Traffic Congestion

As the weeks of this shut down continue, walking can accomplish much. Rather than my solitary walks, I'm enjoying walks with a friend now and again to hear how her life is going. We try to walk on little-used routes to avoid the new phenomenon I call 'the Sidewalk Dance'. This is the to'ing and fro'ing that happens as you encounter people coming in the opposite direction.  

I actually feel anxiety when I see people coming. In our winter, with three feet of snow on the ground,  a long stretch of sidewalk without driveways or access to the road can make it problematic on how to avoid each other. The anxiety is heightened by the knowledge that we are within miles of many cases of the more highly transmitted variant of COVID. Since many are not routinely wearing masks while out walking, coming within two feet of someone adds way too much tension to what should be a healthy activity.

Today was a different day. As I walked around my neighbourhood, everyone approaching the roads I walked on turned left, walking ahead of me in the same direction I was. I didn't have to do the avoidance tactic once and maintained my place on the sidewalk throughout my walk.

That was when a brainstorm hit me.

How much more pleasant walking would be if we had pedestrian traffic patterns similar to one way streets for our cars. If, for example, every other street running in parallel directions allowed pedestrians to head east and the in between streets had walkers heading west. We might even have times applied to this pattern with the direction changing at busy times (think of multi lane bridges that have middle lanes that change direction depending on time of day).

I understand there are drawbacks to this plan depending on where your house lies in a block. But weren't these the very issues that the earliest city planners had to deal with when planning streets, intersections, crosswalks, streetlights ... Society accepted all of it with only a few quibblers.

This plan might say quite a bit about me. I am an innovative thinker? I enjoy complex problems? I need to live out in the country away from other people?

I'll just put it down to COVID fatigue and stay indoors (at least until the snow melts).

Ok - not really.

Connections

My father, at the age of 86, said to me that he thought he would be far more adept at living life 100 years ago than he felt living in the 21st century.  Even before dementia stole his mind, so much of life we know today was becoming beyond his understanding. 

Something as simple as television had become technical, complicated by a series of remotes and channel options that require a course of instruction. Even I find it confusing and yearn for the simple ‘Off’ and ‘On’ buttons on old televisions. (OK - I don’t miss the tv of my childhood. My sisters and I had to take turns sitting behind it to press a reset button when it went on the fritz!)

It was unthinkable to imagine him using a computer.

I am like my father in many ways. I might best be described as a 'Luddite', preferring old ways to communicate instead of using technology exclusively. I crave the simplicity we knew before computers.

I admit blogging allows me to practice writing and, like everyone, I use my iPad and laptop to suit my needs. Our family stays in touch through messages that help us all feel a part of each other’s day. And how could I not be grateful for FaceTime during these months at home?

Beyond that I do not venture. Tweeting and FaceBook tempt me not at all. I have always doubted that anyone would find my activities of interest and I’m not pining to learn what others are up to. Those in my circle of family and friends I manage to keep up with through email, telephone calls and letters.

It’s this last option that is my true realm.

Running out of writing paper recently brought a sense of panic. How was I to stay in touch with friends? Letter writing is my ‘thing’.

Writing with a fountain pen releases my creativity and the words I write become a journal entry just for the person I’m writing to. I don’t expect letters in return. A letter allows me to let someone know I’m thinking of them.

Whatever manner we use to stay connected, any 'connecting' we do is a poor imitation of the real thing: sitting side by side with another. Enjoying a cup of tea and a belly laugh (or occasional cry) with a friend deepens relationships. Sleepovers with our family allow opportunities, after grandchildren are tucked in bed, to really learn about their lives and support and celebrate them.

When we are physically together with others, words spoken are given the space to be truly listened to, understood and appreciated.

Remember the “plays well with others” box on our elementary school report cards. Even then, our social interaction with classmates was recognized as essential to our wellbeing and was developed through our classroom play.

So looking forward to playing well with others once again!

The Un-resolution of New Years

If you have a flighty brain as I do, thoughts fly back and forth randomly like a pinball machine. They may start out in one guided direction but soon head wherever they wish. My walk today illustrates this.

It's a gray day but I didn't feel gray; I felt happy as I walked. The weather instantly took me back to a similar wintry day when, as a child,  we were getting into the car to drive to my father's company childrens' Christmas party. 

The anticipation we felt each year for this extravagant party was intense. Held in a large ballroom filled with popcorn making machines; unlimited hot dogs, ice cream and soft drinks; the party was every child's dream. The day included singers and magicians to keep our attention but, as the day wore on, we lined up expectantly and watched beautiful women dressed in velvet elf costumes (it was the 60's) help Santa give each of us our gift and stocking before heading wearily home for another year.

Just like the pinball shoots in other directions, my thoughts soon turned to another wintry walk memory.  

A friend and I were walking to a boy's house after dinner one very cold night. The time it took to walk to his house stands out because I was not allowed in boy's homes (I don't trust boys! said my father of daughters only). The evening had required a certain amount of stealth and I felt like the cat who had swallowed the canary for pulling it off. I well remember my excitement in doing what was forbidden. Everything about it was wrong: these boys were seniors (we were in Grade 9); I was desperately in love with one of them (he never noticed); the house was outside my neighbourhood. The irony about this rebellion was how innocent it turned out to be. These two boys, my friend and I watched "White Christmas" together!

From that living room, my thoughts on this gray day moved to the intensity of that first love.

If, like me, your first love was unrequited, you'll understand when I say that didn't diminish the feelings at the time or the memory it has left. His name rolls off my tongue even today while the names of other boyfriends are long forgotten.

But honestly, what has all of this to do with the price of tea in China (did you have an elderly relative who used this phrase, too?)

Nothing except to point out how undisciplined my thoughts have become throughout these past months. If I am ever to get back to writing my book, I will need to practice self discipline and bring some structure back to my days.

While I don't make New Year's resolutions as a rule, this unusual year presents a compelling time to do so. I'd like to soundly kick 2020 in the ass as it heads out the door and make new plans for the coming year. 

So my un-resolution for 2021 will include structure and self discipline.

I'll keep you posted on how it goes. 

Happy New Year everyone!

The Kindness of Soup

I suspect I'm like many people right now who spend countless hours thinking about, planning and cooking meals during these months at home. I will be forever grateful that I:

(a) learned to cook; and 

(b) enjoy doing so. 

If there is any one category of food that stands out in my life, it would hands down be soup. Oh, sure, some would say I'm pretty fascinated by bread-making but really bread is just a side dish to go with soup so I accept the double love.

I'm drawn to the soup section of every cookbook I encounter and the Pinterest soup posts get my full attention. I'm a lover of the classics (ie Julia Child's Onion Soup) but during this past year I've started looking at new untried options. Two of the new soups which make hearty meals in themselves; tortilla soup and lasagna soup, now join my favourites.

Anyone who knows me knows that soup represents more than just food. 

It is the comfort I welcome when I'm not feeling at all well. During an outbreak of Shingles a few years ago, I remained in my bed because it hurt too much to do otherwise. Each day my husband brought a tray of food in to me - always including soup. It's important to note that, other than cleaning up after me, the kitchen is foreign territory to him. It didn't matter that I knew he had just opened a tin and heated the soup; I appreciated his efforts to care for me. The love they represented likely accelerated my recovery.

When my store was still open, a good friend would sometimes drop in with an elegant tray of homemade goodness. Soup was always included. She is an excellent cook and included me as a taste tester when making something new. This represented the kind of friendship we had; one that valued each other's opinions and included kind gestures.

While I was still working, my mother lived nearby. She would sometimes arrive on my doorstep with a container of soup for our dinner. As a working woman most of her life, my mother was well aware of the pressure of planning dinner after a workday. Since I rarely thought about dinner when leaving the house in the morning, her kindness meant I didn't have to put much thought into it for that evening. When my mother did this, I was reminded of the nurturing she has given me throughout my life. It didn't matter that I was over 50. Making soup for me was her way to nurture me once again.

During COVID, another friend has been delivering 'secret' meals including soups to women she knows are working and who have young families. The additional expectations placed on these families make every kindness we can share increasingly important.

My husband and soup are intertwined in another way. Like most couples married for decades, our relationship doesn't include grand declarations of our feelings. They have been replaced by the many thoughtful things we do that we know will bring the other pleasure.

One of these thoughtful things is the simple act of sliding his soup bowl toward me when we are in a restaurant. This small gesture says "I'm enjoying this soup and would like you to share my enjoyment". Such a simple act and yet it expresses the generosity and intimacy that only two people who have lived through much together share. He can even laugh when, on occasion, I've enjoyed the soup so much that the bowl is nearly empty when it gets back to him.

How often in my younger years did I let the kind gestures of others go by without recognizing what they represent. Thankfully, the busy middle years of life are behind me and I now see how easy it is to touch someone else with the smallest of actions on our part.

Feeling Joy vs Experiencing Joy

As I glance around at Christmas lights and decorated trees; listen to Christmas music; bake cookies to give away; and write my cards, it is possible to still feel joyful during this, the un-Christmas Christmas season.

I'm calling it that for all of the things it isn't. There will be no grandchildren in our home this year. We won't be hosting friends and neighbours for appetizers or brunches. Our town did host a Santa Claus Parade yesterday (thankfully, for the kids) but it was a reverse one; the floats remained stationary and families drove slowly by them. I continue to be amazed by the ingenuity COVID has unleashed, but, still, another example of how different this Christmas is.

While my Christmas joy is present despite our situation this year, my mind has been working to differentiate the joy we associate with this season from true joy. 

I think the joy we experience at Christmas encompasses much. It's the pleasure of doing for others while surrounded by colourful lights and music we've known forever. The small traditions that we carry on year after year bring joy (although a little bedraggled, Santa has been with us for forty plus years and is brought out happily each year). 

The happiness we see on faces around us lightens our hearts and brings a smile to our own. Christmas joy can be spread. I would describe it more as 'feeling' than 'experience': a softening of the hard edges of our usual days.

For me, the experience of true joy is indescribable. It has washed over me at unexpected moments, filling my body and mind with an undefinable radiance, leaving before I fully grasp that it happened. It's ethereal; indistinct and yet the memory of its beauty undeniable. These joyful experiences may have been fleeting and rare but will nonetheless remain with me throughout my life.

To say they happened during a moment is inaccurate. A moment denotes a specific time that is identifiable. I remember the experience of true joy but not the date or time it came over me.

Unlike our Christmas joy, C.S. Lewis wrote that we cannot create (true) joy. It just happens. He describes it in his book "Surprised by Joy":

"Everywhere he looked for Joy he couldn’t find it, though at times when he wasn’t looking for it, Joy would make an appearance and then vanish."

Is this type of joy a message from beyond or an opening within ourselves?

It doesn't matter that words don't exist to help me define true joy. The experience of it has given me a glimpse of what I know I will never understand but which tells me I'm a part of something much larger and greater than my everyday.

Even the everyday of un-Christmas. 

Especially the everyday of un-Christmas.

Polish Change

My walks are often filled with memories. Depending on my mood of the day, I might find myself teary-eyed; grinning stupidly; or even laughing out loud, surprising other walkers around me.

The latter happened this week when something I saw along my walk brought a strong memory of my father into my head. 

Mom and Dad had just moved into a retirement home. Dad was doing his best to accept the situation and making an effort to take advantage of new opportunities the residence provided. Despite his failing eyesight, he found another man to play pool with; used the treadmill daily and was generally up for anything on offer (except singing).

The first activity newsletter arrived at their door and Dad found "Polish Change" scheduled on one day. He had no idea what to expect but the subject led to his memories of world travel during his merchant navy days. Although he'd never been to Poland, he looked forward to meeting other like-minded world travelers or hearing from some Polish Son or Daughter.

He arrived at the appointed room early (I credit him with the early-arriving gene I inherited) and waited patiently. 

He was soon joined by a woman carrying a basket. Although, as mentioned, his eyesight was slim, he watched in wonder as she emptied the basket's contents onto the table. Rather than the coins he'd imagined, the woman was spreading out bottles of nail polish. 

Dad stood up, excused himself and made a hasty retreat but shared the story with each of us, bringing us all to tears of laughter.

Thank you Dad for keeping me laughing, even after you've left this world.

Goldilocks Got it Right

Yesterday was a surprising day.

The forecast for this week was for cooler temps and rain every day. I was surprised to wake to warmth and sunshine so took the route down to our waterfront for my walk. I do this as often as possible during good weather but had resigned myself to the idea of in-town walking as winter approaches.

Our town's harbour was an industrial hub during the late 19th and into the 20th century. Lumber mills made way for ship building which shared shoreline with coal yards .... I would say the town once thrived equally in employment and pollution.

Just one industry remains; a grain elevator operation that still brings Great Lake size tanker ships in carrying grain. The ugliness of this operation is softened by a full size mural on the water-side of the undulating silos that hold the grain. This mural tells one of the stories from the town's history . The fact that it is now the only industrial employer remaining in the harbour also brings out a beauty of sorts (to my eyes anyway). 

Our waterfront is lined with a paved trail which carries on for miles but begins at the northern end of our harbour. As you walk north, away from the grain elevators, the path turns back into nature; water on one side and woods on the other. This wasn't always the case as three remaining piers along the trail attest to. Ships waiting for their time at any one of the waterside operations would tie up to these piers but they've long since gone, along with the industries they serviced. The piers now stand as reminders of the vibrancy the town once knew.

My favourite place to end my walk before turning for home is the first pier. I stand or sit on the pier for five or ten minutes, saying my daily intention and enjoying the play of sunshine on the water and the sound of the water as it approaches the pier.  The fact that woods are at my back makes it a perfect retreat space even for those few moments in the day.

Yesterday, a man sat on the pier speaking on his cell phone. I wanted to give him privacy so kept walking. I've often opted for the second pier when people fishing stand on the first.

Something yesterday, though, pulled me to the third. I hadn't visited this pier previously because the land to walk out to it looked narrow (from a distance) and I wasn't entirely sure it was approachable without getting wet. 

But yesterday, I walked past the second pier to the third. I saw that the thin strip of land had, at some point, been covered with gravel so it was about three feet wide and perfectly safe. The visibility of the sea life on each side of this isthmus is unique to this pier. (forgive 'isthmus'; I know as a writer not to use words or phrases that will cause a hiccup to the reader and I have difficulty pronouncing this myself but it is such a perfect word in this case)

Walking this short path bordered with the water, rocks and plant growth reaching right up to it was delightful. Zebra mussels attached to an old running shoe someone had plucked from the lake bottom made even the shoe fit the scene. 

As I made my way to the pier itself, I was reminded that many times in life I've taken the easy or closest route: settled for what came my way first: thought to myself 'good enough' when better was possible. I think, as women, we often adopt this practice. 

Was this the message Goldilocks was trying to give us? Until this moment I never questioned the reason the story has a girl pushing through until she gets what she knows is the best. Was the writer of this old fairy tale an early feminist perhaps, trying to tell we women not to settle for second best in a world of men (and bears)? We can debate the ethics of breaking into someone's cabin and stealing their food another time.

For myself, I think an image of the third pier will now be in my head whenever I know I should keep going. Don't stop. Better is out there and I can reach for it!