Reflections and Remembering

I had no intention of writing on my blog today. I have a bath run and a morning to get to. I write on Mondays and look forward to taking my WIP further along. But I went to my blog, reading entries from this time last year which I often do. So for the last few minutes I have been reading and crying.Reflection and remembering; time wasted or time well spent? For me it is the latter. For me it gives me hope and happiness remembering the blessings and challenges of the past. I will not get to enter my Aunt Alice's house again, I will not get to talk on the phone with my Mom or visit Gladys again but the essence and value of it all remains deep within my heart and memory. So to read back strengthens me and gives me the momentum for this day, for this approaching Christmas season,and for this season of my life.Maybe this is the exercise and warm up routine a writer needs. Feeling and remembering are fuel for the fire that I attempt to bring to the page.Ok the tears have been cried ,the emotional stretches done and I am ready for this day.

A Sorrow Shared

Yesterday afternoon I sat in a room with many others and let tears flow. We sat and witnessed sorrow, pain and joy and felt our own. For some it might seem like a torturous way to spend a Saturday afternoon but those who came to see Sheree Fitch and hear her read passages from her latest book 'You Won't Always be This Sad' were moved and touched by her honesty and vulnerability.That is not to say that seeing someone else's pain is easy. But carrying your own is no easy task either.Nothing easy about any of it. Sheree looked weary as she gave the last presentation of a grueling tour . She was anxious to get back home but still gave the afternoon her all. I have great admiration for Sheree Fitch.Our lives have intersected in several ways. Firstly we are the same age, both having December birthdays. Many of our experiences are similiar.We have seen the world unfold in the last sixty three years and have witnessed so many changes in society. We both got our degrees from St. Thomas University. Her writing career began years before mine. For me and countless others she was a beacon to follow. I was honored to have her blurb my first book. At the time she was struggling with her brother's illness and the fear of his passing. I was writing about the sorrow of losing Zac and she was so gracious with her support. Both our sons struggled with learning disabilities and we both know the deep pain of not being able to make things easier for our precious boys.The book she supported, The Year Mrs. Montague Cried went on to win the Ann Connor Brimer award which Sheree won in 1995 with Mable Murple. In 2018 we were both shortlisted for the Ann Connor Brimer. I was honored to be in her company. Charis Cotter won with her book The Painting.Another parallel came when Sheree lost her son Dustin and as she said yesterday ,joined a club no one wants to belong to.For three summers we have taken our granddaughter to River John to Sheree's Mabel Murple's bookstore,a delightful dream realized by Sheree and her husband Giles.This dream and her many books have impacted and touched countless people and I am just one of them. Thank you Sheree Fitch!

To Find Solace

I am not sure if I feel strong enough to write this entry this morning but still I write. I often have dreamed filled nights.When I wake up and say "I had a weird dream last night Burton always says"You have weird dreams every night. That may be true but some nights are harder and more emotionally draining than others. I still quite regularly have school dreams . The other night I took my whole class in the wrong direction at the end of the day and walked all the way to Belleisle causing them to miss the bus going home.My principal (Gary Caines) was very upset with me as we frantically called all the parents. Weird.Last night a had a small baby, was taking a bus through mountains to the Wal-Mart to finish my Christmas shopping, and dreamed a whole lot of other jumbled mixed up messes. But the one dream that impacted me the most and gave me the title for today's entry is the one responsible for my melancholy this morning.I seldom get a dream where I actually see Zac. Last night in one of my now fading dreams he stood beside me. He did not talk and when someone introduced him they said he was Solace. In my jumbled waking first moments the scene and his introduction spoke so clearly to me.Solace; a source of comfort and relief.I am weary this morning, I feel weepy and weak but I choose to see a dream with my oldest son standing beside me silently loving and supporting me as a gift, something in which I can find solace, strength and hope.So I wipe my tears and get on with it.

From Failing Hands

To the strains of the Last Post I begin this entry. Listening to 'In Flander's Fields' the line 'from failing hands' hits a mark within me. As Nov 11, 2019 approaches I have heard it mentioned several times of just how few World War Two veterans are still living .I recall the same being said of World War One veterans.My children's grandfather was a World War One veteran and they were often challenged on this fact by people thinking they must be wrong.My father in law became a father in his late fifties when most men become grandfathers. Our family is very proud of William Elias White's military service having fought at Vimy Ridge and Passendale. Remembrance Day has always been observed in our family with pride, reverence and deep emotion. My husband followed the military path and spent 44 years in the Canadian Armed Forces. He served in Afghanistan and stood willing his entire career ready to defend our country . He now stands in Legion dress making sure his comrades are not forgotten.His hair is white, his body and his mind show the strains of service and of duty.Many of his fellow soldiers suffer the effects seen and unseen of serving and struggle to find their way.To you from failing hands we throw the torch; be yours to hold it high.Lest we Forget.

Another Sunday Morning

My blog coach( aka daughter) said my last entry had a negative tone. I do realize that but make no apologies. As stated I do try to stay upbeat. On this rather grey day I do give thanks for the sun of yesterday. I was able to get outside in the lovely afternoon weather and tackle a bit of the mess. I put things away in the garden shed and put the tree stand, windshield scrapers and snowshoes in the front for easy access. I look ahead to the next season. The bare trees and stark landscape looks much different than it did a month ago. Life as we know it is different. Every evening when I walk by the lamp on the small table in the kitchen where the small framed picture of my Dad as a boy sits I recall my nighttime ritual of calling Dad before he went to bed. Our conversations were short. Toward the end his pain and frustration was so evident and I always breathed a prayer for a better day to come for him when I hung up the phone. I catch myself when that fleeting thought of needing to call my father comes. I think back to the days he spent here with us in the spring and hold tightly to each memory. Each meal we shared, each slow walk , each conversation, each game of Five Crowns, each time I came downstairs and saw him sitting in the corner of the living room is a treasure I hold. Funny how last year I was holding on to the minutes I spent with Mom as she laid in the hospital and then in her short nursing home stay. Those memories broaden out of course as far back as I can remember. This morning a line in a song brought me to lines my mother sang to me when I was a little girl.Memories , seasons, time change and change in general; for all this I give thanks on this another Sunday morning.