The Wink

The last thing my father did before he slipped into the coma that would lead to his death a month later was wink at my mother. They were at their cottage on the lake, it was morning, and he didn’t feel too well, a headache –in reality bleeding on the brain—so he was going to lie down for a bit. He caught her eye across the room and he winked at her. They had guests, old friends from long ago, a neighbour couple from back in the day; friends who had been there to help them get through the death of my brother so long ago. Now they would be there to help my mother through another sorrow.

The wink spoke volumes. The wink said, “I love you. I am fine. I will be right back. It’s okay. Take care of yourself. Enjoy the sunshine.” The wink was a long-standing pattern of communication between them. Always from my father to my mother. Never the other direction; I am guessing that my mother, like me, never mastered the art of the wink, could never carry it off with the naturel complicity and genuine affection it demands. I look like I have something in my eye when I attempt a wink.

The wink was their way of communicating in a crowd, across a room, without words.

My father was a quiet man, but he believed in the power of communication. He belonged to the Toastmasters Club, and made clear to all his children the importance of effective communication. Think about what you want to say. Write down a few notes. Be prepared. Being nervous about speaking in front of a group is unnecessary. The key aspect is the people you are talking to, let go of your focus on yourself and think about what they need to hear.

My father even managed a metaphorical post-mortem wink. He scrawled a few point-form notes using a black Sharpie pen on the outside of a manila file folder. The folder was labeled “In Case of Death” and we came across it in his desk drawer a day after he died while looking for the inevitable paperwork death brings on. He had written these lines a few years before his death, perhaps after his first brush with melanoma, or maybe after the death of someone he knew.  My uncle made plaques with these words so we could all carry them forward with us. When I read them I feel like my father is winking at me.

Yesterday my son came to get me in my office at the college where I teach and he is a student. He noticed the plaque. “That’s really nice!” he said, so I told him the story of the file folder. I hope the wink can get passed on to another generation. Today would be my father’s 92^nd birthday. He has been gone for a quarter century. I can still see him wink. Here are his words:

-cry a little, but please, not long

-celebrate the good times, which were many and often

-be thankful for all the love that kept us going in the bad times.

-family ties are very special and precious
-people, not things, are what matter

Routine or Ritual

I have been thinking about the difference between a routine and a ritual since yesterday morning. We all have routines, especially morning routines and fitness routines. Unfortunately, “routine” can have negative connotations; routines can feel like drudgery. I have several morning routines that I love, and I was thinking that they seem to have a ritualistic aspect. For example, I make myself a cup of Golden Milk, or turmeric tea, most mornings. I add ten ingredients, and it could feel like a chore, but it doesn’t: grinding spices and peeling fresh ginger, including a dollop of coconut oil, waiting until the spices have steeped for twenty minutes and have been strained to mix in the honey, heating the almond milk to not quite boiling. All of this takes attention and time, but instead of feeling long and boring it feels almost ceremonial. 

My morning routine preparing Golden Milk made me start thinking about the Japanese Tea Ceremony. I don’t know much about it, but it seems that the repeated gestures provide an opportunity to slow down and engage in mindfulness. Instead of rotating the teacup three times I am cranking the pepper grinder seven times. Each gesture is part of a pattern. While the spices steep I do my yoga, another routine/ritual. When the tea is ready I sit in a big chair with my feet on the footstool and hold the heavy blue cup in two hands, letting its warmth become part of me. I watch the sun rising through Black Spruce in the forest at the back of my yard. 

Later in the day, as I wander on my Hok Skis in that same forest, I have an epiphany: the difference between routine and ritual is mindfulness. Being in the moment of making the tea, not just rushing to get it done to drink it. The same is true for my fitness routines, the yoga in the morning and my walk or ski later on in the day. 

The forest is a white and black portrait; I am floating on two metres of snow. I stop and listen to the tangible silence. A crow flies above the path and caws; I can hear his wings beating against the gray air. 

Cold Heart

Stone hearted,
icy muscle,
pumping frozen feelings
through
lacy vessels
traced red and fine.

Hard-hearted,
yet fragile;
your heart would melt,
if only
you could get warm
again.

Shadows on Snow

Shadows on snow. 

Dark on light. 

Black on white. 

Warm sun, cool ice. 

A shadow is insubstantial.

Snow, ephemeral.

Your hand can pass through both. 

Shadows on snow.

Drawings sketched on a white page.

Baby Jellyfish

Okay, this is a first for me. I am walking along the beach at high tide and I see what I think is a little ball of ice. Shiny, see-though. The first ice-ball of the season, I think to myself, and take a picture of it. Then I touch it, but it's not cold or hard, it is surprisingly flexible, like jello, and cool to the touch. It looks almost exactly like a bath bead; you know, those ones you get as gifts but rarely use. I pick it up. It is the same size and shape and texture. I contemplate the likelihood of a bath bead surviving in the salty ocean. Unlikely. It must be a jellyfish. A baby jellyfish? It is not alone. As I continue my walk along the beach I see several more of these unlikely creatures. A new species? The Bath Bead Jellyfish! Or baby jellyfish.

Rockwalking

Everyone has heard of rock-climbing, and I used to be pretty good at it until I hit fifty, menopause, osteoarthritis, and such-like, with the inherent drop in strength and agility. So since I can't climb up I have shifted to climbing over. I am not talking about bouldering or traversing, which are forms of rock-climbing, usually without a rope, on low areas where falling just means sore ankles not death. No, even traversing is beyond me now, or should I say above me.

My new rock activity is just trying to get from A to B over rocky terrane, and it is more challenging than you might think. As you can see in the map above, a range of low pink and grey granite mountains runs from the end of the beach behind our cottage and away north to Labrador. At low tide you can sneak past most of the rocks and make it to two bays that are hidden not too far beyond. Sometimes, like today, you have to walk through knee-deep freezing water. Other times you can scramble over the rocks to get to the first bay. But to get to the second bay you always need to cross over rocks, unless you have a kayak, or you are willing to swim a good distance in very cold water.

Now these rocks are solid. Mostly. But this is not a sidewalk. There is no clear path. You have to make decisions about the route you will take based on myriad factors: access, difficulty, water, seaweed, flatness, angles, distance between possible footholds, and also, in my case, will the dog be able to follow safely. As I was rock-walking this morning it struck me that it is a very meditative activity. I remember that was one of the things I liked about rock-climbing; you can only be in the moment when you are moving up a cliff-face, the task demands that kind of focus as you choose a handhold and shift your body to the next potential clinging point. And, surprisingly perhaps, rock-walking demands a similar focus. There are places in between first and second bay where I can only look at my feet as I move from one rock to the next. The ground is not level, and the seaweed between the rocks is extremely slippery. If you fall down, the landing is not soft. Also, I walk alone and far from help, and although I bring my cellphone for safety reasons, it would take a long time for someone to arrive.

When I thought about rock-walking as meditation, I also started thinking about what a good metaphor it is for life: you choose what you think is the best path, but sometimes there are surprises, a rock shifts, your foot slips, a wave comes up higher than you expected; sometimes what looked like a good path doesn't quite pan out and you need to turn back; sometimes it looks impossible and yet if you just try, and keep taking one small step at a time, you eventually succeed and it feels great; sometimes your foot slips and you soak your shoe; and when you are done, and you are climbing back down, sometimes the easiest way is to turn around and go down backwards, using "hindsight" to watch your feet while you almost crawl like a toddler, turned around and using you hands to support yourself safely. As I age, I am learning to take the time to support myself in what ever way I need, and I actually think that is a pretty good thing.

As autumn arrives, each time I go rock-walking to second bay I wonder if it is the last time, at least for the year, but maybe forever, as I lose more mobility. And although this is a sad thought, it also makes me fierce about continuing to keep going as long as I am able.

Tidelines

Every twelve hours or so

 the sea reaches its highest point

 then ebbs back, 

pulling away 

from the line that marks high tide. 

Sometimes, several tides in a row

 are lower than those previous, 

and you can see 

a series of lines 

that show the high water mark. 

This line is traced by shells and sticks, 

or sometimes 

you can simply see 

that the sand looks slightly different, 

more packed down, 

or rippled in a different pattern. 

As you walk across these tidelines 

it is as though you are travelling through time. 

Like sawing through the rings of winter's passage 

that circle the trunk of a century old maple, 

or snow-blowing along a wall of white, 

revealing the layers of icy snow 

compacted over the winter. 

Or like an archeologist 

reading history 

from stratifications 

in the earth's crust on the wall of a quarry. 

The tidelines 

show the days that have passed by, 

maybe the last days of summer. 

And then 

a really high tide will rise above them all and start the patterns all over again.