Dear Santa

“A good many things go around in the dark besides Santa Claus.” -  Herbert Hoover

Dear Santa,

I realize I've left it a little late to send in my Christmas list.  The truth is, I've been struggling with getting into the spirit this year.  It took me ages to even come up with a theme for our family Christmas.  In a time when the world seems very dark, I decided our theme this year would be light.  Our Christmas Eve table will be laid out accordingly.

Usually the things I ask for at Christmastime are gifts for someone else.  It actually feels a bit selfish to ask for something for myself this year but I'm going to do it anyway.  Santa, could you please give me my confidence back?

I lost a piece of it when my heart stopped working and I had to have surgery in March.  I lost a bigger piece of it when I realized I had misjudged a client whose bills have gone unpaid for nearly a year.  I lost the rest on November 8 watching the U.S. election results.

I'm trying hard to believe things will work out well but I just can't get there.  I'm concerned about every twitch in my chest, wary about every business encounter, heartsick about the fallout from the election not just in the U.S. but here in Canada too.  Though this is normally my favorite week, I'm struggling to find the joy this year.  Shining my light seems to be doing little to illuminate the darkness.

Santa, I realize I'm asking for a lot and maybe you can't deliver a request like mine.  But if there is anything you can do to help, I'd be really grateful.  I'll keep trying too.  Safe travels on Christmas Eve and Merry, Merry Christmas.

Love

Jackie

The Weekend After

"There is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in." - Leonard Cohen

Like the world, I'm broken.  I'd like to say I am surprised by the U.S. election results but I can't.  I've known since I visited upstate New York that this is how it would turn out.  I saw the faces of those in the small towns I walked through who eyed me with suspicion, though never when I walked with my lily white husband.  I tried to tell myself I was imagining the looks, that the pick-up truck that nearly ran me over as I crossed with the green light on the main street of Watkins Glen and the driver who then jumped out of his truck to scream at me and only left when an older couple walked up beside me, had nothing to do with my worst imaginings, but I'm too old to bother denying my gut.  The towns are white, small and not particularly prosperous.  They are filled with Christian churches - no synagogues, no temples, no mosques.  And though I don't think people knew quite what they were looking at when they looked at me, they did see me as an "other".

Their lawns were littered with Trump/Pence signs and Mr. Trump's message was clear.  The signs that said Make America Great Again were written in code.  The message was really Make America Hate Again.  Make America Straight Again.  Make America White Again. And the people listened.  At one point I thought the scandals of Mr. Trump's sexually predatory behavior may put a stop to his victory.  After all, surely even white supremacists couldn't vote for a man who boasted about sexually assaulting women.  Even they have mothers, sisters, wives and daughters.  No woman could vote for that. But the scandal had soon passed.  Trump surrogates were soon pushing for the discussion to be moved from sexual assault to the real issues - incredulous as it made me feel that a presidential wannabe with a history of sexually assaulting women wasn't deemed to be a real issue.  It hurt.  You would be hard pressed to find a woman of a certain age who hasn't been sexually assaulted by the likes of a Donald Trump.  We've been grabbed and groped, spoken of in filthy terms and far, far worse.  We were trained to just put up and shut up like it was nothing.  But it's not nothing.  It is frightening, humiliating and scarring.  We pray that our daughters never have to deal with that.  We trust that our sons will never treat women that way and will stand up for us and for their sisters and wives and daughters.  Apparently not. 

I was twelve years old in 1967 - the year of the race riots in the U.S.  We stood on the Canadian side of the Detroit River and watched as Detroit burned, just a few short miles from where my American family lived.  We were afraid for them.  They are no longer there but they aren't far away.  I am afraid for them still, though they are very white people.  I am afraid for my family in Ohio who share my Middle-Eastern looks.  I'm afraid for my friends of colour.  I'm afraid for members of  LGBTQ communities.  I'm afraid for Muslims and other non-Christians.  I'm afraid. I want to say, it's going to be okay, but it's not.

So, as I did on the weekend before the election, I am making a plan for the weekend after the election.  I will not, cannot watch the news.  I've been putting the newspaper in the recycling bin without opening it.  I'm devoting myself and my time to acts of love.  This weekend I will finish the child's chair I'm painting for a friend's new granddaughter.  I will be stitching quilted hearts to leave in public places for strangers to find and take home.  Tomorrow I will be packing gift boxes to be distributed to needy children by the Toronto Star's Santa Claus Fund.

It is Remembrance Day in Canada.  At 11 o'clock this morning we will observe two minutes of silence to honour the brave men and women who served our country in times of war, defended our freedom, protected other citizens of the world and stood and still stand as peacekeepers.  I am proud to be Canadian, perhaps now more than ever.  Lest we forget.

The Weekend Before

“The poll that matters is the one that happens on Election Day.” -  Heather Wilson

I'm trying to plan a strategy this morning to take me through the weekend before the U.S. election while retaining some small measure of sanity and minimizing the panic attacks that have plagued me in the middle of the night this past week since the FBI director made his big play to end Hillary's election hopes.  The first thing I know I need to do is stay away from CNN.  But resisting the pull to just turn it on for a few moments while I'm crafting or listen to it on my satellite radio while in my car is easier said than done.  I'm watching the train wreck and though I don't actually want to see it, I can't seem to pull my eyes away.

Apparently, I'm not the only Canadian who is obsessed by this election.  Even Canadian news reports are broadcasting poll results and campaign rallies in an endless loop.  I can't go anywhere without hearing everyone around me talking about the election.  If these candidates were here, Tuesday would be far greater than an election - it would be coronation day for Hillary Clinton.  Perhaps it is our distance that gives us this perspective.  I feel like an observer watching the 21st century version of Hitler's rise to power and we know how well that turned out for the world.

Luckily, we are having a warm November week - warm enough that I think I can paint outside this afternoon.  I have four child's chairs and a lovely telephone table that are taking up space in my den while they await refinishing.  Tonight I think I may take out my DVD of The Sound of Music and play it in an endless loop while singing "Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens" at the top of my lungs (only old people will understand this reference).  I bought ten pounds of beets to pickle so that should occupy a few hours of my time tomorrow. 

Three more days, then we'll see.  God willing, on Wednesday, I won't have to be planning my strategy to get through the next four years.

Already Great

An Open Letter to Our American Neighbours

As I am a Canadian you may not feel that I have a right to weigh in on the U.S. elections. It’s not my country, and I don’t get a vote. But my recent travels in upstate New York inspired me to speak anyway, much as I would if a dear friend of mine was trying to choose between two marriage proposals and I could see the danger she was in of making the terrible choice to marry an abuser.

The snake oil salesman, otherwise known as Donald Trump chose “Make America Great Again” as his campaign slogan. I saw it on the lawns and in the yards of many homes in the poorest rural areas we travelled through. Impoverished communities of white Americans living in trailers and tract homes with rusted car frames and heaps of junk in their yards were covered with Trump/Pence signs. In those communities, I saw no Clinton/Kaine signs. The only mention of Hillary was in a spray painted sign on the lawn of a junkyard that said “Vote for Trump. Hillary sucks”. Somehow this group of people bought into the notion that a billionaire, narcissist who hasn’t paid federal income tax in a couple of decades, who claims to be a philanthropist without any supporting evidence, whose business interests were the direct recipients of his unregistered charitable foundation monies, who is a liar, a misogynist and a racist, is going to improve their fortunes and make America great again. And that is where my problem begins.

I’ve travelled extensively through the U.S. I grew up in a border town. I spent most of a decade working in an executive position with an American bank. I’ve vacationed there hundreds of times. I have many friends and very dear family who live south of the 49th parallel. The U.S. is a beautiful country; from the rolling hills of upstate New York to the mountains of Colorado; from the beaches of Miami to the vineyards of Napa Valley. Boston, Chicago, New York City, Washington, D.C., Miami, Colorado Springs, Dallas, Phoenix, Las Vegas, Los Angeles, San Francisco and Seattle are just some of the wonderful cities I’ve been privileged to visit. The American people are warm and welcoming and most of them are very, very lucky because through a cosmic accident, and not through any action of their own, they were born in the United States.

At the risk of sounding preachy, I do have a few suggestions about what might make things greater. I’m not suggesting that we in Canada have figured it all out. God knows we have cracks in our own foundations. And for me, it’s more about individual action than it is about the collective. It’s hard to fix everything but if we could each focus on making things greater in our own little corners, we may have a prayer of influencing the greater good. So here goes:

Try reaching out to someone who doesn’t look like you or doesn’t pray like you. I saw few people of colour during my recent travels and no mixed groups socializing. Every small community that we visited had multiple Christian churches but I didn’t see a single temple, mosque or synagogue and yet they certainly must exist. The only way I know of breaking down barriers is to come to know one another as individuals. It is in these interactions that we learn that there is more that unites us than there is that divides us.

If you have more than you need, share. There is much wealth in the country and much poverty. Everyone would benefit from sharing the wealth a little. Sharing feels as good for the giver as it does for the recipient.

Remember your roots. Reread that poem on the inner wall of the Statue of Liberty.
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
Unless you are one of the indigenous people, it wasn’t so long ago that your ancestors came from someplace else. Choose love over fear. Try to remember that God didn’t draw the lines around the countries but made the world for all of us to share.

My dear friends, you have a wonderful country. It is diverse, beautiful, abundant and free. Please don’t listen to the rhetoric of a self-serving bully who is trying to convince you otherwise. America doesn’t need to be made great again. America is already great.

Scattered Hearts

“Let my soul smile through my heart and my heart smile through my eyes, that I may scatter rich smiles in sad hearts.“ - Paramahansa Yogananda

My chosen sister Marg was on vacation in Prince Edward Island last week.  Walking along the boardwalk in Charlottetown, she came upon a small cloth heart, tagged and suspended from a ribbon.  The tag said "I need a home" and then "Report me found" and gave a web address to do just that.  Marg took a picture of her new heart and posted it on Facebook.

I was so intrigued by the concept that I went on-line to find out what it was all about.  It seems there is a group of people who decided to make small quilted hearts to leave for strangers to find and keep as a way to spread love and kindness.  I read some of the posts put up by those who reported hearts as found and was moved by how these simple acts of kindness had lifted their hearts.  I knew this was a project I wanted in on.

Sewing is not a skill I've learned in my sixty-one years.  I am that woman who takes her clothes to the dry cleaner for repair when a button needs replacing.  So it was with a sense of adventure and some trepidation that yesterday I began to make small quilted hearts.  As expected, I'm very slow at hand sewing and my stitching skills need improvement, but I was reminded by my sister Nancy, that nothing in art or life is perfect and that stitching with love is more important than stitching with precision.  I managed to make three hearts from the fabrics Nancy so generously provided me. They are not works of art but they are works of love and I hope their finders will see that.  I'd like to make a few more by the end of the week to scatter on the walking trail at the annual charity walk we support.  I trust they will be found but those who need them and will be reported as found so I know where they ended up but in the end it won't matter.  I know the intent behind them and sowing a little extra love certainly can't hurt.

Ashes to Ashes

"By the sweat of your face You will eat bread, Till you return to the ground, Because from it you were taken; For you are dust, And to dust you shall return." - Genesis 3:19 

We buried Marcella's ashes yesterday in a plot near to my dad's.  I didn't expect to cry so much but found myself inconsolable.  Once we concluded the graveside part of the service, I walked over to see my dad, bringing the tired bouquet of flowers that I had secured from the florist that morning - the best pick of the bunch though that isn't saying much.  A few minutes after Merv and I placed our bouquet, Marg and Bob joined us with some beautiful roses that Marg had the foresight to order and have delivered to the cemetary.  We shedded a few tears and left for the funeral lunch.

Our three hour journey to Windsor on Friday night, turned into a five hour nightmare of snarled traffic and construction.  The drive home yesterday was considerably easier.  Unfortunately I haven't been able to quite pull myself together. I am physically and emotionally exhausted.  I think I'll just let myself cry today.  I will, no doubt, have found my brave face by the time I meet a new client tomorrow morning.

Loss

“Unable are the loved to die, for love is immortality.” -  Emily Dickinson

My chosen sister Marg's mom died in the early morning hours on Tuesday with Marg curled up at the foot of her bed and me resting in the chair beside her. It was a privilege to be with her as she drew her last breath and a blessing to share the moment with Marg.  

Marcella was just down the hall from my mom, at the same nursing home on the same floor.  As children, Marg met my sister Cathy on the first day of elementary school.  I have known her since I was four.  She has two blood siblings left, having lost her eldest brother seven years ago.  Marg moved to Toronto more than forty years ago to attend graduate school.  My parents brought her here. Cath and I followed a year or so later.  Marg has always been a part of our family. Not wanting to keep explaining exactly how we are related, I came to introduce her as my chosen sister.  After we both lost our dads, we moved our moms here when they needed more care than we could provide from a distance.  My mom has been in the nursing home for eleven and a half years.  Not needing the same level of care, Marcella was in another facility until her physical condition deteriorated.  Ultimately, she ended up in the same place as my mom.  Though they shared no genes, my mom and Marcella began to resemble one another over time.  I think people assumed they were related.  After all, we were always all together. It was a natural assumption.

Unlike my mom, Marcella was in full control of her faculties.  She was interested in my life and in the world.  Funny and engaging, Marcella came into herself in her twilight years.  When she developed pneumonia last week, it quickly became clear that she wasn't going to survive.  Marg kept vigil for five nights.  Her blood siblings visited a couple of times and Marg's husband Bob kept everyone fed and watered.  I hated the idea that Marg would be alone if Marcella passed in the night so when I visited on Monday I decided to stay for the duration.  I told Marg I would do it in whatever way she wanted.  If she wanted to be alone with her mom in the room, I would stay in the family lounge.  If she wanted not to be alone in the room, I would sit by Marcella's bed until the end.  She opted for the latter.  

Marg and I took chairs on either side of Marcella.  Around 12:30 we turned out the lights to try and get some rest.  Marcella's breathing was loud and laboured.  A few minutes after 1:00, Marg got up from her chair.  She was unsettled.  She crawled onto the end of Marcella's bed.  The room became silent.  Marcella died.

There was little to do once she had passed.  Marg alerted the night staff.  We stayed for about a half hour while they repositioned her body and tried to close her mouth.  We said our goodbyes to her and headed out into the night, sad, numb and peaceful.

The last couple of days have been difficult.  I had a morning meeting with a client just a few hours after I got home following Marcella's death.  I worked all day until the evening.  By the time I fell into bed at midnight, I was exhausted.  The experience left me drained and a day of painting and pennying seemed to be the right tonic for healing so yesterday, that is just what I did.  I had another client meeting this morning but decided to give myself the afternoon to rest.  I haven't found the heart to go back to the nursing home yet.  My sister Nancy is holding down the fort with my mom.  I gave myself permission to be gentle with my heart and Nan gave me her full support to do that.  I am grateful.