I have been blessed with a great love.

How is that possible? my critics demand. You divorced for over thirty years ago, and you have been alone ever since.

Perhaps, they say, you mean the love of your pets? That is nice, but that is hardly a great love. 

Ah! But do you see the photo, here on this page? That is the full moon, shining over the hotel parking lot in St. John's. He was there for chemo treatments, when his cancer came back. I was his medical escort, and we stood in the parking lot and saw that moon. It occurred to me then that love really is forever.

But he was mean to you, they remind me. He hurt you, and you cried. Oh! And he was not always faithful, remember. (spoken in tones of prim smugness, those last lines)

Yes, I affirm. That is all true. It is also true that, frightened child with unpatched cuts and burns, he sat on the neighbours' steps alone while his house with his mother and five siblings died inside, and he a helpless child could only wait and hope while no one came to comfort him until his grandparents took him home.

Did you know he dreamed dreams, had hopes as you do, had a heart filled with love to give as you do? Did you know that, out of the twisted remnants of a childhood torn from him, from the very depths of all his brokenness, his love clawed its way into the light to find its way as best it could?

And from the margins, that love encompassed me, and yes it became destructive, but, like I said in my book, the one that failed to provide bannock references and ceremonies to your profound prestiged inclusiveness, Love means you stand by someone, even if you have to go away. 

And verily, the dazzling attraction of youth became, in the last days, a companionship, a standing together, as he faced his mortality. It became the love it was called to be.

Miles and lifetimes apart, we were refuge to each other. As his family gathered to say good-bye with him there, I gathered the talismans and artifacts of our journey to watch with him from afar.

A great love is not always kind. It is not always noble. Sometimes it is a raw and seeping, often hideous wonder, a loyalty and marvel ripped from the darkest recesses of a broken and tormented soul. And often, it must be lived in distance, with time and grace soften its edges and make it bearable.

And so, my friends, I slide down in the face of my own mortality and I know, and therefore celebrate, that I have been blessed with a great love. And in it, I am complete.

Sometimes our rambles take us on the old railbeds, now well-groomed trails for all-terrain vehicles. Walking is so easy on the even surface, the view refreshing. I think of River and her companions, possibly darting along this road in the night, but then I see how open it is, how vulnerable they will be. They must leave the trail, cutting into the heavy bush far to the side. It will be wet there, and when they are running in April, there will be flies and ticks. No easy ramble for them. I close my eyes, feel the squelch of the mud, the thorns pressing into my arms and legs. 

Shay waits, often scanning the sky or staring at something that only she hears in the bush. What does she know that is hidden from me?

The roads we follow sometimes cross the clear-cut areas. Shay sniffs, lowering her head to read the traces of deer that have passed here. It is bleak and open; the travellers will be buffeted by winds, exposed to the full force of the sun, drenched by the heavy rains. They will not be safe here; they must pass around the clear-cuts. There are many clear-cuts in the woods between Flo's swamp and Miramichi. How many extra kilometres must they go? I will pull up the map that night and pity them for the long winding route they must follow.

Streams open in the wilderness, fed by run-off. They are not so hard to cross, but I have good boots and will soon be home, relaxing with dry socks and central heating. I will not be huddled in a damp thicket, my filthy sneakers and socks on a branch beside me. They will be cold and still soaked when the travellers cram their feet into them, still chilled, still hungry. 

There will be creeks and rivers. Lakes and marshes. Many, many crossings and alternate routes for them.

Shay urges me forward. There is so little time.

There are many signs of a dying earth. Here, the ice has collapsed, revealing a dry basin below. When spring comes, the rain no longer refreshes the earth. It remains dry, and the wildfires thrive.

How deep do the roots of these trees go? Will they find the water? Will the roots hold them in the dry earth when the winds come? How fast will the fires run when they are unchecked?

That small pine marks the trailhead. The clear track is faded now, but still easy to follow. I imagine it in ten years time -- a tangle of brush and weeds, wild raspberry canes clutching as travellers pass. They will journey by night, when the drones are not out. How easy it will be to lose the way. How quickly ankles turn in the dead hay.

I fell along this route. I was only one hour's walk from home. What if I were out there, heading into a journey of months? I would be wet and cold, or perhaps perspiring in the first feverish moments of Lyme disease. I would be exhausted by travel and hunger and despair. 
Shay and I rest. We have a light snack. I worry for my travellers. Have I, in my writer's arrogance, set them an impossible task?

On this day, it is sunny, and we explore the old farm. The hillside is windy, but here, nestled against the trees, is where I put the greenhouse in RIVER FACES NORTH. It is sheltered here, and the morning sun reaches it. By afternoon, it will be bathed in light. 

I see the children winding through the trees to the river, back and forth with their loads. The seniors chip away at the hillside above, breaking up the earth for planting. One sod at a time. There are very few children under the age of two. When the parents were sent to the clean-up camps, there were no more births. But then I hear a long, lonely wail, a baby tucked under the bush beyond the furrows, the grandmother working, working, not daring to look up let alone help.

​There will be a child. That will be important. That night, I write their story.

The deadwood here fascinates Shay. What shall we do with so much firewood?

But they are not allowed an axe or larger tools. Our first narrator Flo would harvest the smaller branches with a handsaw, but our travellers have no tools and they cannot risk a fire. They will travel from April to November. Have I slept on the forest floor when I am wet and hungry? Have I done this in April and then kept doing it without relief? They must not build a shelter: There is no time, and that will leave signs. How will they endure?

Shay calls a halt, here in the open land between the river and the old farm. She is always watching, always with her eyes on the bushes across on the island. I want to know what she sees. Is this where enemies are hiding? Or perhaps allies seeking to join them? What predator has survived to hunt them?
​
​How will they be safe? Again, I imagine my characters staying home, raising a gentle safe rebellion in dry clothes with warm food and a roof over their heads. But that is not an option. Miramichi is the gathering place.

I am saddened by all the travellers must face. I draw heart from Gran Flo's words as they were leaving: 
Grow well. Grow strong. I shield you from their sight by the strength of my will. You are blessed, with all the blessing in my heart. -- Flora Hardy in River Faces North

Thank you for joining our ramble. Shay has been with me, quietly in the shadows, through my writing journey. Other dogs have sat at my feet while I wrote. She does not do that.

But she steps forward now; it is our time.  Meegwetch, little Shay.

Before I start, a huge THANK-YOU to those who have read and encouraged me in my newest novel, River Faces North. I will be sharing some setting photos Shay and I took this morning with you, but first, I just have to vent!

BUT PLEASE KEEP READING. SHAY AND I WORKED HARD TO GET THESE PICTURES, THROUGH WATER AND SNOW AND OVER LOGS. WE WOULD LOVE FOR YOU TO SEE THEM.

One afternoon some friends dropped by to explain that all the signs pointed to an approaching cataclysmic end to this system of things. God was about to step in and make everything over. Yes, I agreed to the first part, soon the beauty outside my place--hectares of wilderness, tranquility, clean water--would be overturned and there would be tents and shacks and refuse heaps filling the pastoral scene. No, they countered, God would never let it get that bad! I am not so sure about that part; I don't see a particular reason to spare our backyard.

The thing is, it is always easier to expect an easy Apocalypse, one in which others have endured unspeakable torment, but things are still okay for us.

And so, gentle reader, I decided to write River Faces North, and bring the Apocalypse home. I have been told that it is "not my usual writing!", "too depressing", and "who wants to read a horrible thing like that!" All true--this is my first dystopian writing, the destruction of the world is indeed depressing with all the suffering entailed, and no one should want to read about horrible things like child sexual abuse. Nevertheless, it was not that difficult to build a world which was essentially just a progression of my little world back here.

For you, my kind supporters, here are photos of the place that inspired Flo's swamp and the communal farm, in which Elders toil in the fields and young children lug water and toil in the sweltering (or freezing) greenhouse. These are winter photos, and I want you to imagine you are there, bundled in layers of thin rags, feet wound in rough socks and cracked rubber boots, no warm fire or central heating to go home to after your ten to twelve hour day, the damp invading your bones. 

And perhaps like me, you will be grateful for the Flo's of this world, the tough old rebel grandmothers, who will find hope and a little chuckle in the darkest times. They are the reason I know we will be all right.
​

1. A typical trail down to the river, well-cleared
​2. ​Children, some as young as five, would be sent to the river.
3. ​The path to the marsh and ice, quite steep
​4. From the clearing, river below the ridge in background

1. ​Clear trail, easy walking
2. ​Not an unusual blockage, typical for market trip
3. Another example of blockage that must be cut through, climbed over, or circumvented

"Stop!" I exclaim. "The Great Church! There!" I point, seizing my camera. "The house was right there."

That lumpy patch of snow-crusted hay, the trees and bushes thick around it-- that is the site of my grandparents' house, the house that held my mother's childhood. I know the spot, for the Great Church rises as it should, guarding the bend beyond the causeway.

We roll past; the snow is piled on the shoulder of the road and there is no place to pull over. "We need to come here this summer," my son says.

And I am glad he is the driver today, relieved that my injuries of Christmas Day have left me a little shaken, unable to fulfill my fantasy of driving my son and his partner along the shore, telling the stories, revealing his grandmother's life a little at a time. I am instead tucked in the passenger seat, gripped by an unbearable longing to be ten again, to drench my rappie pie with molasses, pick blueberries in the ditch, stare at the Great Church in the night. The need to to cry cuts through my chest, but no tears come.

This is the second moment. Before I share the first, let me set the scene. My mother grew up in Sainte Anne du Ruisseau, an Acadian girl whose father always stressed they were français de France, for his father had come from Le Havre, not the Acadian shore. My mother married an Anglophone farmer and we were raised as Anglophone children, who never, in spite of local legend to the contrary, spoke French at home or learned French Acadian ways. Sainte Anne du Ruisseau was her home, her heritage but never truly ours, one we visited one night each summer. Yet, it was the highpoint of my life.

My son had been very close to his father, an Inuk carpenter and hunter who taught him strong Inuit values, chief among these being love of family. Since his father's death the year before, my son has shown increasing interest in learning my personal heritage, something which I have experienced from the periphery but never truly known. I drew myself into my personal past when I wrote A Canoer of Shorelines, and was saddened by how much my upbringing had fostered a sense of isolation, a feeling that I was not truly part of any of my heritages, an anomaly with memories but no roots. My Acadian roots belonged to my mother; they were revealed for a moment each year and then hidden away like a fragile Christmas ornament, too delicate for my clumsy hands. My son thought we could discover some roots if we took a tour, so here we were on Boxing Day, my hand throbbing, my foot pulsing, my body snug in the passenger seat while he drove and his partner set up the navigation.

I remember every foot of the way, but it is nice to know where the gas bars and coffee places are in this new time.

The first moment is at the cemetery across from the huge wooden church of my mother's childhood. It has not shrunk with time, but is every bit as looming and flammable as it looked in 1975. Standing on a hillside, watching the fog roll up the river--I wrote that beside the grave after my grandfather's funeral and it helped me find it the other time. "Down here," I call, jogging along the slope. "Those two markers. There." There should not be two markers, but I hurry to them anyway. I halt beside them, and then I know. I swing my head to the right, and stare directly into my grandparents' names.

And now I am running, running, my son and his partner and the snow vanishing behind me, my little shoes pounding over the dry grass in Grammie's yard, up, up to the verandah where she stands, arms outstretched, creased face beaming, my Acadian grandmother, the summer sun shining on her face. My son and his partner are the echo of a future my ten year old soul does not notice, for they have not happened yet; this moment, this verandah and these wrinkled arms flabby with age, folding me -- here is where I am real. I stumble before the stone and I, universalist always but not a capital C Catholic anymore, feel my hand spasm and reach to touch my forehead, my chest, my right shoulder, my left. I hear the Hail Mary ripple from my mouth although I have long set aside a pantheon. 

I simply am. I am present in a summer Acadian moment, until the distant rumble of voices draws close and I return to being a mother of no culture standing beside my son who is all cultures. And his beautiful partner, bearing witness.

After that we go looking for the house, and it is my son who thinks of driving back, so I could sight along the great church. And it is all there. A brush-filled lot, a little clearing left, the afternoon sun scattering over the snow. This is the crucible that nestles my mother's past.

My son wants to try rappie pie, but his partner's research reveals that local restaurants, even in Yarmouth, are closed today. No matter, I say. We do not want tourist rappie pie; only a little restaurant like the one in Tusket would make our rappie pie. Rappie pie is best served in a grandmother's kitchen. So, being hungry, we eat at an A&W in Yarmouth, and discover Acadian people have the same idea. I guess we have an authentic Acadian eating experience after all.

We drive back the same way we came, for that is how we return from Grammie's house. That makes it real. 

And as we pass the clearing, I give a secret wave to the little girl racing for the verandah, blow a kiss to the hunched figure waiting at the top of the steps. In that moment I, a drifter of no culture, am forever a little Acadian girl, coming home.

"My heart is troubled," Marlowe growled softly, "for yesterday my mistress suffered grave anxiety. The boxes known as 'book order' approached, but at the last minute they were turned aside by the grinding apparatus of industry. FriesenPress, though brave and determined, had commissioned others who were not of Friesen for this vital last step, and these had failed to fulfill their oaths.

"I would see my mistress smile again, and therefore, my jolly companion Shay, we shall see the prestige of FriesenPress restored, see that book order delivered, and bring rejoicing to my mistress's table."

Now, I was sore perplexed, for Mother was working in the town, and had locked the portal securely. I could not see how we could succeed in this quest. Marlowe studied the plexiglass portal long and hard. 

"Alas," he murmured, "our enemies are cunning." Determination shone in his green eyes. "But we, noble Shay, shall outdo them. For I shall summon them forth and draw deep into my feline nature to control them. By the power of my will, I will compel their obedience in all things."

Marlowe stared hard into the morning light, tense and unwavering. And behold! The grinding of an engine was heard on the hill, and a van appeared in the driveway. Marlowe decreed it, and it was so.

Now Marlowe rose, his body taut and trembling, his eyes fixed and staring. "Come to me," he murmured, "come now."

A person lurched from the car. Like a being mechanical, they shuffled to the back, then wavered forward, two great boxes clutched in their arms, eyes riveted on Marlowe's face.

Marlowe growled low in his throat, his body shaking with the strain, eyes squeezed shut. And I Shay speak true! The ground shook and thunder rumbled, and the person stepped forward, graciously laying the two boxes before Marlowe. They shook their head in amazement, turned, and rushed to their car.

Marlowe, exhausted, collapsed in a heap, panting. His breathing gradually slowed and became even; gentle snores gurgled in his throat.

"Rest well, great Marlowe," I intoned, "and I will keep vigil. You have well earned this rest."

Now when Mother returned, I lay watching the books, while great Marlowe tumbled in sleep on the floor. "Lazy cat," she said, and my heart broke for my noble friend.

Many were the deeds of Marlowe, great and wondrous. I, Shay, Chronicler of the Deeds of Marlowe, vow solemnly that they shall be known. Without Marlowe, Mother and FriesenPress would have languished in despair, their efforts thwarted. And Marlowe did many other deeds, and these I set down in all truth. Within days, Marlowe would battle and defeat the being known as Algorithm, a fearsome beast, terrible to behold, that haunted Mother's computer. 

But that is a tale for another time.

Today is Market Day!

Anne’s alarm clock is buzzing. It is 4 a.m. See the happy dog, bouncing on her chest.

“Get up, Mother! Get up! Get up!” says Shay. “It is Market Day! I am a happy dog! Do you feel my bouncing paws? You have to get up, Mother. You have to feed Shay and play with her. You have to do your physio. You have to pack the car. You have to make the coffee. But first you have to find the cat.”

“Ha, ha,” says Anne. “You are a very silly dog, Shay. I know where the cat is. The cat is under the sofa.”

“No, no, Mother,” Shay says, hopping to the floor. “The cat is not under the sofa. The cat is not downstairs. The cat is not upstairs. The cat is not happy in its new home. The cat has run away.”

Anne looks for the cat under the sofa. She looks under the chairs. She looks and looks, upstairs and downstairs. She looks everywhere. She does not see the cat.

“Here is Marlowe,” Shay exclaims. “He is hiding under the bed. Oh, Marlowe, you are a naughty, naughty kitty. You made my mother very sad.”

(We will not write down Marlowe’s words. That would make the censors sad.)

Marlowe will not come out for Anne. Marlowe will not come out for Shay. Marlowe will not come out at all.

“Look, Mother!” says Shay. “Now it is five o’clock. You have to leave at five-fifteen. You have to feed Shay. You have to pack the car.”

Anne will have her shower, too. Anne will have her coffee. She was not happy crawling under dusty beds.

Anne leaves at six o’clock. That is very late. She needs to have her table ready when the people come at eight o'clock.

Anne does not drive fast. She wants to see the pretty deer standing on the road. She does not like to drive in the dark. She does not like to drive at all.

Now Anne is near the city. The sun is coming up. Anne is turning east. The bright sun is rising. It is shining in her eyes. “This is not fun,” says Anne.

Here comes Anne. She is coming into the market.

“Good morning, Anne!” say the other vendors. “Hurry, hurry, Anne! It is eight o’clock. See the friendly people coming to the market. They want to see our wonderful things.”

“I have eggs and carrots and potatoes,” a farmer says. “This morning I milked the cows, fed the chickens, gathered the eggs, and loaded my truck. Then I drove two hours. I am glad you found your cat.”

“I have your breakfast bun for you,” the baker says. “It is very fresh. I made it this morning and all these other pastries. But I only drove an hour and a half. I am glad you found your cat too.”

Anne puts a blue tablecloth on her table. She puts out her books and her signs. She puts out her friend’s books and her signs. Then she is ready for the market too.

“Hello, hello,” the people say. They wave as they rush past. They must get their eggs and carrots and blueberries and kale and broccoli and fresh bread before they are all gone. Later they will visit Anne and talk about her books. Some people have her book and stop to encourage her. Some new people buy her book. “Please write your name in our book,” they say. Anne takes her pen and writes her name. 

(Remember, boys and girls: Anne writes her name in other people’s books, but at school you should always ask the teacher.)

​“Thank you for buying my book,” says Anne. “And thank you for coming to see me.” (Anne really does enjoy every visit. Seriously, these make her journey special.)

The market is very busy. Soon all the blueberries and eggs are gone. Most of the carrots and broccoli are gone. Anne’s books are not gone, but that is okay. Anne can pay for her table, and Anne’s books will keep! She has met some very nice people, and for that, she is grateful.

Now it is one o’clock. The market is closing. The rain is beginning. Anne puts her raincoat over her boxes. She runs to her car. Now it is raining hard.

“Go on the shore road,” the farmer says. “It will be dangerous on the big highway. You will be happy on the shore road.”

The roads are very, very busy. The thunder is very, very loud. Anne listens to the farmer. She goes on the shore road. Many, many people are on the shore road. They cannot see in the rain but all of them go very, very slowly.

It is suppertime when Anne gets home. 

“Welcome home, Mother,” says Shay. “The cat is still under the bed. But I will go for a walk with you. A walk will make you happy. Yes, you will be very happy.”

Anne puts her books on the kitchen table. She puts on her rain hat. She smiles.

Anne and Shay know walks are very, very important after a busy market day. 

Often, I write about nature. Today, I write in tribute to the miraculous Flo, who passed suddenly from our midst on July 3rd, 2024.

On June 29th, 2022, Flo came waddling out to greet me in the waiting room at the shelter. Before her rescue by these good people, she had been abused, confined, and overfed. She should have weighed just under forty pounds, but weighed seventy-five. She cringed at the sight of paper, at the sound of a raised voice, at the sight of a male person. Yes, she was very damaged. She still walked up to me, eyes glowing, and rested her chin in my hands. The bond was immediate and permanent. Flo looked directly into my soul, and loved me anyway.

Flo was not an easy dog. She barked at the door at walk time, a shrill staccato yip that she finally managed to reduce to warbling and singing. She would then race for the gate, and the process would start again. If there was a car ride as well . . . I think you see the pattern! On walks, my gentle Shay would pace at my side, while Flo twirled at the end of her leash like an ecstatic whirligig.

That was what defined her, and made her a joy--her jubilation, her celebration of every moment. Her festivitas. Was it time for coffee? Flo was going to watch! The composter needed emptying? Flo was on the way! Bed-time? Let's check the gate, the garden, the clothesline! For every trip I made to the garden with a load of water, Flo made ten, spinning around me, racing back and forth, her herding instincts in full play. Every moment, every act, was a celebration. For Flo, life was special, not a moment neglected.

Most of all, she was a teacher. In that first moment, she recognized and blessed my brokenness. An abuse survivor herself, she taught me that every abuse survivor is worthy of great love and that the love given by an abuse survivor is pure, not tainted. She was healing for me.

She loved her Shay, coaxing her from her own grief over the loss of her beloved mentor and guide, Mikak. She taught Shay to play again, to share again, to watch her dish when a hungry Border Collie was near.

She zipped everywhere, and those extra pounds fell away. She grew sleek and lithe.

Festivitas. Merriment and celebration. These were the gifts Flo brought to her home. And let us not forget dancing. Flo loved a good beat and would bark with enthusiasm, twirling in circles, giving herself a shake from head down to tail, ending in a little kick. She loved Jingle Bell Rock and The Tennessee Flat-top Box, 
and especially the spiritual I'll Fly Away. But it had to be sung with gusto. With festivitas.

On July 1st, 2024, she barked for her car ride to the Park. During the day, lameness set in. She had stumbled earlier; had she pulled something perhaps? It worsened and in the night we participated in a vet video consult; the gentle vet was concerned about neurological sources and urged us to get her to our family vet. The family vet in town sent us immediately to the Veterinary College for neurological assessment and surgery, a mere five hours away and we headed straight from our vet's office. Generous neighbours took over the care of Shay. That evening when we arrived, the neurological team met us with a gurney; neurological tests and CT scan were completed. Flo had now lost all use of hind limbs, and had no pain response. Surgery might go ahead if it would be helpful--and safe. But the progression was alarmingly fast.

On the morning of July 3rd, Flo was very weak, and the team recommended we take her home to say goodbye. I sat in the waiting room while they brought her out. She was very damaged. And somehow so small. She still walked up to me, eyes glowing, and rested her chin in my hands. Flo looked directly into my soul, and shared her strength.

We had a wonderful car ride at first, sharing the music, telling the stories. When I scooped her out and placed her on the grass, she flopped on her side, writhing, her legs refusing to obey. I knew what lay ahead, when the paralysis reached her chest. I made the call. 

I sang I'll Fly Away  as she passed, and sang it again over the beautiful grave overlooking her gate and her garden, the resting place my neighbours prepared. 

And when my time comes, do not be sad. Sing I'll Fly Away, please. Roar it out and dance and clap. 

For somewhere, a Border Collie and I will be dancing.

Forever Flo. Forever festivitas. Thank you for your gifts, dear friend.

I cannot read the opening chapter of the Book of Genesis without breaking down. To be present at the birth of creation, to witness its wonder-- what greater gift could there be!

And yet, we receive this gift every year, as the earth comes full circle to renew itself. Creation really has no beginning and no end point; it is an act that is continually arising, forever arriving.

On a cosmic scale, to witness the birth of a star.
On a microcosmic scale, to witness the birth of a meadow, like the one in the pictures above, returned to us after the long sleep of winter.

​"Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters." (Genesis 1:2 NIV)
For the meadow is there, drawing from the regenerative power of nature, but we do not see it, except as a memory.

"And God said, “Let the water under the sky be gathered to one place, and let dry ground appear. And it was so." (Genesis 1: 9 NIV)
The meadow lifts from the depths, reaching into the light not all at once but incrementally. Rising, drawing back, thrusting upward again, perhaps to stay for a season.

"The land produced vegetation: plants bearing seed according to their kinds and trees bearing fruit with seed in it according to their kinds. And God saw that it was good." (Genesis 1: 12 NIV)
Ah! That is not yet, but it comes so soon. A hint, a cautious leaf protruding, and soon there will be deer grazing in the evening, song birds flitting among the reeds seeking seeds or insects, ducks nesting near the water.
And yes, it will brown and wither and fade and withdraw beneath the waters again.
The meadow is there beneath the surface, sleeping and dreaming of what has been and what will be. Spring acknowledges destruction and crucifixion as it calls us into creation and resurrection.

I acknowledge that this is a little late for an Easter reflection. It is never, however, too late or the wrong season to celebrate the miracle of natural law, forever in balance in itself, forced out of shape by us and yet we wait for God to fix it. 

Spring will come, with or without our blessing, perhaps a crippled spring struggling to surface in a wasteland,  elsewhere lithe and supple in a new world. 

Spring is waiting beneath the surface of the waters, listening for the spirit that forever hovers across the surface. 

Spring is an unborn idea or dream or story, awaiting its moment to be drawn up into the world. 

Valentine's Day is here again. We bring to it our hopes, our wishes, our dreams of a world lit by love.
Some visualize candlelit dinners, soft music, foreheads almost touching as sweet promises are whispered. Others scrub glue onto paper bags, affixing stickers and paper hearts chopped from construction paper, anticipating them stuffed with bundles of valentines, imagining delighted smiles as their own offerings are received. Somewhere a parent carefully places one more bud on the iced cake, while cross-referencing one last time ingredients with known allergies in their child's class. Everything must be perfect for this joyful day of hearts, flowers, and the celebration of love.

When the party is over, the stickiness and crumbs addressed, the bits and scraps of cupids and bows brushed away, do you see that child, shoulders hunched, clutching the heavy tin they came in with, still packed? Is that their empty paper bag, crumpled in the recycling bin? Can that be one of the valentines they made, to all their best friends forever, now a little bent, tracked and damp on the hallway floor?

The sandwiches were proudly borne from desk to desk, an offering, but everyone was too full, eyes on the curling crusts, a little dry. Elsewhere in the room, a crayon-caked card dropped to the floor, as the eyes turned away. 

One child's valentine bag was not stuffed like the others; it remains flat, a little crumpled.

May I have a sandwich to take home, maybe an extra? They do look good. You put a lot of effort into this card; you thought of me, thank you. Here is one for you; it is, after all, Valentine's Day.

Perhaps if they learn these things, they will grow up to be like him:

He wanted a gift for me, but we were there on Fixed Income, with vouchers and service vans to the chemo centre, and no budget for roses. But there was a shawl display in the Dollar Store, in deep burgundy or teal blue, one for his daughter and one for me. First choice to me, he said with quiet dignity.

Eleven months ago, I wrapped the deep burgundy shawl about my shoulders one last time. I huddled in a chair and played all the music from the International Tattoo of 2011, the one he worked with the Canadian Rangers. I studied the pictures, and marked the time of the service, the eulogy, the burial.

Today, I want to see his Valentine's Day greeting on Messenger, never fancy or ornate, but "Happy Valentine's Day, I love you" said it all. I long to look, but then I must also see our last chats, just after we knew, and the message he didn't see. 

There are many bearers of one last message, unread, many wrapped in Dollar Store Shawls, more precious than mink. And yet we smile this day, just like the happy people. 

For we have been loved and are still loved.

When the wine is consumed, the dessert lingered over, the candles extinguished, and night has closed in, when the afterglow of romance has faded, will there still be flowers? Will there be glamour and a little mystery, not roses perhaps but, just possibly, a faded bouquet, an offering beyond price?

Happy Valentine's Day. All love is precious. All love is beyond price.




 

Winter has arrived in the woodlands, and the silence settles around us. Sometimes, it is a comforting blanket, shielding us; other times, it crowds close, suffocating us. 

​Today, I pause to reflect on the community that is formed in such places. 

In The Monastic Journey, Thomas Merton dwells on the monastic calling not, like many of us assume, as a call to reject society, but as a summons to enter it more fully. I guess this makes sense -- sometimes being apart draws us to contemplate that which we love, and in our separation, we recognize what makes loved beings, places, and things special. It magnifies the beauty, while gently blurring the lines of failure. This does not mean that we deny the realities of the world, but that we look past these, to celebrate what the world can be. 

I was surprised to learn that Merton considered the hermitic calling to be an extension of the monastic calling, kind of an ultimate call to community. Here, one loves and interacts with the world without coming into contact. The hermit embraces life, it seems, while no longer requiring a physical reference point. That would be an ultimate participation in the world -- an appreciation transcending the boundaries of space and time.

 The true hermit, then, is not a taciturn misfit who hates people. This person is, instead, one who has integrated fully with life itself -- one who loves completely and with an enduring love. 

I love the sound of that, but it is an ideal. We look out for each other here, and we love the tranquility of the snowy woods, but we are by no means of monastic or hermitic mindset. Now, we might see glimpses and flashes of monastic-like peace, but the realities of daily living are never far away. Today, a truck and trailer slid backwards down the big hill to rest sideways with the trailer pressing into the woods on one side, and the truck leaning into the ditch on the other. We sympathized with the driver while eagerly anticipating open roads and town amenities. On a more drastic note, there was a couple trying to reach a medical appointment. In such moments, we are very much world dwellers, driven not only by consumerism, but also by need.

There are, however, the moments when any of us anywhere might have a flash of memory of a loved one, separated from us by distance and time, perhaps deceased. And in that instant, we experience an outpouring of love. I guess the ideal hermit would feel that way all the time, but for the rest of us, these moments are sweet intervals in  our lives in the world. 

For me, it comes down to Anna Caine's discovery in The Ice Widow: "But your spirit is free upon the Land, and I will find you there. I will reach and find you from anywhere in the universe." (217) In all our separation, in all our longings in our journey, our connections, when they are strong, will transcend all. 

​And that is more than enough for me.