Don’t Be a Shunner

Bee

I’ve been doing a little reading up on the practice of shunning. It’s a form of punishment usually attributed to the Amish, but apparently is used through Jehovah’s Witnesses and other religious groups and cults as well.

When it comes to Shunners, families are probably the worst. To be completely discarded by someone you have known your entire life, to be treated as if you no longer exist, is horrendously painful and unimaginable to some folks. Human beings are social creatures. It puts a different spin on life when you wake up each day knowing you are missing out on all the human experiences that were such an integral part of your existence. It also messes up your personal history. Each memory with the people involved isn’t funny or sweet anymore. It just makes you feel a little sick, like you are watching the former you through a thick foggy window.

Here is a good description of the Shun as it pertains to families. It was written on Reddit by escabeloved:

“Shunning is a silent and insidious form of psychological torture. … You end up believing that you are the broken one, the unlovable one, instead of an innocent victim of a vicious group bent on controlling its members through fear of experiencing what we (as the example) are going through, or … punishing those who have stayed away.”

As Janice Harper wrote in Huffington Post:

“We justify shunning through gossip, revising our opinions of those we once respected and in many cases loved, and by diffusing our responsibility as we note others are doing the same.”

I am fortunate in that I have been on the other side of the Shun and I see how the join-up system works. This is the story:

A cousin-in-law of ours — I’ll call her Big Red (with apologies to the noble race horses who carried that moniker — she really doesn’t deserve it) — decided she didn’t like a Facebook friend. She had her own reasons — seemingly hysterical — where this person had offended her. She decided to contact all the Baileys and instruct us all to unfriend this person. The name spread through the family like an oil spill — calls and emails, gossip, “This goes WAY beyond Facebook.”

Instead of simply unfriending the person and shrugging them off, I took a pause. Big Red was not close to me. In fact, she had been extremely rude more than once. I owed her no favors. I hadn’t heard from her in years. Why was I all of a sudden getting phone calls from her?

Then, my brother joined in, laundry listing all the reasons why this person should NOT be on my friends list. Not one of the reasons had anything to do with me. Nor did they even seem like that big a deal.

I decided to make up my own mind about the Facebook friend. I had never seen any behavior that was inappropriate or rude. So I just forgot about it.

I received a hysterically angry phone call from Big Red, complete with threats, and a nasty voicemail after I hung up on her.

Then I got hate mail from her offspring.

(Incidentally, it happened only 3 weeks after my dad died…. Which just further confirmed the character of these Shunners and how I was on the right track.)

But, I had flunked the Shun.

Of course, I’d made the right choice. I would like to say the Facebook friend pulled someone out of a burning building or later won the Nobel Peace Prize. But that never happened. I had simply refused to hurt the feelings of someone who, to me, was just an acquaintance, but had never done any harm to me, or to anyone else as far as I could tell.

Perhaps more importantly, I didn’t want to be controlled.

The family was in an uproar. The Shun is an important weapon and it requires cooperation. Since that time, I have watched it work against me. One by one, not only immediate family, but extended family members too, some of whom I adored, have lined up on command and fallen into that abyss.

Once you employ the Shun, there is no coming back from it. Understand that. Even if your victim forgives you, the trust is gone and your relationship will never be the same.

I am surprised by a few of them. I thought people were stronger. Or maybe I thought they liked me enough to not pretend that I have died. It’s very disappointing. But in thinking about the history of shunning, I realize that it was used by Nazis (marking the Jews with a star) and in the old days of the Salem witch trials — the hex is alive today. Not good company.

For those of you who are outcast, my heart goes out to you. As a little irony, here’s a Bible verse about shunning, 1 Corinthians 5:11:

But now I am writing to you that you must not associate with anyone who claims to be a brother or sister but is:

  • sexually immoral
  • greedy,
  • an idolater or slanderer,
  • a drunkard or swindler.

I just laughed and laughed about that one! There’s always a log in our own eye.

So think twice about joining up with any nasty gang-banging bullies who want to single someone out. Remember the next time, it could be you.

Be strong. Be honest. Be kind and humble. Make up your own mind about people. Everyone is walking their own path and carrying a load you can only imagine.

And — if you are on the flip side of the Shun, fear not. You are being pushed away — in the right direction!

There is life out here. It gets better. So, so much better.

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A Painting a Day: Goldfinch on Ice

Yesterday, following the ice storm, I spied this goldfinch in a lilac bush, already transitioning to his summer hue of violent yellow. He looked quite out of place, but wasn’t the least bit embarrassed about it. So I painted him. 12×16″ watercolor, still available, $200.

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A Painting a Day: Red Fox Watercolor

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The red fox moves through the willows looking for an errant bird to snag. The spring is so early that he hasn’t even shed his winter coat yet.

But the colors are all about the bloom.

This watercolor is no doubt inspired by the ice storm that continues to bombard us. It’s supposed to go on until Tuesday, and then quit for a day.

Gives a whole new meaning to the old phrase, “April Showers.”

……..Showered with freezing sleet!

This piece is 12×16″ and still available.

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A Painting a Day: The Medicine Hat Filly

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In the days when the horses were the most important mode of transportation (read: before the white man) there was the medicine hat horse.

These sacred horses had dark ears and a spot crowning the head. The body was mostly white, which supplied a canvas for bright symbols of war or the sun or the hunt.

The medicine hat horses protected their riders, often warning of danger (which a good horse will) and even scouting out game. Obviously, a horse bearing the medicine hat was greatly prized and very rare.

It perhaps is no accident that I was gifted this image of a friend’s filly, named Quinn, who was just recently born sporting the sacred markings. April is always a hard month for me, bearing several tough anniversaries. To top this off, April 2018 has been fraught with upheaval in the government, internal rumors and vicious gossip, dropping missiles on Syria, and unsettling warnings about the climate; whales dying as the polar ice cap melts away. Here in Michigan, winter seems never-ending with cold winds and ice falling out of the sky.

But now come these mystical images of a medicine horse, a filly foal, bouncing by her dam’s side,  stretching down to pose with one long leg thrust forward, for all the world like a white ballerina.

And me with my oils, the rich aroma, the blending textures, in deep colors that must be savored, because they just don’t dry.

Layer after layer. Take your time. Stretch and reach and breathe.

Thanks, Quinn.

 

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A Painting A Day: I Try Oils (Again)

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Painting in oils hasn’t been my thing.  Part of the reason is due to my impatience. I also realized, while working on “Night Heron”, that my style is not typical for someone who works with oils. I work fast, and tight. Oils are for people who like to work slow and loose.

I think it would behoove me to learn to slow down.

I have to say I can understand the appeal of oils even though they are messy and very inconvenient to work with. The photo of “Night Heron” makes it look flat and blobby, but in reality the sheen makes it stand apart from my other works. The painting seems to change in different lighting. At night, it looks like a night scene. In daylight, it appears as a bright, humid day with the moon out. Photos don’t do justice to oils.

Unfortunately for me, storage is going to be an issue. My studio is actually the living room by the woodstove where I am surrounded by squeaky-toy toting dogs, a fat, attentive Kitteh, and another, too-interested adolescent kitten who loves paint brushes and finds the whole process fascinating.

Anyway, with all this activity and hair floating around, it’s not the ideal environment for a messy, slow-drying art medium.

“Night Heron” is 12×16″. It is for sale, $400. By the looks of things, it will be ready to ship in about a month.

 

 

 

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A Painting a Day

Painting is not always fun. For whatever reason, some of us are compelled to just keep on doing it. But when you are painting model horses, some kind of madness takes over.

There are people who collect these things. Breyer, Peter Stone. Some people collect the factory models and don’t do anything to them. Others strip the paint and sand the horses down. Some even change the position of head, ears, legs and feet, or add thicker manes and tails.

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My friend Gina likes to revamp the plastic horse bodies this way. She gave me a few out of what she called her “body box.”

The idea is to make the horse look as much like a real horse as possible.

Some people use airbrushing. Others paint with a brush that has like, one hair. And a magnifying glass. I just started treating the horses like canvas. I put a kestrel on the first one. On another one I did a border collie complete with a few sheep.

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I had ambitions of doing a painting a day through the month of April, but the month is already five days in.

This is not to say I have neglected the effort. However, I got sidetracked with painting model horses, and I am not really sure that counts. Even though it is an awful lot of work! That is a topic for another post. Although, just as if to prove the state of obsession, I see they are already hijacking this one.

BTW all these paintings are for sale. If you don’t like my art enough to buy it, feel free to donate to the paint bucket so I can improve. Ha.

Today’s project is called “Fast Food.” It’s acrylic, 11×15″. The piece is an exercise in shapes and texture, and actually what I was really working on was background. I am trying to establish a more painterly style of background that would be more compatible with oils. To me it kinda looks like a children’s book illustration.

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Yesterday’s effort is, “In The Hour of Truth.” Again, an exercise in textures. I like the “Pi” shape of the composition with the raven and sun dial.

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Prior to these two was my spring watercolor, The Blue Jay hanging out with the forsythia.

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That’s the extent of my April flat work. This is only because I have painted up all the model horses.

 

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Willow the Wish

chickadee

Chickadee with pussy willow, watercolor and acrylic.

One of the greatest things about calling a place “home” throughout your life, especially in an area like the Eastern UP, is the way it changes, yet always stays the same. The landscape fades and blooms with each season. But it remains recognizable, like an old friend. One good thing about aging is watching this evolving kaleidoscope of change, as the shifts of climate and conditions offer prime opportunity for various species to flourish.

The beach is likely soon to be rife with pussy willows, a native American stick plant whose real name is Salix discolor. There’s a Native American story about a rabbit that leaped up into a patch of willows from the surface of the winter’s deepest snows. The cold and wind had exhausted him, so he snuggled into a bed of willows and fell into a deep sleep. He slept right into spring, and when he woke up, the snow had melted leaving him high above the earth. He jumped and tumbled down through the willows, leaving bits of his fur torn away in the jagged branches. Since that day, pussy willows bear spring coats of soft fur.

When we were kids, we used to pick the small furry bits, called catkins, off and glue them to construction paper in the shape of animals. Okay, they were always cats. We couldn’t get past the name. We didn’t know the rabbit story. Our paper would sag and buckle under the weight of the grey velvet bumps. As an art medium, pussy willows aren’t all that great.

For landscaping and flower arrangements, though, they are fabulous. As a cut flower, they will last for years as long as they stay dry. They are outstanding in arrangements as an accent plant.

Gardeners love the “Tree of Enchantment”, the Weeping Pussy Willow. The tree grows six or eight feet high. It has been grafted and the branches bend down, adorned in early spring with their bright, mustard-colored puffs of pollen.

But the wild ones are easy to grow in pots or in the ground, with sufficient water. Take a cut stem, stick it into moist soil, proceed to keep it watered, and presto. You can encourage them to spread by making sure you have both genders. Pussy willows are Dioecious (die A shus), meaning that male and female parts are found on different plants. An astute observer can even tell them apart. The males have the larger, showier catkins, while the females tend to be smaller and green colored.

It’s hard to think of such a sparse-looking, stemmy plant as being a robust pollen source. But when the bees emerge after a long winter of shivering in the hive, the pussy willow is one of their first targets. The plant needs bees and butterflies to thrive, because it holds tight to its pollen, which doesn’t get blown around by the wind. Since the early bloom attracts insects, birds like chickadees will frequent a batch of pussy willows looking for an easy meal. A spring bog adorned with pussy willows will be hopping with activity.

One of the nicest things about the pussy willow is its place in legend. It is considered sacred due to its flexible twigs. It is connected to healing and revitalization. It is the symbol of resilience and inspires us to “bend” with change and move forward in life. It has magical powers and has the ability to grant wishes. To make a wish, tell the willow about your heart’s desire. Take a pliable stem and tie a loose knot in it. When your wish comes true, untie the knot, and thank the willow for your gift.

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Cardinal, watercolor mixed media

 

 

 

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When All of Life Is Magic

“We dance round in a ring and suppose. But the Secret sits in the middle and knows.”             – Robert Frost

The eaves were dripping as the winter mantle sank in resignation, just a little. The weak sun was shrouded in white and the birds were celebrating with a shouting chorus. The house sparrows rolled together on the patches of bare ground, wings flickering in the amorous thrill of pseudo-spring.

Kerry 7th Gen, the Junior horse, had escaped his enclosure, twanging and snapping the wire fence, scorning its absurdity. Trudy hung back, opting out of joining him, probably happy to be rid of him for a few hours. She could hang out instead with Clifford, who was still in the barn, and visit comfortably with him over the Dutch door, for once without interruption.

Kerry was snipping the long grasses with his teeth, those cold damp strands of brown flanking the woodpile. He heard me come out the door, turning his striped face toward me. Most horses would have put their tail up to snort and trot around in excitement. Even Clifford may have been like, “Look what I did! You can’t catch meeeeeee!”

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Not this one. He walked around the truck and up the driveway, straight to me, standing with his face looking in my cell phone, posing for his close-up, blowing in my pockets softly. I did have a horse cookie. Indeed. I held it out, grateful for his calm demeanor. He crunched down the cookie and then followed me back to the barn. I led him inside and gave him a scoop of grain, closing the door behind me.

“I’ll be damned!” Dad had said, when I showed him the photos of the Morgan colt who looked so much like Clifford. He would certainly love this young, beautiful, curious and naughty gelding.

The chickadees were squabbling around Dad’s feeder and I paused to talk to them. The other birds scatter at the sound of my voice, except for the red headed woodpecker, who doesn’t fear me, and the chickadees who aren’t quite tame enough to eat from my hand. As I stood there looking at them I thought of the birds up on Drummond and how long it had taken me to hand tame that first one. It took patience. But once he started coming to my hand, the others did, too.

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I had warned Dad to put only millet seeds in the feeder. They came to us for sunflower seeds. I always carried them in my pockets. But after two seasons Dad gave in and began filling the feeder with sunflower seeds, and that ended the hand feeding.

I came back in the house, carrying wood for the fire. I pulled my rubber barn boots off, stepping on the heel of one, and then the other. I left the boots sitting in the entry way, and then I heard a “BLING!”

It was like a xylophone, the sound ringing from the bottom to top of the scale. I turned to look at the wind chimes from Mom and Dad’s house that now hang in my entry way. They were perfectly still, hanging undisturbed. The sound did not match, anyway. The bells on Mom’s wind chime make a light sort of tinkle. This “Bling” was like a “ta da!”, or the sound of an angel’s wings as the Hallmark Channel would portray them.

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“What the heck WAS that?” I said aloud.

I looked at my cats, both asleep in their respective spots, Kitteh atop the cat tree and Mox on the couch.

I was stumped.

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My other wind chime hangs in the kitchen window, a gift from my glass artist friend Gina last Christmas. I touched it and got the familiar, deep tinkle.

I know I heard the sound, so clear and bright. It was sharp enough to make me suddenly turn and look.

The secret sits in the middle, and knows.

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You Know It’s a Party When They Call the Cops

“Cast your whole votenot a strip of paper merely, but your whole influence.” – Thoreau

My friend, biologist Beth Duman is probably relieved that she didn’t get involved in this one.

She had orchestrated Clifford’s participation in other Christmas endeavors, like visiting Pathway School to deliver horsey good will to kids with disabilities.

Clifford Pathway.jpg

Beth also had him ringing the bell for the Salvation Army outside the Howell Walmart. (Clifford ran into the store several times. I’m not sure, but I think he was heading for the produce section.)

Cliffy and Beth Wal Mart

In 2015, Beth, being an avid dog trainer, introduced Clifford to Victoria Stillwell at the Novi Pet Expo. “I’m in love,” Victoria cooed, cuddling up to him. Clifford posed unabashedly like a fellow celebrity.

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This year, Clifford visited the Senior center in Charlotte and upstaged Santa by painting ornaments for the kids. Let’s face it — you can go sit on Santa’s lap and try to articulate your wishes, or you can go put glitter glue on sticky ornaments with a slobbering horse. What kid is gonna go with the cleaner option? Besides, you can catch Santa on the flip side. He’s everywhere.

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That was fun. But for Christmas 2017, Clean Water Action contacted me with an opportunity for Clifford to help make a difference: He could participate in a Christmas march to Governor Snyder’s office. The idea was to deliver wrapped gifts to the reluctant governor, filled with thousands of written requests to shut down Line Five.

Line Five is a 64-year-old pipe full of oil, threading — of all places — under the water through the Straits of Mackinac.

Even typing that out feels weird and ominous.

Anyway, Clifford had participated in a 2015 march for the same purpose. CWA was hoping to attract some media to the current endeavor.

CWA Clifford Rocks the State Capitol

I was happy to be invited. I can’t think of too many more crucial things to speak out about. After all, it’s only a matter of time before the thing springs a leak. The time to ask is now.

I packed up all Clifford’s Christmas gear: His Santa Claus hat. His name-inscribed purple halter. His purple blanket. His peppermint babushka by Doggone Bandannas. Some tinsel and a bunch of treats.

Clifford was more than glad to load up into ol’ Wheelzebub and go on a new adventure. The State Capitol is only a half hour drive for us. I parked along the street near the capitol building. As I pulled up, I got a call from Sean McBrearty who had organized the march, asking if I needed any help.

“Well, they can come and help decorate him if they want!”

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I have to say the CWA people are great. They showed up in minutes, gathering around Clifford and helping me hang the tinsel on him. Clifford walks pretty fast, so they fell in behind him as we clip-clopped up the sidewalk toward the Capitol building. Along the way, Clifford looked around at every building as if wondering which one was hosting this event. We got to the corner and we joined a waiting crowd of clean water enthusiasts, including Santa, some elves and a giant (presumably paper machete) Bill Schuette.

There was no waiting around. We crossed the street, en masse. The protesters held up signs that read, “NO OIL UNDER THE LAKES” and “OIL AND WATER DON’T MIX”.

We reached Governor Snyder’s office and swarmed into the small pavilion on the corner, through the glass door and inside. Clifford was in the center of a wave of people, so we just went through the door as well. We gathered around the reception desk. The guy behind the desk was all smiles, until he looked over and saw Clifford, and then his mouth made a big round circle and his eyes bulged out.

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Gathering in Governor Snyder’s building. The police officer is standing behind the sign on the left, ordering Clifford out of the building.

“SHUT DOWN LINE FIVE!” SHUT DOWN LINE FIVE!” the protesters shouted.

Clifford just stood there in the swarm, and he is used to being swarmed, so he doesn’t move his feet. But the room was small and the yelling was loud. His head started to rise, so I put a hand on his neck and soothed him, asking him to drop his head and stay calm and offering him a treat when he complied. He crunched it down. Just then, a state police officer stepped in front of us.

“That horse can’t be in here!”

“Oh. It’s okay. He’s a therapy horse. He visits schools and libraries. He’s not going to do anything.”

“I need him out of this building, now!”

I held up my phone. “Can I take a picture first?”

“NO!”

Clifford and I made a tight turn and the wave of protesters parted to allow us through the door. “Thank you Clifford!” they shouted. “Thanks Clifford!”

We walked back out of the building and waited under the roof by the door. The police officer followed. He was much more low-key outside, apparently realizing that it wasn’t going to be a fight or a problem getting Clifford out. Besides, how mad can you be at a horse in a Santa hat?

Two or more State police showed up and then I had to answer all the questions. But nobody took any information down, or asked about me. They all wanted to know about Clifford! There’s a book about him? Really? What’s it called? How old is he? What breed? Where else has he been? How did I teach him to do that? What kind of treats does he like?

“He likes peppermints!” I took one out and handed it to the officer who had evicted us. “Do you want to feed him one?”

He took the mint and unwrapped it.

“Now he knows you have that, so you will have to hold your hand out flat, like this. Make like a table with your hand, because he might hit it kind of hard, and most people get alarmed and drop the treat.”

Clifford’s soft muzzle whisked across the guy’s hand and he smiled. “Thank you! I’ve never done that!”

“That’s his jackpot treat. So now you’re his best friend.”

Shortly afterward, our group of protesters came out of Governor Snyder’s building and headed across the street to Bill Schuette’s office.

Schuette’s office is in a complex that required a flight of stairs. As we reached the bottom, the peppermint-feeding cop rolled up on a bicycle. “He’s not going up there.”

I nodded. “We’ll have to wait here then.”

Another State Police officer approached. He was wearing a big black hat that I could only compare to a Canadian Mountie, but he wasn’t too familiar with horses. He had whipped out a notepad. Finally someone was taking a report. He took down my name and address.

“Is he a therapy animal?”

“Yes.”

“Is he licensed?”

“Yes. He is registered with our nonprofit, the Foundation for Animals in Therapy and Education, otherwise known as FATE.”

“That helps.”

He wrote it down.

I answered all the questions from the Detroit News and Michigan Radio. I was not aware, because probably I wasn’t paying enough attention, but apparently I was being broadcast on the radio. I still don’t know what I said, other than making a lot of quips, like how Clifford is an abstract artist but his work sucks. But I did manage to steer the conversation back to Line 5, which, after all, is the whole point.

“The straits of Mackinac is the artery to the Great Lakes. Just because you can’t see the other side of a body of water doesn’t mean the resource is infinite.”

When our gaggle of protesters started coming down the steps, the cops left, apparently finished with monitoring Clifford and me.

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A lady with a big camera came up to me. She didn’t introduce herself . “You should have asked permission to go in there,” she snapped.

“Well, that would have risked the whole effort,” I said.

She stormed away.

I turned to Sean. “I sure hope I didn’t get CWA in any trouble.”

Clean Water Action Campaign organizer, Sean McBrearty, posing with Clifford and another protester near Lansing State Capitol

“No! No worries. Thanks so much for coming,” Sean said.  “We are glad to have you! Some of us are starting to call Clifford ‘Michigan’s Lil’ Sebastian’.”

“Oh, from ‘Parks and Rec’! I get it. Hopefully the results won’t be the same.”

Cheyna Roth from MPR asked me if Clifford would do any more demonstrations to shut down Line 5.

“I hope not! It’s disappointing that we are having to even revisit this matter. But we will continue to do what it takes to help shut this pipeline down.”

For more information about Line 5, visit Michigan Clean Water Action.

 

 

 

 

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For the Down Hearted: on Death, Love, God and Christmas

I try not to talk too much about my religious beliefs, not only because they are a private matter for everyone, not only because the topic is ripe for hot debate and self-righteous scolding, not only because I am not even sure what they ARE.

My idea of naming different religions and sticking to ritual is a little bit like the Native Americans view of owning land. It is there before you are born, and will remain after your bones are buried under it. How can anyone put boundaries on that?

Christmas places a lot of incidental pressure on folks. The spending expectations can be especially trying. For people like me who have suffered serious loss, the holidays are bittersweet, providing a challenge in new ways to celebrate and find gladness in moments, for the first time in a lifetime, now devoid of certain people and experiences.

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One of my fondest Christmas memories is of a music box tree my parents gave me. It’s made of ceramic, with a winder on the bottom. It rotates slowly and tinkles out, “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas”.

The year I unwrapped this tree was 2009. I sat on the floor by Dad’s feet, collecting shreds of tinsel, bright ribbons and paper and putting them in a bag. I started singing the song. Dad sang it with me, his deep, strong timber blending with my wavering alto notes, carrying them effortlessly.

“Let your heart be light,

From now on our troubles will be out of sight…”

We sang the whole thing together.

I have suffered other losses in my life. We lost Mom on New Year’s Eve in 2010. My best friend of 23 years, Kimmy, died in 2003. I thought I might never recover from that one. I probably never have. I lost another close friend, Rita, in 2016.  We had been friends for nearly 30 years. And back in 1987 my dear friend Linda was killed. She too made a profound impact on me. My first published book, “Holding the Ladder”, is about Linda.

But I have never held anyone in my heart as firmly as I have my dad.

“Five minutes after I am gone,” he said to me once, “I will try to contact you.”

Dad and I spent many quiet moments throughout our days and evenings, deep in discussion, talking about books and ideas and animals. In the long afternoons on Drummond Island he liked to take a sip of Jack Daniels from a bottle he had hidden under the porch. One day he got pleasantly inebriated, talking about my siblings and how Mom had yelled at him for favoring me.

“But, you love all of us,” I said.

“But I love you more! I can’t help it. We just have too much in common. I told Mother, ‘Nancy and I are compatible.'”

I wanted to cover my ears; it is something no child should ever hear from a parent. While he may have never said it while sober, we all knew it was true.

Siblings claim that Dad was not a man of his word; that he was an irresponsible parent and did not take care of matters as he should. This is not the person I knew. Dad’s problem was that he trusted too much. He thought a handshake would carry an agreement.

Dad hasn’t appeared to me. But what, in the timeline of infinity, does ‘five minutes’ mean?

There is no question that the love lives on. I carry him in my heart.

Today, I realized that this is the closest to God that any earthly person can be. If there is a God, he comes with a knowing deep within you. It happens no matter what anyone tells you about him: The certainty of right and wrong. The glimmer of humanity in small gestures. The search for kindness. The pursuit of all things that are good and right, truthful and fair.

No matter what any person says, the love is real.

You carry him in your heart.

Happy Christmas to all!

 

 

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