Monday, October 8, 2018

Gratitude dans le maelstrom


J'avais nommé ce blog 'Dans le Maelstrom' parce que c'est là que je sentais que j'étais; au milieu d'un tourbillon d'émotions et d'événements sur lesquels je n'avais aucun contrôle. Les dernières semaines ont été turbulentes. Mon frère est mort; notre fils s'est marié; nous avons conduit au Québec; un membre de la famille a dû être hospitalisé; mes frères sont allés à Winnipeg pour les funérailles; nous avons célébré les anniversaires; nous avons rendu visite à des membres de notre famille, nous ne les voyons qu’une fois par an, ce qui est, je le sais, l’essentiel de la vie. Cependant, il s'agissait de la compression de tous les événements dans un court laps de temps. C'était les émotions extrêmes sur des montagnes russes de jour en jour. Comme le dirait Matt Smith, c’était l’ambiance «timey wimey» du temps qui s’arrêtait dans un instant et de la vitesse de la chaîne dans l’autre.


Je n'arrivais pas à écrire ce blog cependant. Cela me trottait dans la tête toute la semaine, jusqu'à aujourd'hui. Il est apparu soudainement plus important de passer de la pleine conscience à la gestion adaptée, en passant par la gratitude et peut-être même vers l’acceptation. Je réalisai que mes pensées étaient davantage basées sur la peur et probablement la colère, ce qui me garderait très probablement dans ce vortex, dans cette eau tourbillonnante, plus longtemps que ce ne serait sain pour moi. Cela ne veut pas dire que je sois encore sorti de cette eau, mais seulement que je ne puisse plus rester dedans à me débattre et à risquer de couler.



Par conséquent, j'ai décidé que ce blog prendrait ces choses de ces semaines difficiles et choisissais délibérément de trouver et de lister ce pour quoi je peux être reconnaissant.



Ai-je fini de faire le deuil de mon frère, Alan? Non, probablement jamais, mais je suis reconnaissant qu'il soit fermement ancré dans mon cœur et dans ma mémoire. Je peux encore entendre sa voix et voir son sourire et saura à jamais qu'il m'a aimé. Je suis reconnaissant pour la soeur qu'il a introduite dans ma vie. Elle est forte et incroyable, même si je sais qu'elle se sent moins en ce moment. Je suis également reconnaissante de pouvoir l'aimer et de lui rappeler alors qu'elle se débat avec une vie pour toujours altérée.



Notre fils s'est marié quelques jours à peine après l'annonce de la mort de mon frère. Nos cœurs ont une capacité incroyable et je suis tellement reconnaissant que la joie puisse exister au milieu du chagrin. Le soleil était inattendu ce jour-là, mais a éclaté à travers les nuages ​​comme une bénédiction et une bénédiction. Karen avait écrit le service et l'officiant a incorporé la joie et la signification dans les mots de promesse et d'engagement lors d'une cérémonie de Handfasting unique en son genre.



Le lendemain du mariage, nous avons conduit les neuf heures nécessaires pour nous rendre de notre domicile en Ontario à Sherbrooke, dans les Cantons de l'Est, au Québec. Je fais ce voyage avec mon mari depuis plus de quarante ans maintenant. Ma belle-mère a maintenant 95 ans et je ne la vois généralement qu'une fois par an. Mon choix de la visiter plutôt que de m'envoler pour Winnipeg avec mes frères, bien que difficile, était nécessaire.


Maman semble devenir un peu plus petite chaque année, mais elle est courageuse. Elle m'a accueilli avec chaleur et amour depuis ma première visite chez elle. J'ai travaillé sur son arbre généalogique et nous avons passé de nombreuses heures à répéter l'histoire de sa famille et ses histoires personnelles. Une des visites que nous faisons toujours avec elle est au cimetière. C'est une visite importante pour elle. Au fil des ans, le cimetière de Reedsville est devenu le lieu de repos de la plus grande partie de l'histoire personnelle de Maman. Les parents, la famille élargie, les voisins et les camarades de classe, et maintenant un fils, y reposent et chaque visite est un moment de mémoire pour tous ces êtres chers. C'est en effet l'histoire non seulement de la famille de maman, mais de la communauté dans laquelle elle a vécu une grande partie de sa vie.



Maman habite à proximité du Domaine Howard, un parc et un jardin que mon mari a connus sous le nom de Howard's Pond. Nous avons toujours fait une visite annuelle, mais maintenant que maman n’est qu’à un pâté de maison, c’est un refuge quotidien pour moi. Le domaine Howard était la propriété de Charles Benjamin Howard, un riche industriel, sénateur et ancien maire de Sherbrooke. La beauté et la créativité des jardins nourrissent l'âme. Fin septembre, les arbres revêtent leur magnifique robe d'automne rouge et orange. Il y a des bancs autour de l'étang et il est courant de voir quelqu'un se reposer les yeux fermés et le visage tourné vers le soleil. Parfait. Je suis reconnaissant pour ce bel endroit de calme et de réflexion.





J'ai l'impression que les Cantons de l'Est font partie de ce que je suis maintenant. Nous visitons les lieux qui ont formé l'histoire de la famille de maman. Je pense que c'est comme ça depuis toujours; la répétition des histoires de famille et des lieux qui leur sont liés qui font que le commentaire d'une famille reste en vie dans la génération suivante, pour que ces souvenirs ne soient pas perdus. Une pratique importante pour laquelle je suis reconnaissant, même si je pense qu’il faut probablement atteindre un certain âge avant de l’apprécier.




Je suis profondément reconnaissant pour les visites de famille où vous reprenez simplement là où vous l'aviez laissée l'année précédente. Les familles sont souvent séparées par de nombreux kilomètres et nous ne sommes en mesure de nous rendre qu’une fois par an, voire moins souvent. Lorsque nous rendons visite, le temps est toujours trop court. J'espère peut-être que cela rendra la visite plus agréable; il leur reste peu de temps pour toucher leur visage, les serrer dans leurs bras et leur dire des mots importants.


Je suis reconnaissant que le temps, les absences et la langue ne soient pas des obstacles permanents au sentiment de famille. Le père de mon mari a quitté la famille (longue histoire), ce qui l'a séparé de tout son héritage français. En commençant par les noms dont maman se souvenait, j'ai construit un arbre généalogique de ces racines françaises et suis finalement entré en contact avec des membres de la famille (aussi une longue histoire). Ce qui est important, c’est que les quelque 50 années de séparation, la différence de langue parlée et l’absence d’expérience commune ne fassent aucune différence pour l’amour, l’acceptation et la joie d’être liés, lorsque nous nous rencontrons enfin. Ce fut une expérience extraordinaire. Mon mari ressemblait à son cousin Roger, et Tante Gisele s'en était souvenu, et Julie tante aimait toujours sa mère comme une sœur, même après tout ce temps. Connexions spéciales et joyeuses réunions.


J'étais reconnaissant de pouvoir célébrer les anniversaires de mon beau-frère Marc et de son fils James, notre neveu. Le même jour. Impressionnant. Nous sommes allés au verger de pommiers, avons monté la remorque dans les rangées de pommes et avons ramassé des sacs. Tellement de plaisir et l'occasion de célébrer au moins une des occasions de l'année ensemble. Un souvenir précieux.


Et quand mon frère m'a appelé après l'enterrement, je suis reconnaissant de pouvoir être réconforté par ma mère restante et de reposer ensuite ma tête sur l'épaule de ma belle-sœur, sachant qu'elle a compris. Ensuite, prenez un gâteau d'anniversaire et admirez une petite fille dans la famille. Bénédictions


Parfois, eh bien, souvent, je perds la perspective. La peur fait ça. Vos pensées sont négatives, car de nombreuses choses dans la vie sont blessantes, effrayantes ou horribles. Et quiconque dit que les choses ne peuvent pas empirer est sérieusement trompé. Cependant, le fait qu'il y ait une récolte et un temps de reconnaissance avant la nuit noire de l'hiver nous donne une chance de réorienter notre vision et de nous préparer.
Je vais donc essayer de suivre le modèle des trois branches de la spiritualité druidique pour accomplir cela.
Je poursuivrai la réponse bardique de la photographie et de l’écriture, car la créativité est positive et apaisante. Je poursuivrai la réponse ovée de passer du temps dans la forêt pour se ressourcer et se recentrer et trouver la paix dans son calme. Je poursuivrai la réponse druidique de gratitude délibérée pour me rappeler qu'il y a toujours des raisons d'être reconnaissant.





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.


Wednesday, September 19, 2018

Requiem for a Brother


Requiem æternam dona eis, Domine et lux perpetua luceat eis.
Eternal rest grant them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them.

My brother died today. It sounds harsh doesn't it. Stark. Maybe that is why we avoid it with euphemisms like 'passed away', 'gone to his rest' or 'we lost him today', trying to soften the reality, make it gentler or less final. But the reality is harsh and stark and painful. My beloved brother is gone from my sight and my touch and my hearing. For people of many faiths death is not an ending but a transition, therefore not to be feared, but accepted as part of a life which continues. This is comforting to many.

But for me, on this day, at this moment I feel only loss. 

I have just been reading Susanna Kearsley's new book "Bellewether". Oddly, a minor theme in the story is the main character's recent loss of her brother. To avoid copyright issues, I will  paraphrase a description that I felt very apt. 'She said that missing her brother caused her physical pain, as if an organ had been removed and the edges stitched so badly that it might never heal. But she hid her wound under her clothes so that no one would know that she was no longer whole.' 

It is true though isn't it. Death leaves holes in our soul, places that are invisible yet  scarred. And we hope that we have covered them successfully so they cannot be seen. We hide them because it makes others uncomfortable. They don't know what to say. They sometimes place time limits on grief. They think your faith should be enough. Actually, there is very little to say that helps, and nothing to say that changes anything. Grief has its own timetable and cannot be scheduled. Faith may provide hope for the future and solace in the present, but must make room for pain and its expression.

Grief's sharpest edges will soften over time and the initial pain will dull eventually. Tears will flow less frequently but they will remain close by for a long time. Healing will not take place if grief is hidden away or not acknowledged.

'Requiem' is most often thought of in the context of a funeral mass or the music that might be heard in such a setting. It also denotes an act of remembrance. As such, I will remember my brother Alan.

Alan was born Francis Alan Thornton in 1943. Wartime. My Uncle Frank was going overseas, and before he left he visited my parents. My uncle had been named for his grandfather, and he asked my parents that if the baby my mom was carrying should be a boy, would they name him Francis so that the name would continue. My mom gave birth to a boy and he was named Francis Alan, and thankfully my uncle also returned from war.

When Alan was three months old, the family moved from New Brunswick to Toronto, Ontario. For my dad this was a return home to his parents and family, but for my mom, an arduous uprooting to a new province. I don't know if she ever completely forgave my dad for bringing her to inhospitable Upper Canada.



Alan second from left, me far right

Alan was the brother of my heart; a bond formed when he looked after me as a small child. It is strange that such a fierce feeling can grow in such a short time and last over distances that kept us separate for so long. 



I'm not sure that Alan was a diligent student or even much interested but he had a natural affinity for how things worked. 


Alan loved the quiet of boats and fishing, of having a little land to putter on, and sometimes a few animals to raise. 


Dad and Alan with the day's catch

He married a bubbly, outgoing special woman named Barbara when I was still a kid. It was a big deal to me to spend time with them. He got such enjoyment out of watching Barb laugh and seeing how many fires she could keep burning at one time. Opposites in many ways, yet soulmates for 50 some years. 



Al loved my grandparents and he and Barb spent many weekends with them. I think he and our grandpa were kind of kindred spirits.



Alan was a soft-spoken and reserved person but I loved to see him laugh. He had a quiet faith, enjoyed private study, and shared his thoughts in small groups. He was a behind the scenes kind of guy, a hard worker.

He didn't like politics on the job or anywhere else. 

Alan had a reputation in the family for being the last to any gathering; Barb and the children would be ready, but another cup of tea was needed to fortify for the fray.

He listened. He wanted to know what you thought. He was interested in the activities of his nieces and nephews and wanted to get to know them. Alan had stopped travelling with his job before my children grew old enough to really know him and that causes me sorrow. 

Spans of time would pass that I would not see him or even talk to him, but it didn't seem to matter for we would just pick up where we left off, and I felt secure it his care for me, and I knew he was there.

Before Alan became too ill, we began a correspondence that is very precious to me. I have his letters to read and touch, a tangible and precious gift. When I realized that I had received the last letter that he would be able to write, I mourned deeply.  





When Barb told us that Alan had finally been definitively diagnosed with Lewy Body Dementia, we did not really know what that meant. It brought him confusion and anxiety, terror and delusions. It took his abilities away one at a time; a nightmare for Barbara and my reserved brother. So we have been grieving for a long time, mourning each gradual degeneration until now; the final moment of loss. A different kind of grief starts now, the kind that has to acknowledge that we will no longer see a beloved face and touch his hand. 

We know that he no longer suffers and are glad.

We know he had a deep faith that gave him peace.

I hope he knew how much we cared for him.

I hope he is having a cup of tea with the family. 

I hope he will keep watch over me.

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