Posted on Jul 17, 2014
“Old paint on canvas, as it ages, sometimes becomes transparent. When that happens it is possible, in some pictures, to see the original lines: a tree will show through a woman’s dress, a child makes way for a dog, a large boat is no longer on an open sea. That is called pentimento because the painter “repented,” changed his mind. Perhaps it would be as well to say that the old conception, replaced by a later choice, is a way of seeing and then seeing again. That is all I mean about the people in this book. The paint has aged now and I wanted to see what was there for me once, what is there for me now.”
~playwright Lillian Hellman in her memoir Pentimento.
I love this concept of pentimento that I came across reading a book that I’ve now since forgotten. Given time, it would come back to me; but I will resist the temptation to use my limited brain resources to hunt and search every nook and cranny of my mind for that bit of information. The point is not where I discovered it, but the discovery itself.
The paint of one’s life canvas having aged and wanting to see “what was there for me once, what is there for me now.”
In an interesting blend of the very old with the fairly new phenomena of social media, my mind thinks of Facebook and all the connections we make and remake. From elementary school friends to college chums, former co-workers to current colleagues. All the intersections of our lives mapped out virtually. If we peel back the layers, what do we see?
Having moved a lot and traveled a bit, it can be said that I have global connections—not all mapped on Facebook, as some connections have not been maintained or refurbished. But it does make me wonder about the relationships that there were there for me once, what is there for me now, and what prompts a person to re-engage with people after long disconnections. Some people I remember well, others resemble a figment of my imagination, and sadly some are completely forgotten. And then there are the awkward moments of someone remembering me well, but I cannot recall them at all or only vaguely; and the crushing blow of a poignant remembrance of a person only to be lost from their memory. Layers of a painted canvas.
We never do completely grasp the imprint we leave behind after an interaction with a fellow human being. Some are shallow, like footprints in the sand, easily washed away. Others are deeply imbedded—like fossils in bedrock. But all are significant.
My mind goes back to road trips we have taken and the wonderful (and some less-than wonderful) people we have met—brief encounters on hiking trails, at road stops, in interpretive centres, the driver of a shuttle bus, the hosts of a campground. I recall my best friends from kindergarten, contact lost after Grade One due to a move; the summer birthday parties of the farming community of elementary school years; the solid friendships of secondary and post-secondary education.
Layers of interactions repeatedly being painted over for a dark rich story—the vivid artwork of a life. I wonder what my canvas would look like if it were displayed prominently in my home? Which faces would be imbedded? Which ones would blend into others? What about you? What would your artwork look like? What stories would your layers of painted canvas reveal?
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Posted on Jun 17, 2014
Last month was quite remarkable in how a few themes wove together into the tapestry of my life story. For book club, I was reading Orphan Train by Christina Baker Kline (2008). This novel is a beautiful and transforming blend of two stories of two different orphans from two different eras in two different “Children’s Aid” systems. These two main characters’ lives cross paths through unusual circumstances and find healing through the sharing of their stories.
At the risk of generating a spoiler for a book that is well worth the read, the parallels to my own life were somewhat uncanny and even disturbing in that the author was able to write so profoundly about a subject she spent hours researching—including interviewing young and old. It is not a story of her personal experience, yet she writes like she lived it—or at least crawled inside the minds of abandoned children and wrote from their thoughts and feelings.
The novel dovetailed with my own story upon the arrival of a cherished item from my childhood—my birth mom’s antique, upright piano. It has survived many prairie moves, but none so far as to cross all the Prairie Provinces in one go. This aged piano does not have an illustrious pedigree or background story—other than it was gifted to my mother by her piano teacher who had it shipped from Kingston, ON to Western Manitoba somewhere around the turn of the last century. I do not know when it came into my mother’s possession—before marriage or after. It has certainly been part of the living room furniture as long as I can remember. She learned to play on this piano, as did I, and my younger half-sister.
I was a bit nervous about the arrival of this piano. It has so much unexplainable significance to me. I was concerned I might crumble into a puddle of tears. So I was much surprised when the opposite happened: I felt a door had opened and reinserted a piece of my soul; or as if I had finally awaken from a two-year nightmare. A lost piece of me was back.
So how does this connect with the Orphan Train? Well, a thread woven through the narrative was the significance of symbols that connect us to blood family. The older woman had a Claddagh (the hands represent friendship, the heart represents love, and the crown represents loyalty) pendant on a silver chain from her beloved Irish grandmother. The only connection this older orphan had left were her memories and that pendant. The teenager in the story had also received charms for a bracelet from her father, for her eighth birthday, before he died. These charms were in the shapes of animals with symbolic meaning from his Native Indian culture: a bird for protection, a bear for courage, and a fish for resisting the negative influence of others. These symbolic treasures went with these orphans to every place they ever called home—even when what little they did have had to be left behind on occasion.
Intersecting with the symbols were narrative threads about what we can carry with us through life depending on our circumstances (such as portaging one’s canoe of belongings from one body of water to another). Once I wove together the significance of my piano as a connection to my blood family, I had to chuckle at the thought of portaging my piano in a canoe! However, I am fortunate that the many moves my family did make were not limited to canoe-loads. I have not had to transport my treasures in trunks across the ocean, in canoes, or even backpacks. My piano remains a connection to my past because of the amenities of the present—such as transport trucks—and not being completely separated from family.
Symbols are significant. What treasures in your life lift you up or weigh you down? Do they trip you up or enable you to move on? Do you have to make huge adjustments to accommodate your symbolic treasures? Or are most of them carried in your soul without tangible reminders?
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Posted on May 15, 2014
Easter weekend I watched the beautifully intriguing movie, The Fountain (2006), starring Hugh Jackman and Rachel Weisz. It was in stark contrast to the hedonistic flare of Surviving Picasso (1996), starring Anthony Hopkins, viewed the night before. To my surprise, Picasso was adept at manipulating and using people for his own purpose and pleasure. He would discard people as easily as an undesirable painting. And yet, many of his team of attendants were with him for decades. It was a bizarre tale of loyalty and obsession. Until one of his mistresses broke the mold and set herself free. It is from her viewpoint that the story of Picasso unfolds.
The Fountain is also a tale of loyalty and obsession. Obsessed with fighting death, the main character misses out on living life to the very last minute with the woman he loves and adores—the whole reason he is fighting death (finding a cure) is to keep her with him longer. In an ironic twist, his selfishness and focus to not lose the one he loves robs him of cherished last moments. Makes a person think a little deeper about life and death—and that we cannot have one without the other.
The movie takes viewers on a multidimensional journey to explore the meanings of life and death. A key theme being we cannot have life without death. Seeds must die to emerge as tiny plants that gradually grow into mature vegetation that will eventually die to nurture the soil to support more life. There is a beautiful analogy in the movie that illustrates the “life of awe” that can only come about through death.
The other concept that struck me is that life loses its meaning without death. Without the ‘threat’ of death, life becomes monotonous. Knowing life is temporary is the impetus to make the most of our time on earth. We can use that time fighting a losing battle against death; or we can make the most of our time fully engaged in relationships and making our time on earth count.
Now this is not to say that developing cures for illnesses is not making good use of our time, should one be a brilliant scientist. It is when our passions become obsessions that we lose our way. In order to live fully, we must pursue our passions. But at what point do we sabotage our own efforts? Do other people experience loss or pain (like Picasso’s tangled web of family and close associates) because we are relentless in our pursuit of pleasure or desperate attempts not to experience pain?
At what point do we declare our passionate pursuits more important than people and our closest relationships? When do our desperate attempts at pain avoidance sabotage our efforts to live more fully?
In some ways the desperate husband, about to lose his wife to a brain tumor, refuses to surrender to a higher order of things—such as life and death. He declares his time is better spent apart from her, in order to find a cure, than to spend as much time as possible with her, soaking up every lingering moment. I wonder how she felt, knowing his efforts were a symbol of his love and devotion, yet craving his support and companionship? Rather than face her fear of death with her, he lived in denial. He, of course, does eventually learn what his wife was trying to teach him about death and dying—as well as living.
Death truly does beget more life.
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Posted on Apr 18, 2014
Ever have one of those days that feels like it’s happening in an alternate universe, yet all the places and characters are familiar? Tuesday was like that for me. It started out innocently enough. A simple game of tug-o-rope with my dog, Elsa (Rottweiler-Corgi-Shiba Inu-Blue Heeler mixed breed), before heading for work. That is, until we literally butted heads. What a loud crack!
I furiously began rubbing the sore spot to ease the pain, until confusion surfaced as my brain registered the taste of blood in my mouth. Pulling my hand away from my face, I felt like I had entered some zone for horror or crime shows. My hand was covered in blood. Peering into the bathroom mirror, the crime scene shifted to include an image of blood trickling down the side of my face from a small gash in the vicinity of my left eye brow.
Fortunately a wet wash cloth and ice pack did the trick for transforming the scene from bloody nightmare to quiet rest on the couch. At least until the clock informed me I needed to get my butt in gear to get to work on time. As the alternate universe would have it, I couldn’t get out the door without a goose egg gradually forming where my eyelid should be.
The first client left with the reassuring words, “at least the swelling has stopped.” Things remained stable for the second, other than an added hint of green. As my husband had not kept up with Facebook postings that day, it took a couple of glances before he noticed the strange shadow around my left eye. My evening clients were able to participate in session even though their therapist had a green growth bulging out of her left temple area. At least I had an alternate excuse for my neurological issues: a slight concussion. A bit of a break from the usual Chronic Fatigue Syndrome repertoire of explanations.
The next day proved even more interesting as my green goose egg had morphed, overnight, into something that looked like an experiment performed by a maniacal make-up artist. Purple and green splashes of colour that actually looked like someone had brushed them meticulously into place. The following day, the colours deepened. One of my group therapy participants wondered if I was trying something new with my make-up routine and just hadn’t gotten to the other eye. I was able to correct these misperceptions. However, I did choose not to pay the town utility bill that afternoon as I couldn’t see myself explaining the whole “make-up experiment gone wrong” all over again. Elsa does, after all, have much more noteworthy talents. Such as how she gently checks on me and my face.
Today is Friday, and my face looks like I should be wearing prison garb while awaiting trial locked away in a jail somewhere. I am thankful this is not the case—and that I don’t have to leave the house today. Tomorrow is another story. We’ll see how well make-up covers up Elsa’s attempts at a new career. So, if you see me out and about, don’t worry; I am well. And having a wonderfully restful Easter long weekend.
Happy Easter!
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Posted on Mar 15, 2014
May the blessing of the rain be on you—
the soft sweet rain.
May it fall upon your spirit
so that all the little flowers may spring up,
and shed their sweetness on the air.
May the blessing of the great rains be on you,
may they beat upon your spirit
and wash it fair and clean,
and leave there many a shining pool
where the blue of heaven shines,
and sometimes a star.
~Irish Blessing
With St. Patrick’s Day around the corner, the blessings of the Irish come to mind for this month’s blog. While it feels more apt to snow than rain with this fickle weather, the sentiment is fitting for this time of year—for our spirits to be rejuvenated, spreading joy to others. The spring rains will come and with it new growth shedding sweetness on the air, highlighted by blue skies and reflective puddles. All the better in our spirits as well as upon the earth.
Having had surgery earlier this month—after a week of recovery, slowly returning to regular rhythm and routine—it feels like I’ve rounded a corner, turned a page, begun a new chapter. How fitting that it coincides with the turning of the seasons.
With the blank page before me, I wonder what will be written as the chapter moves ahead. It’s off to a good start, at any rate, with physical as well as spiritual healing. This time of rest has prompted rethinking who I am and what I want out of life as well as what I contribute to Life as a whole.
I have affirmed that much of my life will continue to focus on helping women be the best they can be: to overcome internalized messages, limitations of socialization, toxic relationships; to broaden their view of themselves and how they live in the world.
It’s certainly been a life changing, healing journey for me. I’m yearning to peek around the next corner to see what’s ahead; but I haven’t mastered ‘living in the moment’ yet. For now, I will anticipate spring’s gentle rains to enliven my spirit once again, to encourage new growth that sweetens the air—and the people—around me. Maybe those tears of grief I wrote about awhile back truly are enriching the soil of my soul. I look forward to nurturing what sprouts!
May there always be work for your hands to do.
May your purse always hold a coin or two.
May the sun always shine on your windowpane.
May a rainbow be certain to follow each rain.
May the hand of a friend always be near you.
May God fill your heart with gladness to cheer you.
~Irish Blessing
Happy St. Patrick’s Day!
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Posted on Feb 15, 2014
I have begun the immense project of digitizing my family tree using a computer program I utilize in my counselling practice. As I have transferred information from paper copies, stories have emerged. It is fascinating what surfaces when I move beyond entering names and dates to realizing how old people were when they married, relocated, and experienced significant life events including death.
For example, I discovered an ancestor that was 16 years of age when she married for the first time! And I tried to imagine what it would have been like to board a steamship with eight children in tow, or how horrific it would have been to have a child die at sea, or the pain of permanent separation due to geography, or uprooting as a community and moving from one country to another—wherever the current government allotted the group sufficient space until circumstances would push them on again.
The most intriguing story, however, ties in well with the month of February and especially Valentine’s and Family Day. A story that makes me wonder what it was like to be in love in 1879. In Russia. It is difficult to envision life without electricity, indoor plumbing, even toilet paper and toiletries. I wonder if I would have had any suitors if I could not improve my appearance with modern hygiene practices and the advantages of make-up to present my best self. What drew people to each other in rural Russia in 1879? Are there laws of attraction beyond how we smell and look? Good hygiene and grooming is such a significant part of being attractive these days. Are there ‘base lines’ to being an attractive mate that incorporate our flaws rather than our efforts to disguise our natural smells and blemishes?
Gives new meaning to the term: raw beauty. I don’t think I’ve ever considered my own raw beauty before—or if it even exists! Our culture puts so much emphasis on how we make ourselves presentable rather than what makes us attractive behind the ‘smoke and mirrors.’ Is it possible to be attracted to someone based solely on personality? What about the plausibility of true natural chemistry or finding someone physically appealing ‘as is’?
Now back to the story from 1879 that I was reminded of as I entered data into my laptop. In keeping with most North Americans, I have a family background that follows a trail back to the ‘Old Country.’ My family history can be traced from the Netherlands, to Prussia (now Germany), on to southern Russia (now Ukraine), and then US and/or Canada.
In June of 1879, a portion of one of my ancestral families boarded the SS Switzerland headed for Philadelphia. I do not know which European port the ship left from, but my ancestors had to take an emigration train to get there. My great, great grandfather Jacob was on that train with his parents, 3 sisters, 2 brothers-in-law, and 9 nieces and nephews. He was 21; the youngest sibling and only surviving son (his older brother Johan had died at age 7 in 1858—the same year Jacob was born). His 23-year-old sister was the only other one without family of her own. The fourth oldest daughter had emigrated with her young family of 8 children the year before. Four sibling families remained behind in Russia.
As the story goes, my ancestral grandpa Jacob got off the train at the last minute—for love. He married his sweetheart, Anna, on October 25th of that same year. They are scandalously holding hands in their very serious wedding photo. They had 8 children—3 of whom came to Canada in 1925 and 1926. My grandmother arrived in Canada with her parents in 1926. She was 5 years old.
If I could time travel, I think I would endeavor to meet my great, great grandparents, Jacob & Anna: those radical Russian Mennonite sweethearts of 1879. To find out their secrets to a passionate and enduring love that could prompt a 21-year-old male to abandon half his family—headed for an adventurous, fresh start in a new world—to choose a hard life of farming with the woman he loved.
And I’m curious what sort of raw beauty great, great grandmother Anna had.
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