Talis (wo)men

Sometimes it seems as if the years I spent raising my children were just a dream.

And then I will stumble upon a reminder.

Like this one I found last Tuesday in the wood pile - reminding me of both my children and their gift and talent with the guitar:





Or these that I found in a box of lego that my honourary grand-daughters were playing with - reminding me of:

my daughter's passion for horses



and, my son's passion for all things star trek.





And last summer, before I embarked on a long vacation I found this suddenly appearing on the hallway floor:



I have no recollection of this ladybug, and not sure where she came from, but I popped her into my pocket, and she travels with me.

Reminding me that I was a mother of young children.

Reminding me that I am still a mother.

Allowing me to hold on to the memories for a little while longer.

The guitar is an instrument that links us all together: daughter and son, mother and father.

The ladybug and the little horse are tokens of my daughter.

The starship Enterprise, and this hummingbird are tokens of my son. He embroidered it for me a few years ago.



These tokens are with me always.

Tangible objects for an intangible concept.

Like love.

New traditions

Thanksgiving Weekend is upon us. This will be the first Thanksgiving in years and years and years that there won't be a big noisy family dinner.

Instead I have bought all the ingredients to make my Auntie Georgie's mustard pickles on either the Friday or the Monday, and my husband and I have booked a waterfront campsite for saturday and sunday night.

We might bake a salmon for our Thanksgiving dinner, or we might just roast chorizo over the fire.

I am looking forward to the simplicity of it. I am taking my knitting and a couple of good books. I just checked the weather report and it calls for rain, but I like camping in the rain.

As I have said before in this blog, when I was diagnosed with chronic leukemia my husband asked me what I wanted to do.

"I want to camp in our camper, hearing the rain on the roof."

That was 11 years ago. There have been lots of camping trips, and many with rain on the roof.

It never gets old.

There have been many changes in the last few years. My nest is truly empty, and for the first time in a long time I feel like it is going to be ok.

I can learn things still, and enjoy the company of new and old friends. I can take the time to take care of myself, and I am beginning to say what I want, and not feel I have to do things because others want me to.

My 59th birthday is fast approaching. I will be in my 60th year.

I think it is going to be just fine.

This is what 59 looks like. New traditions and all.

It's official - he took his Christmas Stocking

I think this is it. My first born has left home for real. Oh sure, his belongings are all in the basement, and his mail still arrives to the front door, but this time he packed his Christmas Stocking. It's official. He has left home.

He has left home before - to go to university, to share apartments with friends, to travel Europe with his band, to live in a communal house. But this time, as he headed up North to live in perpetual winter (literally, not figuratively), he took his Christmas stocking.

For twenty-seven Christmases that stocking was hung on the same mantle piece. This Christmas it will hang somewhere else. And a piece of my heart with it.

This is what an empty nest feels like. Lined with memories, but as the leaves fall away, it just looks so lonely and precarious and vulnerable.

And there really isn't enough kleenex.

Five Year Diary

I received a five year diary for my birthday last October. I had seen my sister's and thought it was a cool idea. She surprised me with the gift. She is thoughtful that way.

It allows only a few lines per day, so at the end of five years you have all five entries for a date - say October 17 - on one page.

I have been using it to cram in events of the day, and as a record of my migraines, but I decided last night that I need to use it more productively. Partly because my handwriting is so poor that I barely can read the entries, so for the family historians who may read this in 50 years it will be a frustrating experience.

I think instead I am going to do what my niece suggested to do at the year end. Think of a word, or short phrase, to sum up the year, and another word, or short phrase to look forward to the next year. But, I will do it daily, rather than yearly.

So for today the words I will write to end the day are Contentment and Calm. The phrase for tomorrow: Courage and Letting Go.

I have to learn to let go of my class of students. The end is coming fast - four more weeks of teaching, one week of camping, and three days to round it all off.

I have to learn to let go of my identity as 'a teacher', although my mother once said that I am a born teacher, and whatever I find myself doing, teaching will likely be a part of it.

I have to learn to let go of my children as they find their way in the world. Not letting go in the heart sense, but letting go in the way that parents must let go of their children. It is a way I am still trying to find the words for this journey. To still care, and yes, worry, and support, and love and listen, but not to burden them with obligation or baggage.

I have to learn to let go of trying to ease another's pain, by making it my own. That kind of enmeshment or enabling behaviour is not good for me, or them.

I have to learn to let go of what was, what could have been, and learn to live with what is and what will be.

I have to learn to let go of the life I have been living, and imagine a different one.

I have to let go of my fear, and learn to embrace the feeling of free fall.

I have to learn to "Not look back, because I am not going that way".