sorrow and thankfulness

My kids are pretty tough cookies; it takes quite a bit to make them cry or need to come into bed with me when they wake up at night. So I knew something had shaken Boo when she came into my room a few weeks ago and asked if she could sleep with me. She had had a nightmare and was in tears. As she nestled into me, she told me in whispers of the terrifying things she had dreamed. She had been wandering around a city, and she knew that there was a war. She was alone and was looking for me but somehow knew that I had died. But she kept looking because she knew she just needed to find me. I held her close, trying not to cry myself.

When she was tiny, she would have dreams or imaginings about monsters and frightening imaginary creatures. I could always calm her down by telling her that I was here, and I could keep her safe. That everything was going to be fine. That those things weren't real.

Suddenly, I couldn't do it. I couldn't tell her that war isn't real. That children losing their parents isn't real. That me being right beside her was going to make everything okay. I just held her as close as I could without making her more scared. I must have done something right because she was fast asleep within a few minutes. But I lay awake, thinking of all those children in the world living Boo's nightmare for real. With no one to hold them close, to promise them that everything was going to be okay. That the things they fear aren't real. My heart broke for them and I cried and cried in the quiet darkness.

***

Today the floodgates of sorrow opened again, this time for a real person with a real story; not an idea of the millions of frightened people facing war and hunger and death, but a real person who has tasted freedom and peace and life, who will soon lose it all again.

Over the past few years, our little church, which is very welcoming yet had been surprisingly homogenous (read: white), became home to a growing number of Burundian parishioners. Many of them are refugees who came to Canada recently and made their home in our city. They had found a home with us and told their friends and family members. And more came. Those in our midst are refugees who came here to seek asylum, to ask our government to let them stay because they faced certain violence or even death if they returned. Some still had family members back home, living in fear. We saw many of them reunited over the years and have rejoiced much with the arrival of spouses and children. And even with the birth of new children.

So today was especially heartbreaking: we said goodbye to a member whose refugee hearing came and went and who got a negative decision. Appeals failed. Requests for humanitarian consideration failed, as did a last-ditch plea to stop the deportation. She will be leaving in two days. We surrounded her and put our hands on her and her husband, and we prayed. I don't know this woman well, but the tears streamed down my face for the fear she must feel that I can't even imagine. For the loneliness that must surround her. For her. And for so many more like her whose lives and safety are so precarious.

In that profound sorrow, I understood something real. I have a gift. So many, many gifts. The sorrow I've been carrying around for the past few weeks has felt very real, but it has made me blind to the beauty of what I have. The black cloud has made me rather self-centred. It has blocked the view of the blessings - the many, many blessings - that I have. My life, my children. The fact that we have never wanted for food, or shelter, or clothing. In fact, we have more of each of those than we need. That we do not fear for our lives or our safety. That we can freely speak our minds and our hearts. That we have friends and family that we love and with whom we can be in contact. I have a good job; the girls are free to go to school and be as educated as they please.

The angst that I've been feeling can be diminished to a flippant hashtag: #firstworldproblems. And they really are. I feel like I should beg forgiveness, of God, of the universe, of those suffering around the world, for being so whiny. For forgetting my blessings. For not being more generous with the blessings I do have. For not opening my heart and mind and whole being to seeing what good I do have and working to somehow share that with the world.

I feel completely helpless in the case of this Burundian woman who will be sent back to a situation she fears may kill her. I can do nothing to help her. And I could let that get me down, too. Somehow, though, I think that if I were in a terrible situation and I saw people around me who had so many, many blessings, I'd want them to be happy. I'd envy them - no question. But I'd want what they have so that I, too, could be happy.

It is said that the thankful heart will find, in every hour, some heavenly blessings. It is time to start being thankful.

loneliness

We all have our own kryptonite. It usually dates back to our childhood; it's that intangible thing that we couldn't have. For some it's recognition, for others it's respect. Or feeling capable, or safe, or important. Its opposite becomes our Achilles heel, the weakness that will destroy us. Mine is loneliness.

I think the hardest part of this separation has been feeling lonely. I have no one to come home to and share my day with. No one to commiserate about work, or the loads of house work piling up. No one to share the pain of losing a loved one. No one to share a laugh about something the kids did. No one to share memories with. It is quiet and lonely. Damn lonely.

It drives me to distraction. I have filled evenings with all kinds of things: hanging out with friends, exercising, surfing the internet, work, food, HBO, late night dancing, singing at the top of my lungs. Anything to keep me from remembering that I am lonely. I would almost sell my soul some days to keep from being lonely. The nights are the worst, with the crickets chirping and darkness waiting. The resolutions I'd made to be good, to do the right thing, to be healthy, they evaporate.

In the morning, I become sane again. My promises to myself seem so clear. My reassurances that loneliness is okay resurface. And I breathe.

meet The Bean

The Bean's nickname dates back to before her birth, to that little grainy picture of her we got when she was about 13 weeks in utero. She had a sweet little turned up nose (still has), a funny brow-ridge inherited from her Dad (mercifully non-existent now), and she appeared to be the size of a bean. A little kidney bean with a perfect little profile. We didn't know if we were having a boy or a girl, so we took to calling this little creature The Bean. And it stuck. Even years later I would walk into a room and tell her Dad, "The Bean is sleeping soundly," or "The Bean doesn't look too well today."

The name is more nostalgic these days than descriptive. Perhaps The Bean Pole would be more apt, given that she is a ten-year-old who is all elbows and knees. And hair. Long, thick, beautiful hair that is at times stunning and elicits stares from boys (oh, I see them), and at times snarls up like a three-year-old's whose mane hasn't seen a brush in a month. She is in that in-between zone right now, being both a child and on her way to adolescence.

The Bean, once we had figured out how to get food into her, was an easy baby. She slept 10 to 12 hours a night by the time she was six months old. She would crawl into her room to play on her own when she was ten months. She hardly ever had tantrums. She listened well and was quite quiescent. Unless it had to do with us helping her. You see, The Bean has an independent streak a mile long. Her first full sentence was "me, stairs self!" At 18 months, she didn't want anyone holding her hand to go up and down the concrete stairs to our apartment. If I tried to put her shoes on for her, she would kick and scream and then simply take them off so that she could do it herself. It drove me mad.

Besides the independence, The Bean is a sweet, kind hearted kid. She is sensitive, but doesn't show it. Outgoing, but has the voice of a fairy: light and ephemeral.

I am careful to describe her because I don't want to put her into a box. As parents we sometimes fall into that trap. I know I do it, but I want to try to keep an open mind. After all, I know that I am a bundle of contradictions; why would I not allow my child to surprise me from time to time? But people ask: are your girls similar? My clear and quick answer is: no. Not at all. And then I try to describe them, and I realise that I am putting them in boxes. The Bean is the quiet one; her sister is the boisterous one. The Bean is X and Boo is Y. The list could go on and on if I let it. So let me simply use a stream of consciousness approach. The Bean is: soft, gentle, sweet, kind, understatedly funny, wickedly smart, loving, generous, affectionate, and thoughtful. There are negative things, too. She takes a long time to complete tasks, which drives me to distraction. She is easily frustrated, but it may be the bourgeoning hormones. She rolls her eyes (she gets that from me). She stomps off. But she forgives quickly and eagerly.

In short, she's a great little person. Tales of our adventures will surely paint a fuller picture than this attempt to capture her here.

"it has to hurt before it feels better"

I've been holding my tension, which is really just a fancy word for stress, in my neck and shoulders for a good long while. It used to eventually go away. But like so many things that have changed in my body when I hit my mid-thirties, it wasn't going away on its own. A few months ago I was so stiff that I couldn't even lower my shoulders. I looked like I was in a constant state of saying, "whatever," or "I don't know." Which, while both may have been true, I sure didn't want to look like it.

So I asked around and found a really good massage therapist. I had my very first deep tissue massage two months ago. It hurt when she got to those knots and I struggled against her sometimes. She was patient and showed me how to relax into the massage. I took a good, long, hot epsom salt bath when I got home and then just lay in my bed, completely unable to get up to even fix myself some toast for dinner. The next day, I felt like I'd done a four-hour workout. I was so sore that I could barely walk. But within a couple of days, the tension was completely gone, my shoulders were at a normal place well below my ears, and I felt good, relaxed even.

The stress has been building again. I have additional responsibilities at work. At first, it was only to be for a couple of months. I was just keeping the ship pointed in the right direction. But now that my boss has been permanently promoted, I've been asked to stay on a while longer. Suddenly, I have to make long-term decisions on things, and the buck stops with me on some of them. It is a bit scary. And exhilarating - for this adrenaline junky. There are other things going on, too. Some passive house hunting, one or two disastrous dates - the stuff of the soon-to-be-divorced. So my shoulders have been back up around my ears.

I visited my massage therapist again today. I told her about the extreme pain I'd felt the day following my last massage.

"Oh yeah. That's entirely normal. It has to hurt before it feels better. Sometimes a lot. But it always feels better."

I'm hanging onto that today. Because it still hurts.