Middle Pages

I'm working something out. It is beginning to seem to me in middle age that I am, as a human being, more than the sum of all my choices and lessons learned,  more than the compilation of my life experiences: the kind of parent I was, the kind of daughter or wife or friend I was; more than a tally of the occasions on which I stood strong and those on which I buckled, and more even than the extent to which I have loved and been loved. In fact when I reach backwards to draw all those defining moments and traits into the present for itemizing, they are not as accessible as they ought to be.  It is not so easy to line them up as evidence of who I am.  They are fuzzy. They have lost some of their salience. Of course I remember what it was like to be the mother of a young child. Of course I remember the agony of divorce,  the tenderness of romance, the moral failings, the personal accomplishments ....but the memories will not cooperate with my efforts to stack them, sort th...

Social media platforms, like nothing before them, expand our networks to include people who, without them, might have remained forgotten remnants from our past.  That girl who peed her pants in grade 2? Found her on Facebook.  That guy who broke your heart when you were 13? He tweets regularly now about his vegan diet.  That person who shared a room with you at the YMCA when you were travelling through Europe? Her drawings are on Tumblr. That cousin you hardly ever see anymore? You can see pictures of his kids on Instagram. Once the initial glow of reconnecting passes, you have to come to terms with the fact that their ‘stuff’ shows up in your newsfeed. And you soon realize that shared childhoods and shared dormitory rooms do not equal shared political views.  In fact, you may be subjected to disturbingly offensive opinions, and find yourself dismayed as you try to reconcile your happy memories of him/her with the person who now seems to be a total red-necked blockh...

Geographies of Divorce: Never "my town" In 1981, James Taylor released a song called "Her town too" ( http://youtu.be/Be73MgBIhUM ) in which he expresses regret that his ex-wife is being excluded from social events because he holds greater social capital than she does amongst the people in the town where they once had a life together. When relationships end, it is a sad but true fact that people take sides, assets are split, and someone, if not both parties, must relocate. Taylor alludes to another type of collateral damage that I'm calling Geographies of Divorce . It's the shifting of boundaries, the renegotiation of territory, the displacement, isolation and the staggering trauma of homelessness that accompanies divorce. In my case Sweet Baby James can relax. The neighborhood I shared for almost 5 years with a man whose town it always was... was never MY town. But the geographies of divorce have tentacles that are still able to reach out and squee...

Eight years ago this evening I had eight chicken breasts in the oven – Chicken Parmigiana - for a dinner party with a group of girlfriends, when the phone rang.  It was my mother calling to say that I should come home quickly. My father was in the hospital and had taken a turn for the worse. He wasn't going to make it, the doctor told her.  I phoned one friend to cancel the dinner and asked her to call the others. I wrapped the chicken and put it in the trunk of my car. I rummaged through my closet for a black dress, and told my 13-year-old daughter to do the same. Somehow we threw together things to put in a suitcase and drove 4 1/2 hours straight to the hospital where my father lay dying. He was still lucid when we arrived. He was genuinely surprised to see us. "What are you guys doing here?" he asked, apparently unaware that he had only hours to live. What could we say? That we were there because we wanted to be with him at the end of his life? That we were ther...

She was the most Christ-like woman I have ever met . She tapped into a reserve of love and fortitude that was bottomless. She drew on a source of strength that could have only been divine. She supported friends and acquaintances through health challenges and through life’s storms, without referencing her own. On Valentine’s Day, she went home to be with the source of her infinite love and the lover of her soul. Time stood still for individuals on at least three continents as they learned, one by one, that  Alison Soulsby had gone to dance with her Saviour at the best Valentine’s Day Party ever . Alison in 2010 How sorry I am for you if you did not know Alison! How you would have been blessed to know this remarkable woman who never worried about running out of time or strength; a woman who wasn’t depleted by serving others but rather was energized: a woman who was still taking on new FaceBook friends just one day before moving into the Cornwall Hospice to die. I am certain ...

It is amazing to me to see how far I have come in the five years since my marriage ended. Here is what I wrote four years ago this month under the weight of emotional pain which threatened to topple me.  I hardly recognize the hurting woman behind the words.  I wish I could tell "old me" that it would be alright...that as brutal as the end was, I would one day be grateful that it cleared the way for a bigger life and a bigger love, and a relationship with God that put all other relationships in perspective. ************************************************************** February 2011:  I'm donne with yeats Valentine's Day is around the corner.  Cheesy as it sounds, my husband and I actually did read poetry to each other every February 14th.  I probably started the tradition ten years ago.  We'd each hold a book of collected love poems and take turns reading our favourites to each other.  John Donne for me. William Butler Yeats for ...

July 2011 On a train to Krakow.  Ironically in this compartment of six seats, mine is the only one getting direct sunlight for the entire 3 hour trip from Warsaw.  Others, including my daughter, are resting comfortably, chatting, napping, reading.  I on the other hand have beads of perspiration racing down my face, uniting at the base of my throat to trickle down between my breasts.  My hair is wet.  My clothes are damp.  Even as I curse my choice of seat and indulge in a bit of self-pity, I am mindful of the cattle cars filed with Jews making this same trip to Auschwitz 70 years ago.  Heat. Panic. Fear. Blackness.  I am chastened by the thought of their misery. The conductor has taken our tickets after making a sour face.  He tells me in Polish that my tickets are for a cheaper train and that I ought not to be on this higher-priced train.  I know this already having asked several people on the platform if this was the right tra...