New Light

Introducing our newest family member, granddaughter, gorgeous Calla Ruth, born December 12th, 2011, weighing 7 lbs, 6 ozs.

Calla, meaning beautiful, is a type of lily, which is also a symbol of rebirth and resurrection. The Romans associated the Calla Lily with winter solstice. The lilies bloomed indoors during the darkest time of year and celebrated the bringing of light. Indeed she is a bringer of light, and much joy, to her delighted and thankful parents and grandparents.

It's difficult to see because her hair is still damp and unwashed after her birth, but Calla has beautiful bright red hair just like her father's. I feel awash with a passion of tenderness.

It's a subtle change like the scent of new snow, but I know the world has changed since the birth of this new little girl. I wonder what textures Calla will make of the mosaic around her. Right now she is the heart of life, around whose centre everything else is peripheral. The source of that love is divine, and gathers each of us into its blessedness.



(Calla Lily by Sarah Grangier.)

Jordan's Gift

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tante Adrie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Carols of the Birds

(From Google Images)

Often we walk with the madness of the daily news pounding in our heads. Sometimes it seems like all we hear is the hard news of our human condition, the bleak alarm of journalism. The bloodshed and brokenness breaks the heart. Peace stumbles on crutches. Fields of hope lie fallow. Griefs and forebodings seem to find an easy voice in us.

After listening to the noon news the other day, I went outside with glum forebodings of the world economy screaming in my head. I filled the bird feeders with seeds and nuts and then just stood still for a while in thought. Suddenly I became aware of a sound penetrating the tumult of my inner chatter. It was the loud, exultant wek, wek, wek of jay calling jay. Iridescent flights of deep blue flashed swiftly from tree to tree. Over the unabashed commentary of the jays, high above, something very small warbled and babbled cheerfully. One bird rested on a branch near me and scolded joyfully, proudly.

Once my ears were opened, I became aware of the sounds of birds all around me. It's hard to believe that birds speak only to each other. I think they must also speak to us. They call us out of our brooding numbness. They invite us to join in their ironic affirmations. They must know something we don't know.

Winter denies the ecstatic arias of the songbirds of summer, preferring the diminished recitatives of a chastened goodwill. Yet, these cryptic carols of the winter solstice are song enough to confront the gloom. At that moment, standing in a winter garden, it was enough to join the irrational delight of toughened blue jays screaming of a hope beyond reason. In their persistent carols, I found a moment of transcendence.

Of Books and Being

(The Painting, 'Reading Young Man' by Ignat Bednarik.)

My very first love was books. As a little girl I hauled books home from our small local library by the wagon load. The primary pleasure of my childhood was reading. I spent hours and hours laying on my bed reading, surrounded by a muddle of books. This is still the kind of muddle I like best.

I believe that books help to develop a sense of individual self. The introverted nature of reading ... you and the book, is part of its power. No one knows what you are thinking as you read. No one can see what changes might be taking place under the surface of your silent repose, and there lies the essence of its transforming power.

A month ago I was delighted to be hired part time at a lovely book store. My primary duty is to help people find the books they are seeking. Sometimes they know exactly what it is they want. Other times they have somewhat, or even a vague whisper of an idea. Besides the physical help in locating the book, many want advice or suggestions, and sometimes they want someone to listen to not only what they are looking for, but why.

This morning I had a young man of about twenty-five come up to me. He was tall, good looking, dressed casually in jeans and a ski jacket. I was a little startled by his first words. "I need to find a book that will teach me how not to be an asshole", he said bluntly. I must have looked a bit quizzical because he immediatly continued, "You see my girlfriend tells me I'm an asshole. She is threatening to leave me. My boss has told me something similar before and even friends. I know its true and I don't want to be that way, so I need a book. Can you suggest something? I don't know where to start."

After this candid confession, he followed me to the self-help section, and we continued to talk. After discovering a little more about him, I made two suggestions: 'Help Yourself' by Dave Pelzer, a book which encourages readers to find hope, courage and happiness by showing ways to eliminate the destructive baggage of their past, and 'Excuses Begone! How to Change Lifelong, Self-Defeating Thinking Habits', by Wayne Dyer.

"I'll take both of them", the young man said, after reading the dust jackets. "Thanks for your help". He then added, "Tell me, what do YOU think is the best way to start being a nicer person?"

Wow.

After a few seconds I replied somewhat hesitantly, "Kindness. Maybe you could just start with being kind. Speaking kindly. Giving small kind gestures."

"Yeah", he nodded.

"Good luck to you", I said. "And you know what, right here, right now, you've made your start."

"Maybe I'm not such an asshole", he said, and smiled for the first time.

The Spirit of Christmas

Every Christmas season my preparations begin with a reading of Charles Dickens 'A Christmas Carol'. There is something about Dickens which makes me yearn to curl up by a fire. I want the scent of game pies and thick meaty stews, mulled wine and tangerine oranges. I want to sip egg nog and break off bits of rich, buttery fruit cake with my fingers and pop them into my mouth as I read.

A Christmas Carol is a moral lesson in miracles. It teems and seethes with life. Sadness, fear, danger, loneliness, sacrifice, perhaps none of these are impossible to cope with, but bleak hopelessness, and the cynicism that comes with believing in nothing, are soul destroying.

Dickens hated sham and humbug. False feelings and false friends are endlessly exposed in myriad ways in his work. It's difficult sometimes, with all the rampant consumerism raging around us, to push the trivial aside, and connect with something deeper. The truth of my own intrinsic vitality and vulnerabilty cry out for hope, for communion, for miracles. 'A Christmas Carol' enfolds me in a mystery and compassion which stretches far beyond my own heart.

Christmas, of all celebrations, is a time for real feelings, real friends, real food, and real memories. Scrooge discovered it through the agency of a benevolent spirit. For me, its joy and good will are heralded by the company of a good book.

Inspired by Vincent

(Vincent Van Gogh, 1853 - 1890)

(Outside the Van Gogh Museum, Amsterdam.)

I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised to see the glorious Van Gogh museum in Amsterdam hawking a variety of unlikely products, all bearing the famous name, in its gift shop. Van Gogh butter cookies in tins depicting his likeness, vied for space with Van Gogh umbrellas and Sunflowers pencil cases, aprons and even tea cosies. Vincent's tortured eyes loomed out from all manner of T-shirts in a countless variety of colours. There was something vaguely unsettling or 'wrong' to me about featuring such artistic genius in this way, but I couldn't quite define why I felt that way.

(One of the displays in the museum gift shop.)

Most artists harbour hope that their work will live on after their deaths. However, I was possessed with the uneasy feeling that this kind of commercialism reduced beauty to banality.

Another aspect of me, though, wondered if ingesting Van Gogh cookies is simply revering his genius in a modern, innovative way? Maybe, I thought, if Van Gogh were alive today, he'd be posting images of his paintings on facebook and gathering comments declaring ' 100 people plus, like this'.

My eight year old granddaughter certainly had no qualms about purchasing one of the umbrellas for herself. When I asked her why she wanted one, she said, "Well, I need an umbrella, and when it's raining I may as well have one that reminds me of when I was here and saw all those beautiful paintings he did."

I found her statement full of the purest kind of optimism. I guess in my misplaced elitist way, I had been trying to protect Van Gogh's paintings from a kind of cheap sentimentality. Ariana's words, devoid of my adult cynicism, offered them a homage which had escaped me; that they can be represented in the most mundane objects and ordinary moments of life, and in doing so, continue to enhance the beauty and truth of what that life reflects to us.

(Ariana, a study in beauty.)

Playing Dress-up

In this day of digital games and virtual reality, it is a joy to see my niece, Hannah, (named after her auntie) engaged in hours long games of dress-up and imaginative play. In turns she is attired as a highlander in a Scotch kilt and cap with a large red tin as a drum; a lady trailing a green velvet skirt, long black gloves and a paper fan; a little red riding hood clad in a red shawl clutching a basket filled with apples and little treasures.

Today she is a Queen clothed in a froth of pink tulle, dripping jewels and a sparkly tiara, the royal mistress of a unicorn tethered to the couch with a silken purple ribbon. We've spent the past hour making little paper crowns for the unicorn and its retinue of ponies. Hannah provides the voice for all. "You may kiss my hoof, Oh Queen," she says, bowing the unicorn to her own majestic presence.

She is a swoop of movement in the way only a child can be. Twirling around me in a lovely curve, chattering pell-mell.

"You are the nicest lady I've ever known in my whole life", she tells me, with the wisdom of five whole years of living. "Except for my Mummy", she adds, matter-of-factly.
"Of course." I say.
"Don't go home. I want you to stay here forever", she begs, her hands entwined in mine.
"My house would miss me," I tell her. "It would be so lonely. "
"Just think if your house started to cry and you went home and everything was soaking wet", says Hannah, this image taking flight in her big blue eyes.

We wave at each other until my last craning glimpse of a little girl perched on the back of the couch, lips kissed to the window, is pressed into memory.

Secret Colours

Magpie 91
Secret Colours

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

All Aboard ... for 'Toyland Express'....

Recently, I was asked by Scholastic to write a review of Walter Wick's new book, 'Can You See What I See? Toyland Express.'

This delightful book provides the kind of interaction between child and reading that is an integral leap of physical and emotional joy. Having no grandchildren living close enough to share it with, the four year old son of a neighbour filled the spot admirably. Connor's shouts of glee at finding the hidden treasures of each page were spontaneous and catching. He needed my guidance for some of the items but was able to find many on his own, an act which thrilled him from the top of his red curly head to the tip of his cowboy boot slippers.

Connor's least favourite page was the Toy Maker's Workshop which shows the train in its wooden skin before its painted glory. He rapidly wanted to skip to the next page. His favourite page was the Store Window with its bounty of colourful toys. Personally, I loved "At The Circus' the best. I could almost hear the whirligig music and smell the buttery scent of popcorn.

It seems to me that when it comes to books, children often want a very similar involvement to people of all ages and generations; participation in a wider experience that is not yourself, while at the same time, seeking and sharing the security of the known. Walter Wick's Toyland Express does this wonderfully. Its unique interaction brings a degree of autonomy for the child, as well triggering imagination and creativity.

To learn more about this delightful book, please go to the Scholastic website, here.


(The author, Walter Wick, poses with the circus scene from his newest book.)