On Coming Home

Dear Homeowner,

You met me at the door of your home when we came to see it last week. I was a little bit early and you were dragging your heels, both of us wondering the same thing: could your home become mine?

I took the hand you offered and we clung to each other, smiling. I asked why you're moving and the light dropped from your eyes, for just a moment.

Your wife died, you said and you're planning to move far away, to be closer to your grandchildren.

I nodded, as though in approval of this life's plan that has nothing to do with me. Truthfully, I was nodding to try to keep the smile on my face because the look on yours broke my heart.



With a gentle, welcoming sweep of your arm, you ushered us into your home and simply disappeared out the back door. In the meantime, we tiptoed inside: marveled at the furniture, the photos, the fanciful, exotic sculptures and prints that filled your home: all of it proof of a well-travelled, well-read, well-lived life.

And the smell. Oh, the lovely, gorgeous smell of Europe - I breathed France in Fall into my lungs as I let my fingers trace the backs of your chairs, arranged just so in the main parlour. 

As I peered at the books lining your bookshelf, I was not surprised to see the Netherlands on their spines because suddenly, I could smell  coffee and my Dutch father's meatball offerings on a rainy November night.

Our real estate agent, himself the child of English parents grinned and nodded when I said this all aloud. He'd just been through the kitchen and said it looked like those he'd visited on a trip to his parents' homeland, many years ago.

On we moved, reverently now, from room to room, space to glorious space.

I felt my throat ache when I spied the banister leading to the second floor - heard my own children's laughter as I imagined - nay, saw - them sliding their way from top to bottom.

On the landing above I heard your children's laughter too and for a moment I stood utterly still, enchanted.

Such love lived here.

In every photo, of your children throughout the three decades you lived here, I saw it.

In every bedroom, I felt that time was standing still, holding the secrets and memories of those who slept there, dreamed there, loved there.

Love lives here still.

In the master bedroom, I saw your wife's funeral card and - forgive me - took it gently in my own hand. Felt a soft shift in the air around me, above me, beneath me. And I thought, "How he loves her."

And then I slipped back downstairs to the family room - the room that felt like the heart of the house, to me - and simply sat, gazing out the bay window. Imagined watching my own sons play in the shade of the porch, slam their way in through the grand front door only to tumble out the one at the back.

Tilted my head to the ceiling and watched my own dreams of a home filled with love and laughter and walls filled with memories play across the cracked plaster and wondered if your wife, Elizabeth, had done the same, 30 years ago?

Thank you for allowing me into your home, to dream awhile, to bask in the beauty you've created.

Know that whomever ends up buying your house is lucky in ways they might not even realize, now: that they are inheriting a space filled with grace and beauty and lives wondrously lived.

I can only hope that the next family who lives in mine - whenever that time comes - feels the same.

The Reds exploring another old house that captured their mama's heart.

Blessed be.

* * *

And you?

How did you choose the house you now call home?

What were the scents and sights that drew you in?

What would you say to the previous owners, if you could?

With My Heart in Their Hands...

Tomorrow is my last day of my last study placement as a Developmental Services Worker student. For the past 12 weeks, I have been supporting 9 adults with disabilities, all of whom live together in a local group home.

12 weeks ago, as I rang the bell of the large house for the first time, I thought I'd pee my pants, I was so nervous. I had no idea how these incredible men and women - some who walk, some who talk, some who do neither - would etch their way onto my heart the way they have.

.I can only hope that I have touched theirs in some small way and that they will somehow carry my gratitude with them always. For as much as I helped them to eat, to walk, to sit, to bathe, to sign, to scoot, to smile....the lessons learned have all been mine.

By holding another's heart in my hands, I must also be willing to offer them my own.

"Heart in Hand"
Courtesy of Pinterest

This is what that looks like, 12 weeks later:



Dear F,

Every day you asked me, "Will you be here tomorrow?" in a way that made me feel as though you hoped I would. Every day you made me smile. Thank you for your warmth, sharing the moments
you remember the best and for making me feel welcome in your home.


Dear J,

Sweet J. How I shall miss your mischievous smile - the one that made your eyes dance even as you danced just out of reach on your way to wreak havoc somewhere in the house. In your wake, I either laughed or wanted to cry, there was never any other way to feel and for all of it, I am grateful. For you, especially, I wish for peace and love.


Dear V,

Of everyone I've ever met, no one has ever been as happy to ride in the car as me...until you. Thank you for getting it. Thank you, too, for reaching for my hand and silently guiding me  to the next room so we could throw Lego undisturbed and for laughing so hard we both cried.

Dear R,

Yours was the smile I worked hardest to earn and when I finally did, it was like watching the sun come out on your face. I will never forget it...or you. Thank you for such beauty and for trusting me enough to lean.

Dear MB,

Thank you for teaching me the gentle art of helping someone bathe and dress, without uttering a single word. Thank you for your trust and the way your eyes never leave mine when I'm helping you and for reaching out to wrap me in spontaneous hugs. That first one surprised but delighted me and filled my eyes and my heart in equal measure.

Dear MC,

You are the voice of hilarious reason and the person I want to sit beside, always. Thank you for your grouchy honesty about your life, your home and for offering such candid opinions about my hair and my cardigan collection. Thank you for dancing as though no one was watching and for trusting me to make your coffee, your bed and your day, when I could.

Dear B,
It is impossible to know you and not love you, B. You are sunshine and open arms. Thank you for singing harmony, allowing me to learn some pretty cool medical stuff as your support person and finding the joy in being alive, for every moment of every day.

Dear L,
Thank you for resting yourself against me, letting me sit with you in companionable silence for long, lovely stretches each morning. Thank you for saying that I'm beautiful. I hope I told you often enough that you are one of the most beautiful human beings I have ever met. Oh and "I. said....NO!" Ha ha ha!

Dear G,

For moments of understanding, silence and absolute grace, I am so grateful. Thank you for all of them and for being you. From you, I learned the most important lessons of all:

Be still.
Listen.
Wait.
Love.



With all of mine,
Elizabeth

To Jack, With Love

Last Monday, I had the pleasure of meeting a man named Jack.

He was nearing 80 and though his eyes were still a vivid blue against thinning hair of white, the spark in them was fading.

Though his mind could still process how to walk and talk, sometimes his limbs would not obey and sometimes the words formed by his mouth were garbled and confusing.

Jack had an intellectual disability - the specifics of which I do not know, but don't think matter.

Jack's face, though clearly aged, was free of the lines that often adorn the faces of those who've lived and loved well. There is a kind of beauty to an old face belonging to someone who's beloved, don't you think?

But in Jack's face, though I spied beauty, I saw no love. In fact, all I could see clearly was that Jack had lived a long, long life of being unloved.

Unlovedness is state of being, a place of longing, a wary gaze, a blank look where knowing should be.

Unlovedness is not just the loss of love, it is never having known it.

Unlovedness is what you see before you avert your eyes from the huddled form on a snowy street, homemade sign propped against a crumpled coffee cup. Unlovedness is a plea written in shaky block letters which reads: I am homeless. I am hungry. Please help.

Shelter me. Feed me. Love me.

Unlovedness is what you read about in your local paper, where the headline screams: "Townsfolk Fear For Safety, Call For Tougher Laws!" and the piece goes on to describe some boys who wreaked havoc on the houses that border their "home" - a residential facility where they have lived since "graduating" from the foster care system six months ago.

Want me. Know me. Love me.

Unlovedness is what you see when you tiptoe into a nursing home that smells like loneliness and regret, where residents sit listlessly in the chairs on either side of  the entrance way, waiting.

Remember me. Miss me. Love me. 

Unlovedness reads like this, when I tried to capture the essence of Jack's life, in a journal entry this past Monday, a mere seven days after meeting him:

After he left here last Thursday, he was trundled over to a local nursing home, because the people

he was home-cared by felt that his needs (dementia, wandering, forgetfulness, rages) were beyond their comfort and care abilities.

Jack spent Thursday and Friday night(s) in the nursing home, locked in his room.

On Saturday, nurses reported that he was lethargic and difficult to engage.

On Sunday, Jack refused breakfast.

And then he refused lunch.

That afternoon, Jack curled up in his strange new bed...and died.

Most here believe that he died of a heart attack.

I think he died of a broken heart.

 Unloved.

Today is Valentine's Day, Jack.

 I can only hope that today, now that your entire lifetime has passed, you will know love.

This one's for you:

"John Doe #24" by Mary Chapin Carpenter

 

 

 

On Slogging, Life Lessons and the Kindness of Strangers

Went slogging on an indoor track tonight, Reds in tow. I was happy to have them along because they were so excited by the idea of running with me that I got excited, too.

There were a LOT of other people there. More than we've seen before, but it's a new year and resolutions have been made. Kudos to all of us, I thought, as I laced up my shoes.

I reminded the Reds of the rules:

Run on the outside lane only,
Gently call out "Pass!" if someone's not aware that you're there.
Be aware of where others are around you,
Walk on the inside track only,
Be respectful,
No weaving,
No racing,
No foolishness,
Have fun.


They were off like shots, grinning their adorable freckled faces off. I set off a light slog, determined to keep a slow and steady pace. Determined not to die, frankly.

I watched their progress around the track. Yes, they were passing people, but did so respectfully, on the left. Yes, they were passing people, period. They're children. They're young. They're fast.

Every once in awhile Matthew or Luke (or both) would catch up to me ( or I'd catch up to them) and we'd walk a bit together, holding hands. We stopped a few times for water, but in the overall, spent a good 20 minutes sweating happily, going around and around and around.

Sigh.

As I turned into one stretch, I spied some staff members talking to the Reds. They'd been pulled from the track and were peering rather anxiously down the track, looking for me. I picked up my pace and then came to a halt, breathing fast:

"It's OK," I gasped, grimace/smiling, "They're not up here alone. I'm here. They're just faster."

The Staff Member smiled uncomfortably. "I know you're up here,  but we just had someone at the desk concerned that might trip and hurt themselves or someone else. They'll have to run with you."

I looked down at the Reds, at their crestfallen, scared little faces. Sighed. "But they're faster than me. And they really weren't doing any harm..." I trailed off, aware that many around us were listening, walkers and runners slowing as they passed.

Took the boys aside and tried to explain the situation, assured them that they weren't in any trouble but that the rule was that they had to stay with me. Matthew, in particular, was very unhappy with this news, more so because there were other children running and THEY hadn't been singled out.

"Why did the lady complain about only us, Mummy? Why do only me and Luke have to run with you? Those other kids should have to run with their mummy, too. Tell them, Mummy!"

GAH!

It's one thing to explain "unofficial" rules to small children whose days revolve around so many of them - school rules, home rules, bath rules, car rules, bedtime rules - but another thing entirely to explain the concept of doing the right thing and getting treated unfairly anyways.

I sputtered and fumbled, but Matthew was undeterred. "Mummy! You SAID to pass on the left so we did. We didn't even touch anybody. Nobody tripped. It's not FAIR!"

He was right. It WASN'T fair and I struggled to find the words that would make it so, found none. Then, a runner stopped and smiled at them, at me: "They really were fine," she said.

And then she extended her hand to Matthew, "Would you like to run with me? I'll try to keep up. My name is Julie!"

At Matthew's questioning look, I nodded and off the two of them went, laughing.

Another runner stopped - a man this time - and urged Luke onto the track and the two of THEM tore around the track while I stood at the edge of it, trying to catch my breath and feeling so grateful for these perfect strangers and their random acts of kindness.

In the end, I spoke to the Staff Member at the desk, who admitted that there is no official rule about kids on the track, but that she'd been at a loss. I nodded, understanding, but took her boss's business card anyways - perhaps this incident will spur someone into creating some signs and posting them for all to see. Mine are not the only children who love to run and who love seeing their mama out there, huffing and puffing her way to healthy.

In the meantime, the Reds and I will return and I will try to keep up with them. If not, I hope that there are some more kind souls there who can...and will.

*  *  *

UPDATE: The centre rang and the woman I spoke to was forthright and apologetic and funny. She assured me that the Reds are welcome to run for as long and as quickly as they'd like. Signs are in transit already, they're working on a response to offer staff should (when) this situation come up again. And - in an unexpected and delightful bonus - she gave us passes for the pool. All's well that ends well, eh?

To Love A Stranger

Took the Reds to the Golden Arches for supper. I had hoped to read the paper while they played, but the place was packed, so we ate outside the play area and had lessons on sitting-properly-in-public instead.

A well-coiffed, well-dressed woman sat alone two tables over, staring intently at her laptop and giggling at the Reds, though she was trying hard not to. In the end, I grinned over Luke's head at her: "I give up. Some days, they just crack me up."

And she laughed out loud and said, "They crack me up, too!" and congratulated me on having such great kids. I tossed back that I am indeed very, very lucky.

This woman, as it turns out, has not been as lucky. Over the next hour, I  heard about her divorce, her job loss, her childhood, the resentment she holds for her own mother,  who is long past the age of being able to set things right.

 I learned that she has one child. A son, long-grown. One who never calls or writes or visits. One who is very, very angry with his mother.

"But why?" I asked quietly. (What I meant was, "Tell me everything you did so that I can be sure not to do the same.")

She shrugged elegantly, splayed her hands in a gesture of defeated confusion, muttered something about not having read the same parenting book that I have and then promptly burst into tears.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, damn-it-Liz-why-do-you-gotta-TALK-to-people-all-the-damned-time?

Mortified at her tears and my nerve, I fumbled through an apology and then wrung my hands together as  I gently mocked myself:  "Parenting book. Ha! Mostly, I spend each night before sleep counting all the ways in which I've damaged the children today!"

She blinked in surprise, wiped carefully at her tears and smiled sadly.

"I carry that with me every day, that knowledge that I damaged my son. That I did it all wrong. That I didn't do enough."

"You know, you're taking an awful lot of stuff onto your shoulders, mama. I don't know you, or the reasons for your son's anger, but at some point, we all become responsible for our own shit. At some point, we've gotta stop blaming our mothers and blame ourselves instead."

"But he hates me. He told me."

"That's hard. Why do you think that is?"

"Because he's gay."

"You think your son hates you because he's gay?"

"No. I find it hard to love him because he's gay, so he hates me."

I think my jaw dropped open and there was a weird rushing in my ears - like a distant roar, which I now recognize as rage, but then, I could only blink in shock.

Finally, I found my voice:

"Well, hell. That's huge. And sad. And frankly, if I were him, I probably wouldn't speak to you, either."

She glared at me then, furious: "I gave him everything. Every advantage. Every dream. Every chance. And he won't even talk to me!"

"You gave him everything but acceptance about who he really is. Because all he sees, in the end, is that you don't love him."

"Would you love your sons if they decided to be gay?"

"I love my sons. Period."

"Even if they won't ever give you grandchildren?"

"I love my sons. Period."

"But what if they love men?"

"Then I will have more sons to love."

We sat quietly for awhile, absorbing, assessing, fuming, watching the children play. Finally, I could stand the silence no longer and was moved to say this:

"I hope that this conversation has offered you something good. I hope that in the days and weeks to come, something will happen or a call will come and you'll think of my sons and me and this all make some sense."

"Why do you hope that?" she asked, resigned, a little bit bitter. A LOT angry.

"Because," interrupted an older man, sitting quietly nearby with his wife, cradling a coffee in his hand, "Because you have lost love. Hope's all you've got left."

We all looked back at the woman, whose eyes filled once more with tears. I cannot say that my heart ached for her, because it didn't. Not for her.

"I suppose it's worth a shot," she offered, reluctantly. "His birthday's on Friday. I suppose I could call."

Part of me hopes she does. Part of me prays that she doesn't.

All of me loves that man.

Why I Blog...

I've been thinking about blogging this week - specifically, about why I blog.

I blame Larry Hehn for my musings, as he posed the "Why Do You Blog?" question over at Christian in the Rough earlier this week.

That Larry. He always makes me think.

 But in doing so,  I realized that the "why" behind my blog has changed - as my children have grown, as I have, so too, has my blog. Well, I hope it has, anyway.

In the beginning, it was simply a place to record my life as a mum, little snippets of life with the Reds and our journey as a family.  I thought perhaps my mum would read it, maybe my aunties across the pond. For the longest time, I thought that only those who love me and the Reds would be interested in the stories that make up our days together.

 Mostly, that is still what this blog is about: me telling stories to those who love us. The amazing part is that, somewhere along the way, the people who love us has grown to include all of you, dear readers. That realization has changed what I write, sort of,  but mostly it means that I've also made room for other stuff that has captured my interest and attention (and hopefully, yours):

As of this writing, my most-read piece is still a letter I wrote to my local election candidates, inviting them to visit me and convince me to offer them my vote. That post alone received almost 800 hits, approximately 700 of which happened within 24 hours of Margaret Atwood retweeting it on Twitter.

In a word? Awesome. And sort of freaky because it was the first time I felt and saw, in real time and in a very personal way, the power of social media in action. It made me feel big...and very, very small at the same time. Kinda like I felt when I became a mother, actually.

That said, becoming a mother - still, every day, learning, growing and fumbling through - remains the very core of this blog and at the core of who I am. Without my children, I might never have found my writing voice again, might never have found my way back to school, might never have found this space, incredibly loyal readers...and friends.

Blogging keeps me honest and real, sometimes painfully so. I am accountable here: to my children, to my family, to myself, to my readers. Often, I write about my failings as a parent because I need to confess it. Must be the Catholic in me. But too, I am aware that one day, my sons will read these posts and hope that they know three things:

1. How very, very much I love them,
2. How much they've taught me,
3. That their therapy sessions will be more productive if they simply direct their therapist here,
3. How much I have left to learn.

Redheaded inspirations...

I also like to think that my honesty is somehow helpful to my readers, many of whom are parents themselves.  Readers often tell me when  I've made them laugh out loud or weep into their morning coffee. I gotta say, I love when I make people cry. Wait, that's not quite what I mean...erm....uh....

Truth is, sentiments such as, "OMG, Belly, I'm bawling here!" is like food for my soul - it's so heartening to know that my words have elicited such a powerful response and that something I've written has inspired or comforted someone else.

Since returning to school, I've found that my blog might be a place of enlightenment, too. I've posted several pieces now about how studying to be a Developmental Services Worker has utterly transformed my view of the world. My not-so-quiet,  though largely unspoken hope is that some of those pieces might also change yours.

Each time I post about the people I've met whose lives are testament to the power of the human spirit, I feel like I'm writing them a very public though entirely heartfelt "Thank You."

Kind of like this post has morphed into a "Thank You" letter, too. Thank you always, to my sons for the inspiration and to all of you, dear readers, for sharing this space and these moments, with me.

Love,
Belly

And you?

Why do you blog?

If you're not a blogger, I am always happy to accept credit for blogging ideas... 

"Righting" Wrongs....

This is a public service announcement.

It has nothing to do with my children, but has EVERYTHING to do with thousands of other people's sons and daughters. As a mother, a daughter, a CANADIAN, I post this here, wishing I could shout it from rooftops, instead.

Please. Read this, and pass it on:

The class action against the government on behalf of the many who were so badly treated at Rideau Regional Centre continues. The lawyers are looking for people to come forward to provide evidence to help get approval from the court for the case against Rideau Regional Centre to proceed. In particular the lawyers are looking for people (former residents, family members or former employees) who might be able to speak about the institution during the period between 1993-2009. That is why Community Living Ontario is sending out this message. 

Do you know of any people who lived or worked at Rideau Regional Centre between 1993-2009?

Please try to find as many people as you can to make sure we have enough to support this action. There is strength in numbers! We strongly believe that institutions have been detrimental for people who have been labelled. This is one way that those persons' voices will be heard!

If you know of anyone or can make a list of people, you can send this information to Community Living Ontario through the following people below, or you can contact the lawyers directly at:
David Rosenfeld
Koskie Minsky LLP
Barristers & Solicitors
20 Queen Street West, Suite 900
Toronto, Ontario
M5H 3R3
Tel: (416) 595-2700
Fax: (416) 204-2894
email: drosenfeld@kmlaw.ca
website: www.kmlaw.ca <http://www.kmlaw.ca/>
OR contact:
Gordon Kyle at gkyle@communitylivingontario.ca

Gordon Kyle
Director of Social Policy
and Government Relations
Community Living Ontario
240 Duncan Mill Road, Suite 403
Toronto, Ontario , M3B 3S6
Phone (416) 447-4348 ext 230www.communitylivingontario.ca

Lest We Forget...

Sometimes, blog posts seem to write themselves. Sometimes, in the very middle of a pretty ordinary day, extraordinary moments happen:

The Reds and I bought poppies today. As I was pinning them on, Luke asked what they're for. I told him that it's a way to show soldiers how much we appreciate the hard work they do, keeping people safe.

Matthew: And they fight in wars, right?
Me: Yes, unfortunately, they do.
Luke: I'm gonna fight in a war one day, Mummy. I'm gonna be the first one there!
Me: I sure hope not, Lukey. I don't want anyone to fight in a war, but especially not you.
Matthew: Don't worry, Mummy! If Luke goes, I'll go too and then you won't have to worry.

An elderly woman approached on unsteady feet, leaning heavily on her cane. She peered down at the boys, stroked Luke's cheek, Matthew's hair.

"Sweet boys. Let us pray your mother never sees a day when she must send two fine lads like you to war."

She lifted her gaze to me and offered a sad smile.

"Three of my sons fought in the war," she explained. I nodded, sensing there was more.

"Only one returned to me."

"I'm so sorry," I gasped, hoping it was enough, knowing that it couldn't possibly be.

She gestured to the Reds, now proudly showing one another their poppies, mucking about.

 "Your sons. May God keep them with you always."

"Amen," said a deep, weary voice behind us.

It was a soldier, beret smartly titled on his head, poppy over his uniformed heart.

She touched his arm, the poppy and offered a watery smile and a whisper: "Thank you, son."

The soldier, clearly touched, lifted his chin and smiled back.

"You're welcome."

And you? In whose memory do you wear a poppy?