Finding Culture

I went back to the family farm last weekend.  I call it the “family farm” because it’s where my dad grew up, but it should be mentioned that never once did I actually live there.  I’m a city girl through and through, so there’s always a strange tension as I head up that long driveway lined with “kissing trees” (as Dad calls them) and riddled with pot holes; I drive past the shed where my farmer uncle supplements his income by working as a part-time mechanic; I turn right, past the giant weeping willow that holds the tree house that I used to play in with my cousins, and I carry on up the hill, parking in front of the big white farm house.  I open my door slowly, careful not to hit one of the many dogs who have been chasing my car since I turned onto the property, and I have to remind myself not to lock my doors -- no one locks their doors at the farm.  It’s that moment, that reminder, that deep breath preparing myself for the “other world” I’m about to enter into, that brings the tension.  It’s tense because I don’t belong here... and yet I totally do.

My family are all Canadian.  Like, really Canadian.  I’m pretty sure our ancestors on my mom’s side came over on the Mayflower.  When my teachers made us study our “culture” in elementary school, I was always rather embarrassed, because the food of my people was... back bacon?  Maple syrup?  Nanaimo bars?  I felt as white and uncultured as I could be.  And I was always a little jealous of my friends from the Philippines who brought homemade pancit for the class to try.  So exotic, so interesting, so culturally rich.  These kids could go home and ask their moms and dads about their culture; and in that conversation, they could create a part of their identity.

I never got that.  I’ve always felt devoid of any sort of cultural identity, and I’ve always been a little disappointed about it.  But now, as an adult, I’m learning that there is a huge part of me that I never even realized existed.

I am a child of farmers.  My father’s people worked Canadian land, raised Canadian cows, and developed a property to pass on from generation to generation.  On my mom’s side are war nurses, airplane pilots, and pioneers in Canadian broadcasting with the CBC.  My mom’s uncle was a wine and cheese expert; my dad’s aunt created quilts for the Mennonite relief sale.  Throughout my lineage are people who have done things; who have created a legacy and have shaped a small part of the woman I have become.

So it's true that at the family farm, I feel tension.  There's a pull in two directions -- an aching to participate in the traditions of my cultural history, yet a knowledge that I've travelled a long way from there, as a city girl in the buzzing metropolis of Toronto.  I don't know how to plant asparagus or milk a cow, and I find myself constantly checking my shoes to make sure they haven’t gotten too dirty.  But last weekend I walked through the garden with my cousin and my grandma.  And grandma held our hands as she told us about all the crops that were planted on that land, and I felt like I was a part of something bigger than myself.  And my shoes didn’t get too dirty, and I picked some asparagus and held a chicken, and I took selfies with a baby cow.  And as I headed back to Toronto to post the pictures of my farm visit on Facebook, I felt a little richer.

I may be a city girl, I may prefer trains instead of tractors and blogs instead of hay bales, but the culture and the history of my family will always be a part of me.  And as a seventh-generation Canadian, I’m pretty proud of that.

Blue Bow-ties and City Living

There's this house in my neighbourhood, just on the other side of the bridge.  It's a cute little house, a bungalow, and it backs out onto a bit of a community green space, on the edge of a ravine.  This house is already magical on account of its location.  My street runs directly parallel to arguably the biggest, or "mainest," street in the city -- and it's a big city -- but on my street, just one block away from the hustle and the bustle, there is nature.  There are deer and bunnies and people walking their dogs.  And there's this house.

Two people live in this house.  They're old, and they're adorable.  I love walking through my neighbourhood and seeing these two watching the news together in their TV room, whose window overlooks the street.  I love driving by their house and seeing their kids and grandkids walking up the driveway to pay them a visit. I love how I feel like I know them, even though we've never spoken.

Last Easter, on the Sunday morning, I happened to pass this couple's house just as they were heading out.  They must have been going to church, because they were looking extremely dapper.  She was in a lovely peach blouse and a pleated skirt, and he wore navy slacks and a white dress shirt with the biggest blue bow-tie I've ever seen.  I'm embarrassed to say that I actually drove slower past their house so I could watch as he carefully helped her into the passenger side of the car.

There's something about this couple that gives me hope.  There's something about their house that brings me peace.  When I walk by this little house, and I see the flowers in their garden that she no doubt planted by hand... well, there's just something about this couple and the way in which they live that makes me sure that love exists.  It's a simple kind of love, but to me it's profoundly beautiful.  And as a woman who seems to be growing more and more cynical with each passing day, I can't begin to tell you how thankful I am for these two.  I'm thankful for their love.  I'm thankful for their peace.  And I'm thankful for their cute little bungalow, just on the other side of the bridge...

Daddy's Girl

I'm getting my picture taken on Tuesday, and I don't know what to wear.  I've been told I should wear something of a dark colour, with no print.  Blue jeans, but not with a white tee because that's cliche.  I should make sure that I complement the other outfits in the picture without being too matchy.  And I should probably wear heels.  My legs look damn good in heels.

The picture is being taken because my dad is dying.  He was recently diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and my group of friends bought our family a photo session so we could be sure to have a nice picture with him, for posterity.  (Have I mentioned how wonderful my friends are?  I really do pick wonderful friends).

It's a strange feeling, realizing that someone you love is going to die.  I mean, we're all going to die.  And we generally don't get that much of a warning.  It's strange to feel that the warning is a blessing.

Since we were warned, a lot has happened.  I've been showered with kindness upon kindness, many of which I will never be able to repay.  I've realized the importance of building a community of people you love and trust, and then sticking with that community.  I've realized how important family is to me.  I've realized how much I respect my dad.

This man, my father, has a laugh that fills every room and hallway in a home.  He's deliberate in speech and even more deliberate in love.  He values truth and honesty, and his one request is for people not to sugar coat how they're feeling.  In the hospital, just out of exploratory surgery, after just receiving the news that he "had an expiration date" (as he so eloquently put it), his first thought was for the people that he loved.  He said that he wanted whatever time he had left to be filled with love and that he wanted to help us come to terms with this situation in any way he could.

How blessed am I to have a father who has taught me Love...  How happy am I to have time to be deliberate in loving him back...

I'm finding that one of the great challenges in all this is the Bereavement Voice.  You know, the slight touch to the shoulder, the squinty look and the soft and pronounced, "How are you doing?"  It's horrible to realize this, because I'm sure I've used the Bereavement Voice with every person I've ever cared about who has lost someone close to them.  It's the best way to show them you care, right?  Well I'm realizing that maybe it's not.

Our family has a long way to go in this journey.  Some days, granted, are terrible.  But other days are rather beautiful and I'm joyful and thankful and maybe not even thinking about the tragedy that is soon to befall us.  As soon as I'm hit with the Bereavement Voice, it's like a slap in the face.  HEY!  BE SAD! TALK ABOUT YOUR PAIN AND HOW MUCH PAIN YOU'RE IN!  REMEMBER YOUR PAIN?  TALK ABOUT IT!!!!!!  And if you're not feeling pain at that moment, you'd better conjure some up, otherwise you'll seem pretty callous.

I know that's not their intention.  It's unfair of me to feel this way, but I do.  I guess, really, I don't have an appropriate response for "How's your dad doing?"  He's still alive.  Right now he's alive.  Everything else, I'll confide in you if I feel moved.

I was talking to someone recently whose dad is also dying.  It was the most refreshing conversation, because it was completely candid.  There was laughter in the conversation along with the sadness.  Our society is funny in that we just don't know how to deal with death.  No matter how often it happens, we still can't figure out how to approach it in a way that makes everyone feel alright.  We're as clumsy as Canadian drivers during the first major snowfall of the year.

So the way I'm dealing with it is to carry on.  And to laugh often, and to love much.  And to take pictures, because I know I'm going to want them later.  So I'll probably wear a green shirt, and maybe a scarf, and my hot black boots.  And the best part is that no matter what I choose to wear, my dad will see me on Tuesday and tell me I look beautiful.

I may be perpetually single, I may seem to be completely clueless when it comes to intimacy with another human being, but you can't argue with the fact that I have a man in my life who loves me even more than he loves himself.

And, really, what more could a girl ask for?...

Where the Heart Is...

I'm home.  Or, at least, I think I am...

My last couple weekends have been spent in the home of my childhood.  An amazing woman passed away and another amazing woman is expecting twins and I was brought back to celebrate life in all respects.

It got me thinking about family.  I never really realized how far the word "family" extends for me.  Two weekends ago I had a birthday meal at the family home of two of my ex-boyfriends.  They're brothers.  And it sounds weird and it breaks all the rules, and believe me, it sounds even weirder if you know all the other connections and rules that have been broken and blurred, but what it really boils down to is that some people come into your life and that's that.  You're in their life and they're in yours, and life is better that way.  That family is family to me.  I adore them all so much.  And when those twins are born (the ones inside the belly of my best friend in the world, the friend who is married to one of the abovementioned exes) I will be as excited as if they shared my blood.  All of those people in that family share my heart.

And at the funeral, at the celebration of life, I saw more family.  Women and men who saw me grow up, and still pray for me on a regular basis.  These are people with whom it's okay to just pick up where we left off.  It reminded me of how rich my life is.  Oh, how easy it is to forget, in the drudgery of the day to day, how many beautiful people I know and love... Let me not forget again soon...

Next weekend is Easter.  I have no real Easter plans to speak of, and I'm thinking of going back home.  It's strange, because that city stopped being "home" for me about four years ago; and all of a sudden, my heart is right back in the middle of it.

Don't get me wrong: this is home too.  This is who I am right now, and I am so happy here.  But it's strange to once again feel ties to another place.  I feel connected in a very tangible way to a life from which I thought I had somewhat separated myself.

I think, maybe, that once a place is home, once a person is family, a part of you is claimed forever... in the nicest of ways...

Colombia, Te Quiero

I wrote this on the plane on the way home from my most recent adventure.  I went to Colombia.  It was amazing...

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I want to write about the beauty that exists in the people of this world.  I want to tell you about the adventure I just took and about the love I experienced.  I want to describe the blue scarf hanging around my neck, the earrings dangling from my ears, and the bracelet hugging my wrist, all given to me by people who have very little of their own...

I want to write this all down, document it, so I can remember the overwhelming love, gratitude, joy... and humility... but when I try to put it into words, it just seems stale.

We've heard it all before.  A young traveler goes away, sees some mountains and banana trees, discovers a new culture, and realizes that the world isn't really that big after all.

I won't tell you that story, because it's only really  new when you've just lived it.  I will say, though, that I had one hell of a week.  I drove through Colombian mountains in the back of a rickety old van.  I stood under a waterfall.  I hugged an old friend and made some new ones.

I learned to communicate with more than just words.  I learned how to make ajiaco and empanadas.  I learned that a Colombian airport luggage search is much smoother when you are smiling through the tears that are streaming down your face.

Most importantly, I learned (or was once again reminded) that people are good; that friends are everywhere; that life is beautiful.

I wish I could write my adventure in blog form so it could be understood, through eloquent metaphors and brief moments of wit.  The thing about this kind of adventure, though, is that it needs to be experienced to be understood.  So I guess all I can say is that maybe you should make the trip yourself.  Go to Colombia.  Ask for a guy named Jake.  Tell him I sent you.

Up, Up and Away

I have the heart of a traveler.

I just love going to new places and exploring and basking in the beauty of things I've never seen before.  I love the familiarity of walking through a place I've read about in books.  I love feeling so alone and yet so connected to the whole world at exactly the same time.  I love traveling.

It's strange, then, that the last time I really travelled (with the exception of a weekend trip here and there) was five years ago.  Five.  That's about one sixth of my life.  It's been one sixth of a lifetime since I explored the world.  But don't worry -- that story will soon change.

I'm going away.  Soon.  I will visit a good friend in a hot place and see his life.  I can't even tell you how excited I am about this.  I've packed my belongings into a small carry-on suitcase.  I've bought travel insurance.  I've painted my toenails.  My stuff is sitting at the door all ready to go, and I'm certain there's no way I'll be able to sleep tonight.

It's worth it.  The plane ride may be expensive, it may rain the whole time I'm there, but to sit here right now, having this feeling that I'm having...  Oh yes, it's worth it.

Old Friends and Snail Mail

I had forgotten what your handwriting looks like. Seeing it today made me remember all the notes we used to write each other, back when you were Nathoo (with a silent h) and I was Mushmellon (because we thought it was cute). It's the handwriting that made me miss you the most.

I came home today tired, knowing that I couldn't stay. I had essays to mark, and I had to get to a coffee shop immediately so I could focus. Just enough time to pick up my hat and my iPod and a snack. I walked into my building and there, leaning against the door, was a package. It was the size of a cereal box, wrapped in white paper. Addressed to me. I knew what it was at once.

It was sunshine and baked goods and Toblerone bars and a book and a CD and a dinosaur and a hand-written letter. And it made my day beautiful. No matter what may have happened at work, no matter what might happen later as I pour over these essays, February 22nd is officially a beautiful day.

It's beautiful because you remembered, because you did what you said you would. It's beautiful because of the picture you drew on the second page of the letter, and because of the fact that you heard me say I love Toblerones. It's beautiful because I don't understand the plastic dinosaur, but I'm pretty sure that was the point. And I'm smiling. And that's a beautiful thing at the end of a long day.

I'm going to leave one of the Toblerones in my mail box, along with another handwritten letter. This package could have been sent back to the post office were it not for my heroic mail carrier and his willingness to enter my building.

The world is full of good people and beauty and small plastic dinosaurs that make me smile. Thank you, Nathoo, for reminding me of that. I will call soon.