, with their Busby headdresses made of fur were imposing. In the centre of the phalanx of musicians was the drummer whose rhythmic beat set the pace for the thousands of military personnel escorting the Queen to the next step in her last journey, the hearse ride to St George's Chapel in Windsor. The precision was incredible as each set of feet rose and fell at exactly the same time causing a visible gentle sway to the sea of marchers.

 The human sense of rhythm or beat is innate; we can recognize patterns in music without training and without even paying particular attention. Our brain automatically translates these patterns, allowing us not only to clap in time, but to change seamlessly to a different rhythm should the timing change. Interestingly, and totally as an offside, the fact that every human can recognize a musical beat, does not mean that every human can dance to it. Having the proverbial 'two left feet', I can attest to this.

Metronome

This ability begins in the womb with the sound and comfort of your mother's heartbeat. Neuroscientists study how the brain responds to rhythm which in turn affects they way we move and even speak. Further, they look at how music therapies can enhance performance in sports and in those who suffer from the effects of diseases which inhibit movement, like Parkinson's disease.

It had been thought that this was a uniquely human ability, but some scientists have found that rhesus monkeys have the ability 'to maintain a temporal rhythm'. The explanation regarding this, descended into formulas and confusing language well beyond me, and while it is very interesting, I thought that this did not compare to cats, who instead of following or recognizing patterns in time, have the ability to set their own patterns and impose them on humans. 

I wondered what kinds of things set the drum beats that we live our lives by. There are the circadian rhythms; the mental, physical and behavioural changes that generally follow a 24 hour cycle and which are primarily affected by the sun's rising and setting. Since there are 'early birds' and 'nighthawks' in our family, I know that not all body clocks are set the same way, though! It can also be a challenge to encourage your new baby to recognize that night is when Mommy needs to sleep.

Autumn Equinox falls within this week. The movement of the days from season to season is a steady beat to our lives. I think that a lot of people now think of the seasons in terms of comfort or discomfort, whereas at one time the seasons each had tasks upon which your survival depended. Mabon is the Celtic celebration of this equinox, when the day and night hours are equal and when harvest is celebrated. This tradition means it is a time of balance, as well as a time to be grateful. I love the fall with its cooler temperatures and the beauty of the changing leaves, but it is also bittersweet as the the leaves will fall and the cold and bleakness of early nights in November approach just as surely.

Perhaps the drum that beats the loudest on a daily basis is the family. When you are a child, the rhythm of your life is set by your parents and their traditions and beliefs. Should you marry, your life will encompass the rhythm of your husband's work, possibly your own, and then the way that you, together, incorporate the patterns of both your families. Should you have a family of your own, the rhythm changes again to include the needs and schedules of your children. By now life can be more like a symphony with too many, and sometimes opposing, rhythms. It is hard to hear, and then follow, a beat that answers your needs. 

Whilst our days advance at a prescribed pace and the seasons change in turn, life within a family has the most changeable rhythms. When you have babies, the days and nights pass as one, and then come the years of the endless routines of work, school and the celebration of family occasions. Sometimes the drum beat so fast I felt that I could not keep up, but then when my parents died, it seemed as though time stopped. the rhythm of my life up until that time, changed forever.

The rhythm of my life is different now. The frenetic years of child rearing are past and our children have their own families, which includes me, but does not depend on me. So now, instead of living at a run, I now choose to saunter, to wander, to amble...to dawdle. Which suits me just fine.

View from the window...It is the winter of...

Well, apparently it is going to snow today. Which is lovely, when the verb involved is 'looking' (at), and not 'driving' (in), or the 'shoveling' (of). In this little part of Southern Ontario, we have become accustomed to less snow as time has gone by, not like the weather weirdness capitol of London and points west, or the the recipient of lake effect weather like Hamilton nearby. The snow is coming sideways from the east, so perhaps this is a little 'cadeau' from our neighbours in La Belle Province. They get enough snow that if I was them, I would want to share the white wealth as well.

(https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Sherbrooke_Street_at_night.JPG)

All the usual visitors to the yard are tucked up somewhere, keeping as warm and cozy as possible; not a glimpse of feather or fur anywhere. I am also warm and cozy with my coffee and in my housecoat. Housework awaits. It is probably calling my name, but I am not listening right now.

I spend a lot of time in the past; a by-product of following genealogical pursuits, I suppose. But other things draw us to places of memory, like songs, scents, photos or places. January, for me is a 'remember-ful' month.

It is twenty-one years ago now, that I was summoned from a Christmas celebration to a small hospital in Paris. It was kind of a forced celebration that year, in that the loss of our mother was still very fresh. This however, was about my dad. He had been taken to hospital and I was being called there to make decisions about what was to be his last few days with us. Dad left us on January 2nd, almost three months to the day from Mom's death.

Events of strong emotion imbed themselves in your heart forever. The sting of them lessens over time enabling you to remember more of the person, and less of the loss. So January starts for me with thinking about Dad. He was the product of Victorian parents; the oldest son. He had a strong moral code and a fierce work-ethic. He brought an East Coast girl to distant Toronto and they raised six children. He sang, supported his church, and worked two more jobs after his formal retirement. His role in the household was breadwinner; he was not demonstrative. With the exception of my sister, he was a small man amongst a throng of towering offspring. He was Dad. I was there when he took his last breath on January 2nd, 2000. You don't forget days like that.

(Saint John, NB 1938)

(Dad holding the caboose of the family train, 1958)

The 4th of January is the happiest of remembrances; the birthday of our daughter-in-law, Karen. I came home from a lengthy visit with Mom in Quebec, to find that our oldest son, in his 30's, long heart-protective, was head over heels in love with a tiny, Newfie spitfire, mother of four. It is hard to remember now, and I certainly can't even imagine, our life before our Karen. Dan takes credit for this blessed of unions, so I will take a moment to thank him for this and for our sweetest Leah, also such a huge gift to us. I am the luckiest of women to have these girls in my life.

The 5th reminds me of how my mother must have felt so much the same way; she had four boys bring young women into her life. The first family import was Janet, brought home from Bible College by my oldest brother. I was still a girl when she took my brother away; I participated in their wedding and cried up a storm. An amazing woman; teacher; wife of a busy pastor; incredible mom; warm supporter of youngest sister-in-law. So appreciated and so loved. She is now showing me how to grow older gracefully. She is a good example; perhaps this pupil is slow.

(Engagement Celebration)

The week of the 10th to 17th sees the remembrance of at least four family birthdays; my mother, sister, husband and his twin, and brother. For many years we celebrated at least three of those together. Now for my mom on the 10th, and my sister on the 12th, these are occasions of remembrance. 

(1994)

My mom was not raised by her mom, the Great War interfered in her life so that she did not have that influence or example. My dad went to the East Coast for work, then brought my mom, with three small children (one three months old), on the train, during war, to a foreign country - Upper Canada. Yet she adapted. Then she found herself anticipating a blessed event at age 40 when she already had a seemingly endless supply of boys already. Surprise! I'm not sure that she always thought it had been a good surprise because, like many mother-daughter  relationships, ours was often fraught. I do though, think of my mom with much love and great respect.

(1937/38)

I remember my sister Margaret on the 12th. Nan, as I will always think of her, was married when I was five. We did not have the luxury of knowing each other as adults for long, as she left us in 1990. She left too young, leaving her children as barely formed adults. It is interesting that all three have travelled the world...I wonder if there is a correlation.

(1961?)

Next, on the 16th, were born two boys, a huge twin surprise (read shock) to their parents who had expected and prepared for the arrival of one child. Also a shock to the young doctor who had not anticipated this dual arrival either, nor had he yet in his career delivered two at one time. My husband Lynn is the firstborn by several minutes. 

There are only a few photos of les Jumeaux (as they are referred to by our French cousins) so they are particularly precious, and there are none of them as babies; strange to us now in this time of phone camera and every other thing.  Sadly, celebrating a birthday together as brothers, has not been a thing for a very long time as Lloyd has ever been on the East Coast and prior to that, at sea, literally, as in the Navy.  Now that I may have finally grown up, I try to celebrate Lynn every day, as his 40 plus years presence in my life have been the backbone and mainstay of our life and the making of me.

(1977)

Lastly, the 17th, brings me to the youngest of my brothers. We were the last two at home. He is older than I am by almost 6 years, and that he did not murder me in my sleep as a child is a testament to his long-suffering temperament. We have shared many family moments together, but this year's birthday, is not one of them. Thankfully presence is not a requirement of remembrance.

(c1965)

I am not sure whether it is January's proximity to Christmas, or its place on the calendar, in the middle of winter, but these particular weeks that start the year seem especially impactful. We have spent these last weeks without the physical presence of many whom we love, so these January birthdays are similar in a way not experienced before.  

It is strange and kind of uncomfortable. It is to be hoped that all the birthdays of this year will not be spent in this way, but if this is needful to ensure we will have another birthday, then so be it. In the meantime, I will just continue my celebrations in this way.

A Final Message

I attended my brother's funeral today..alone..sitting on my couch.

I wasn't there in person along side of my brothers, saying goodbye. My sisters-in-law and I were only present in our thoughts and hearts. The reasons were of necessity but still deeply unsatisfying emotionally.  The only thing that helped at all, was knowing that Barbara was already booked to visit Ontario in the following weeks. 

We anticipated Barb's visit as a beloved sister, not as our brother's widow bearing copies of his funeral service on USB sticks for us. We had planned a family gathering so we could see and touch her, hear her voice and her news. We had not known that Alan would leave us in the interim. 

I anticipated her arrival with, mostly, equal parts joy and trepidation. I wanted to be a support, to listen, to hug and offer love. I did not want to be weeping and needy requiring her consolation. 

It was a gift, that little bit of time. We were finally able to weep in one anothers arms and to talk about the pain of Alan's final journey. It had felt, to me, that the geographical distance made it almost impossible to walk along side of them, but Barb told me that she had always felt loved and supported along the way. The tears were healing. A precious gift of time and proximity. A treasure.

Robert did not want me to watch the service alone; ever the loving and protective big brother. Schedules interfered and I decided to watch it alone.  I saw my brothers file in and sit together. The natural selection that chose our faces from different ancestral mixes, made us all the same height and shape, and now time has painted our heads varying degrees of grey. I know they missed my presence but maybe it was good to just be brothers together mourning the loss of one that was dear.

The service was in a sense familiar, the patterns and music of my youth and my upbringing. The pastor read from my brother's own Bible. My niece told the story of my brother's life so beautifully. My great-nephew sang and my sweet great-nieces gave their own remembrances of their 'Papa'. 

Then there was a video..my heart cracked and a deep well of grief erupted. I had cried many times for my brother along the way, as I realized that he was suffering and at each new evidence that was he was leaving us. But this, this I hadn't know was even there. It occurred to me finally, that perhaps I had not really  admitted to myself that he was gone, really and finally gone from us. I have lived most of my life far from my brother. I was used to picturing him in the garden or at the table for tea with Barbara, or hundreds of other little mental photos that I had.  Even in the care home, I could picture the ebb and flow of his days because I had been a health care aide as well as cared for my parents. Perhaps I needed the reality of these final pictures.

I phoned my husband just to hear his voice, and he who knows me well, advised a quiet walk. It was drizzling, which was okay because I was too. In the process of calming down, and breathing in, and looking up, I guess I had processed something about the service more completely.

Alan had prepared the framework of his own service. His Bible was read from, his words to us all were spoken, the hymns he loved were sung, and the verses that were of special meaning to him were read. This was his voice. This was his final words of love to us all. He wanted us to know that his faith reassured him and carried him through even this. He believed he was loved and would be at peace and at rest. He had a deep and assured joy for his future. All of this underneath the painful and fearful process of arriving there, was this calm knowledge, this 'blessed assurance'.

So, while the tears are still close, it is okay because I received Al's last love letter to me.

I love you. It's ok.

Thankfulness in the maelstrom

I had named this blog 'In the Maelstrom' because that is where I felt that I was; in the midst of a whirlpool of emotion and events over which I had no control. The past several weeks have been turbulent. My brother died; our son got married; we drove to Quebec; a family member had to be hospitalized; my brothers flew to Winnipeg for the funeral; we celebrated birthdays; we visited with family we only see once a year..all of which is, I know, the stuff of life. However, it was the compression of all the events into a small space of time. It was the extremes of emotion on a roller coaster from day to day. It was the 'timey wimey' feel, as Matt Smith would say, of time stopping in one moment and moving warp speed in the next. 

I couldn't seem to write that blog though. It mulled around in my mind all week, until today. It suddenly seemed more important to move from mindfulness and coping, to thankfulness and perhaps a moving towards acceptance. I realized that my thoughts were based more in fear and probably anger, which would very probably keep me in that vortex, in that swirling water, for a longer time than would be healthy for me. This is not to say that I have stepped out of that water yet, but only that I may no longer stay in it thrashing about and in danger of sinking.

Therefore I decided that this blog will take those things from these difficult weeks and deliberately choose to find and list that which I can be thankful for.

Am I over the death of my brother Alan? No, probably not ever, but I am thankful that he is firmly fixed in my heart and my memory. I can still hear his voice and see his grin and will forever know that he loved me. I am thankful for the sister that he brought into my life. She is strong and amazing, although I know that she feels less so right now. I am also thankful that I can love her and remind her while she struggles with a life forever altered.

Our son was married just a couple of days after the news of my brother's death had reached us. Our hearts have an amazing capacity and I am so thankful for joy can exist in the midst of sorrow. The sun was unexpected that day, but burst through the clouds like a benediction and a blessing. Karen had written the service and the officiant infused joy and meaning into the words of promise and commitment in a Handfasting ceremony that was unique in the way that Karen and Matt are. 

The day after the wedding we drove the nine hours that it takes to go from our home in Ontario, to Sherbrooke in the Eastern Townships of Quebec.I have been making this trip with my husband for over forty years now. My mom-in-law is now 95 years old and I usually only get to see her once a year, so my choice to visit her rather than fly to Winnipeg with my brothers, though difficult, was necessary. 

Mom seems to get a bit more petite each year, but she is feisty. She has welcomed me with warmth and love since my first visit to her home. I have done some work on her family tree so we have spent many hours rehearsing family history and her personal stories. One of the visits we always make with her is to the cemetery. It is an important visit for her. As the years have passed the cemetery in Reedsville has become the final resting place of much of Mom's personal history. Parents, extended family, neighbours and schoolmates, and now a son, rest there, and each visit is a time to remember all of these loved ones. It is indeed the history of not just Mom's family, but the community in which she lived a great deal of her life. 

Mom lives close to the Domaine Howard, a lovely park and garden that my husband knew as Howard's Pond. We have always made a yearly visit, but now that Mom is only a block away, it is a daily place of refuge for me. Domaine Howard was the estate of Charles Benjamin Howard, a wealthy industrialist, senator and former mayor of Sherbrooke. The beauty and creativity of the gardens feed the soul and in late September the trees are putting on their stunning red and orange fall robes. There are benches around the pond and it is common to see someone resting with their eyes closed and face turned to the sun. Perfect. I am thankful for this lovely place of quiet and reflection.

I feel like the Eastern Townships is part of the fabric of who I now am. We visit the places that have formed the story of Mom's family. I think this is how it has always been; the repetition of family stories and those places connected to them that keep the commentary of a family alive in the next generation, so those memories are not lost. An important practice for which I am thankful, although I think that one likely needs to reach a certain age before one appreciates it. 

I am deeply thankful for family visits where you simply pick up where you left off the year before. Families are often separated by many miles and whom we are only able to visit yearly or even less frequently, and when we do visit, the time is always too short. Maybe, hopefully, that makes the visit sweeter; there is just a short time to touch their face, hug them, and say important words.

I am thankful that time, absence and language are not permanent barriers to feeling like a family. My husband's father left the family (long story) and this caused a separation from all his French heritage. Starting with names that Mom remembered, I built a family tree of those French roots and eventually came into contact with some family members (also long story). The important thing is that the some 50 years of separation, the difference in language spoken, and the absence of common experience together, made no difference to the love, acceptance and joy of being related, when we did finally meet. It was an extraordinary experience. My husband looked just like his cousin Roger, and  tante Gisele had remembered and missed him, and tante Julie still loved Mom as a sister even after all this time. Special connections and joyous reunions.

I was thankful to be able to celebrate the birthdays of my brother-in-law Marc, and his son James, our nephew. On the same day. Awesome. We went to the apple orchard, rode the trailer into the rows of apples and picked bagfuls. So much fun, and a chance to celebrate at least one of the year's occasions together. A precious memory.

And when my brother called me after the funeral, I am thankful that I could be with my remaining Mom for comfort and later rest my head on my sister-in-law's shoulder for a moment, knowing she understood. Then have birthday cake and admire a grandbaby in the family. Blessings.

Sometimes, well often, I lose perspective. Fear does that. The focus of your thoughts is negative, because so many things in life are hurtful, or frightening, or horrifying. And anyone who says that things can't get any worse, is seriously deluded. However the fact that there is a harvest and time of being grateful before the dark time of winter, gives us a chance to re-orient our outlook and prepare. 

So I will try to follow the pattern of Druid spirituality's three branches to accomplish this.

I will pursue the bardic response of taking photographs and writing, because creativity is positive and healing.

I will pursue the ovate response of spending time in the forest to recharge and refocus and find peace in its quiet.

I will pursue the druid response of deliberate gratefulness to remind me that there are always reasons to be thankful.