I love traveling by rail and do as often as I can. The trek Montreal to Toronto by car can take about 5 to 6 hours and by train if I am lucky and get the express which only stops at 3 places, it takes 4 and a half hours. Some other trains can take up to 7 hours and the bus takes 6 hours and costs anywhere from $18 to $50. Just fuel to get there one way costs me $70. Now if I am really lucky, I try to book a few days before departing and can get on business class for one-third of the price. That means, I get longer leg room, can get a seat alone by the window and am paying the economy class price.
At business class, we get a 3-course meal with all the before dinner drinks, wine, and after dinner drinks you want. Well, I stick to a glass or two of wine but there are some who can sure pack it in. I would be crawling off the train if I tried to keep up. Last winter we were stalled for an extra two hours due to the cold weather, the tracks were iced and they could not switch tracks. So we waited for all the trains to pass on one particular track as a safety measure. I sure was glad I was in the business class…nice and roomy, blogging away on my laptop.
I visit once or twice a year to see my family now. I rarely go see my friends as there is not enough time but to catch a lot of my friends and colleagues, I pick up a shift in Toronto since it’s the national office of where I work. Every time I leave, I feel homesick barely a few miles out of the city. I have two places I call home since 1997 and it is with mixed feelings I leave each time.
She looked up at the sky and saw only grey clouds. “Again, only grey poop on” she muttered. That’s what she thought of those grey clouds…pooping on her life, her mood, her heart and her soul. There was no longer any light in her life. She sighed, giving herself a bigger push to swing higher. “Maybe if I swing high enough, I’ll be able to kick one of those clouds and see rain that will wash away all the bleakness in this land.”
“Watch it, little one! You may fall and you sure as heck don’t want to fall way down there!!”squawked the black crow above, settling on a dried up tree…no leaves, just branches..
Elaina looked up at her friend. He had become her friend in the past year.He had given her the idea to braid long strips of cotton to hang from the twig that was her only seat outside her birdcage. She now had a swing which gave her a sense of freedom.
She had been disgusted by this huge black crow, at first when she was brought here by “him” but she realized over time, that Cornelius was a product of “his” master plan. Anyone who defied him or tried to escape only fell into the den of désespérance or Des-Spa as Cornelius jokingly called it. It was the bottomless pit that lay below…a sort of limbo but Elaina felt it was a hell created by “him”.
“I suppose you’re right, Cornelius, even if you are not a wise old owl,” she giggled and for a brief moment, the clouds separated and a hint of glow shone from the skies. Whenever Elaina sang or laughed, this occurred. But it never seemed to last more than 2 to 3 seconds.
Somehow, somewhere far above there was a positive force of goodness and beauty that was trying to communicate to Elaina. She felt it in the soles of her feet. Well, not really soles but she had been stripped of all her clothes. She had made herself a make-shift dress from the veils that covered her cage/home and with the long strips leftover, braided it as per instructions from daring Cornelius.
“He” had stripped her of her clothes but had the decency to jail her in a veiled insulated cage she could use as bedding or blanket on cooler nights. She didn’t mind sleeping without bedding. She felt less trapped this way. And Cornelius could keep her company when she was lonely and spread his wings to keep her warm on cooler nights. He always enjoyed her giggling and especially her singing in her soft soprano voice. She sounded like an angel in a celestial choir. Perhaps that is why the clouds separated briefly…maybe angels thought she was a lost sister.
Somehow she knew if she could sing long enough or the right harmony, the skies would be unlocked…finally breathe hope and compassion…she would just have to be patient.
The drama teacher told us the other day that the boys do not emote enough and asked me and Francine to give examples. Is she kidding? I am a bundle of emotions. My soul and heart are like a bunch of elastics that pile one on to the other building a ball bigger than a golf ball. Each elastic can snap at the knowledge of sadness, pain and suffering. An elastic or two will snap if there is hatred and bitterness. I am the most ridiculous example of someone you should NOT be like. But these guys need examples, she said.
Well, I beg to differ, Mrs. Messier! These boys know how to emote alright. They did it just fine when they were babies, even as toddlers but when they got to nursery school at the ripe OLD age of 3 and 4, they were laughed at for showing emotions. If they dared show any signs that remotely looked or sounded like a kid with a sad face or wanting to cry…well, the boys would call them sissy. The girls were allowed to cry if someone called them stupid or told them, “I hate you!” A boy had to cross his arms, pout, scrunch up his nose and narrow his gaze with eyebrows trained to make a high V. That was how they emote alright. The hid it in their hearts and sometimes it got too big, it slipped into their fist especially if they felt a tear escaping…
So how can I show these 16-year-old boys how to emote tomorrow in drama class?
Hmmm, I think I will tell them a story about a little boy going off in the forest to hunt deer with his father, grandfather and uncles. And suddenly it starts raining and thundering. And then lightning strikes and hits a tree and falls on his uncles, striking them dead! Lightening did not let up, yet, though, no sirree! Lightening hit his father and his grandfather and all he had left was his little rifle and a knife and a deer that was off to the side staring at him with those big doe eyes! He stared back…he bit his lips, he scrunched his nose, he narrowed his gaze and the dear gently sauntered up closer to him and nudged him with its nose. The doe had also lost her mom and dad and brothers. The boy understood right there. He put down his rifle and knife and knelt next to the deer and hugged it and cried… he wept with it in his arms until nightfall.
When the moon came out from behind the clouds, he could see his way back home. He had an apple in his rucksack and gave it to the deer and whispered to it, “Run and hide, dear one. Thank you for healing my heart. I have become a man today. I am not afraid to cry and to show compassion.”
These are Linda’s instructions and it’s a fun prompt…just let it go, write until your thoughts stop, then you’ve reached the end, then publish.
Linda says: This week’s prompt word is “emote.” Feel free to add a suffix to it, or not, and just let it flow. After you’ve written your Saturday post tomorrow, please link it here at the prompt page in the comments so others can find it and see your awesome Stream of Consciousness post. Don’t hesitate to join in!Here are the rules:1. Your post must be stream of consciousness writing, meaning no editing, (typos can be fixed) and minimal planning on what you’re going to write.2. Your post can be as long or as short as you want it to be. One sentence – one thousand words. Fact, fiction, poetry – it doesn’t matter. Just let the words carry you along until you’re ready to stop.3. There will be a prompt every week. I will post the prompt here on my blog on Friday, along with a reminder for you to join in. The prompt will be one random thing, but it will not be a subject. For instance, I will not say “Write about dogs”; the prompt will be more like, “Make your first sentence a question,” or “Begin with the word ‘The’.”4. Ping back! It’s important, so that I and other people will come and read your post! The way to ping back, is to just copy and paste the URL of my post somewhere on your post. Then your URL will show up in my comments, for everyone to see. For example, in your post you can copy and paste the following: This post is part of SoCS:http://lindaghill.wordpress.com/2014/06/27/the-friday-reminder-and-prompt-for-socs-june-2814/ The most recent pingbacks will be found at the top.5. Read at least one other person’s blog who has linked back their post. Even better, read everyone’s! If you’re the first person to link back, you can check back later, or go to the previous week, by following my category, “Stream of Consciousness Saturday,” which you’ll find right below the “Like” button on my post.6. Copy and paste the rules (if you’d like to) in your post. The more people who join in, the more new bloggers you’ll meet and the bigger your community will get!7. Have fun!
This week’s quote prompt for Ligo Haibun Challenge, focuses on Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi, more commonly known as ‘Mahatma’ (meaning ‘Great Soul’) Gandhi. This is the quote that inspired my haibun.
“Whatever you do may seem insignificant, but it is most important that you do it.”
As I was writing this I also had another prompt in mind for Haiku Horizon and the prompt was “comfort”. I realized when I completed it that I had two themes in mind and yet, I find this important person I talk about was a significant comfort to me and important role model…my mentor and strength in life.
I am reminiscing of times passed in Grand-Maman’s house when she was still living there. I would arrive and she’d always have that mocking chuckle. It was a teasing laugh with affection. In French there is an expression, “Qui s’aime, se taquine.” {One teases a person they love} I am quite tall and she would often greet me with a laugh and then ask me before I had time to sit down, “Oh, by the way, “la grand jaune” *. I was holding these items here just for you.”
Warm feelings
taunting with affection
comforting words
Folded with care on a chair next to the washroom were tablecloths carefully ironed. She ironed everything, even sheets and dish towels. She would wait for me to store these high UP in the cupboard over the bathtub. I know that sounds odd. My grandfather built this house “à la pièce” {bit by bit}. At first it was a snack bar for summer tourists who came over to rent a row-boat or go for a swim in the river. He added more and more until it became a 2 bedroom home. perhaps he was still chief of police then and living at City Hall ….I am not too sure of the entire story and not many people are living to confirm this, so I am going by the memory of my youth.
I would take the pile of linen, stand up on the side of the bathtub and place them in the cupboard. The ceiling in the washroom was about 12 feet high compared to the kitchen it was very high!. I guess that was once part of that snack bar.
Then we could sit and chat with a nice cup of tea. I liked my tea strong because I added sugar and milk the way I used to as a child. Grand-Maman, on the other hand like her tea like most French Canadians, black. So when I would pour the boiling water in my cup, she would always say, “Don’t throw out the tea bag…put it in my cup…I don’t need it strong.”
It always felt good to sit at the kitchen table and munch on some of her pies or sugar cookies she had baked. And if there weren’t any, she would pop in some bread in the toaster and we’d enjoy toast with des cretons or molasses. The latter was one of her favourite. She would talk about stories when she was younger. Sometimes I would talk about a friend or colleague I worked with in town and she would remember the mother of that friend. Most probably she had delivered them at birth since she was the village mid-wife, she had delivered thousands of babies in all the surrounding towns including most of her grandchildren…I was one that was born in her bed!
She would talk about madame so and so, the wife of a military man when she had pensioners boarding in her home during WWII that were referred to her from the Military Camp in Farnham, our home town. People called her for recipes, gardening, how to patch their roof, how to sew a coat, advice on child rearing and for ailing the sick or a dying relative. Being a midwife was only one smart part of her role, as well as raising seven children, supporting her husband as Chief of Police, being a fervent Catholic. She brought me to my first communion as everyone seemed busy that day. As if raising her children was not enough, when I was 14 and my sister 16, she took us in with our mother when our father flew the coop. Never once complaining about wanting to “live” for a change but continued to cook, clean and nurture us as we were her own…proudly too!
Many called her madame Daudelin, others called her Garde Daudelin (nurse) and most just called her Grand-Maman Daudelin.
When GrandMaman passed, I asked for those four cups that I favoured . They look like ordinary “diner” style cups but still they meant a lot to me. One particular cup had some paint smudged on the bottom and I NEVER wanted to scrub it off. There is something about that particular cup that comforts me when I drink my tea. It holds old memories of times passed and the bond and love I had for Grand-Maman who was my second mom and my model in life.
extraordinary
humble, selfless
ma grandmère.
~
extraordinaire
modeste, généreuse
ma grandmère
All our visits to her home had a purpose. She had linen or cans to store on shelves, work for my uncles to get done outside or fix some pipes in the basement, my mom would colour and style her hair regularly…everyone had a feeling they gave her something when they visited and felt good about themselves when they left; and yet, she gave so much to all of us in wisdom, love, hope and mostly purpose in life.
Last Saturday I went to visit my mother in my hometown. I was pleased to be with her and it was also on the longest day of the year, summer solstice. So on my way home, I decided to drive by the church where I was baptized and received most of my sacraments including matrimony. What is lovely about sitting across the street from this huge cathedral styled church is the river. There are benches where you can look down and see and hear the water flow over the dam.
I like hearing the water rushing downstream like that. I could feel some of sombre thoughts float along with the current. The river has always listened to me, somewhat like my private journal, only I don’t have to speak and I don’t have to write. As I followed the flow of the water, I could see the sun setting in the east…so beautiful even this late!
I was quite surprised to see only two buttercups blossomed in that huge mass of green leaves. As I got closer, you could see the buds of future blossoms. {I must drive down next week}. It was still a beautiful sight and I was so pleased to be able to still capture some nice shots at such a late hour. It was 9;30 P.M.! But hey, guess that’s why they say it is the longest day of the year. Seeing the flowers changed my mood. Walking towards another bunch of bushes, I saw more buttercups. I’m not sure if they will withstand the wind by the river but that bright yellow sure looked nice.
As I was waiting for my son to visit last night, I was preparing my late dinner, steak and rapini and grabbed my notebook that I kept on the counter and scribbled these thoughts with fondness.
In my thirteen years living in Toronto, I made amazing friends and colleagues. I miss many and sorting the rapini while the water was coming to a boil, I could not help but be reminded of that weekend I spent mostly in Bella…Maria’s kitchen. She cooks like most Italian mothers do…with abundance of love. She taught me by having me take part in making a cannelloni from scratch! {the sauce as well} (which I hurried to practice upon arrival on Montreal soil) then prepare a decadent dessert, tiramisu and watching her prepare rapini. My hips do not allow for the dessert too often but rapini is a new favourite that replaces my love for spinach and broccoli…now it reminds me of juicy food and succulent conversations with Maria. Je t’aime bella, cia mia cara.
What I also discovered living in Toronto was that not all feathered species like to fly. Many parks are filled with geese and ducks who are fed all year long…don’t really care to leave this great home. They seem to have taken residence and do not bother to fly south winters.
I still love to look at the geese who usually fly in the shape of a giant V with the leader at the head, coming and going from Canadian towns. However, I found these Toronto geese less intriguing but more intrusive with their pompous attitudes, blocking some majour intersections in the Lakeshore area while motorists had to literally stop while a family led by Queen goose mother decided to cross the street! I suppose it is funny now but in some parks especially at Centre Island, it may not always easy to find a clean spot to lay your red checkered tablecloth for a romantic picnic.
I spent many summers when I was a young child at Kilarney Cottage in Shawbridge (Prevost) Quebec in the Laurentians. My great grand-father O’Donnell immigrated to Montreal from Ballybunion, Ireland before the Irish famine; he built this cottage for his family of seven children.
My great-aunt took over hosting when her father passed. There was a creek where we spent hours hopping from rock to rock until we reached a pool of water and where I first learned how to swim. There was always something to explore in that creek. The cottage had 15 rooms and my great-aunt always hosted many friends and family that came from Montreal. Thank goodness the sound of the creek at night buffered the loud sounds of adults partying until the wee hours.
My aunt (father’s sister) did this painting of the creek years ago and I am so happy I still have this as the photos never gave it justice. This painting is only a glimpse of this long creek that led to mini cascades of water falls and one huge pool of still water. I still hear the sounds of that creek and the ice-cold water, brrrr.
Working in the helping profession can be challenging but it is an extremely validating career. To listen to someone who has no where else to turn, no one else to trust and bravely dials an anonymous help line is liberating and at times, life saving. I am fortunate to work for such a great organization that offers so much hope to youths and young adults.
A counsellor has to practice self-care to avoid compassionate fatigue. That entails taking time off work periodically, spending time with family, friends and mostly finding activities to unwind and experience joy. Life is not all about pain and sadness but when you work in a field where you are facing darkness in the eye too often, it is easy to distort life’s reality.
But what must one do in between those “times off”? Some watch comedy clips on-line, read a good suspense thriller allows the mind to tune out real quick, go for a walk on the streets of Montreal, talk to a colleague, sit in a park for half an hour, journal, write and some take the elevator in our building to go up to the roof and just breath in the crescendo of colours created by the Great Spirit.
I often hurry up there when I take a sneak peek while on a phone call and see through the window the sun starting its performance and I rush upstairs to witness the concert playing out along the horizon.
This man grabbed the nearest table umbrella to escort three women to their car in the pouring rain. Now that’s what we call a GENTLEman!
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Kindness
Hearing the ding-dong sound, I ran down the stairs, reaching the closing doors of the Metro car then suddenly, I saw two hands block the doors…they reopened and I rushed in. Looking at the owner of said hands, I was touched to see a very young man who had allowed me to step on the train. Thankfully, I would not be late for work…again! I know it’s illegal to do this but I was truly moved by this gesture. A young man barely in his twenties by the look of him and me, over fifty years old…why had he done this?
This was my first year returning to Montreal. I suppose chivalry still does exist but it’s more than that…it is acts of kindness people show regardless if they are living in a big city or a village.
How do you react when someone holds a door for you? Are you offended if you are a young woman? Or are you flattered or just touched? I grew up in the age when feminism became quite strong…well, it toppled to ridiculous in some cases for I would have cringed being a man just trying to be polite and holding a door for someone. It’s like you are damned if you do and damned if you don’t. Sometimes I just want to scream at people who get offended at acts of kindness. There does NOT always have to be a hidden agenda and what if there was…so what? You don’t have to reciprocate. Sheesh!
Years ago when I had just moved to Toronto, I had just dropped my daughter off at the bus terminal on Dundas and Bay. It was a Sunday afternoon and I knew I had to go home to a small empty apartment. So I decided to walk down Yonge Street. My heart was heavy with loneliness already missing my daughter and thinking of my son as well who both were in Montreal. My mixed emotions weighed with remorse and worry for them. The weight on my heart was heavy. It was busy on the street with city folks taking advantage of the glorious sunny day. I kept my head down and hardly noticed anyone.
“Hey, don’t look so sad, Lady. It’s a beautiful sunny day and tomorrow is another day!” I stopped and looked towards the voice. There was a homeless man standing near his belongings setting up for the evening in front of a closed down theatre. His genuine smile showed a few missing teeth and I smiled through my teary eyes, nodded and whispering “thank you”. Continuing on my walk, the tears just would not stop. I looked up at the beautiful blue sky and squinted at the sun. I was smiling now and realized my sobbing was not sadness but tears of joy. I had been touched by an angel…kindness.
“Hello, you’ve reached a counsellor. How can I help you tonight?” I waited. I heard soft sobs; he spoke so fast, I could not decipher his story. “Are you safe right now? Are you okay?”
“Yes, I am safe. I’m at home alone. My parents are at my school meeting teachers. It’s the parent-teacher meeting tonight. They are going to kill me when they get home!” His voice reached a high note and he sounded more like a young, scared child…not his fifteen years.
He called out of helplessness…a last resort. Wishing to protect his family as youths usually do, he needed to get this off his chest for the first time. Tonight, he wept on the phone for the first time a practice he was accustomed doing privately … his nightly lullaby.
He was worried about his parents’ reaction on their return. He had an 82% average and usually he got 90+ He talked about his listlessness and difficulty concentrating lately, his insomnia, his depression…
“I can’t remember a night I have not cried myself to sleep since I was 11. My parents say I exaggerate and that I’m just going through adolescence.”
We talked about these “depressed” thoughts and I suggested a doctor could help to ensure he had a proper diagnosis and address his melancholy and his insomnia; I asked him to describe what it was like for him to feel sad every day, how did he interact with friends, was he involved in sports. He said he wore a mask at school. He quickly added his parents were not abusive and supportive. “They always tell me they love me and want me to go to them if I need help.” He broke down sobbing again.
I asked him what he was thinking…I wondered what triggered the sobs. He hesitated, “Well, I know my parents mean well but they always criticize me and tell me it’s for my own good. But I am so tired of hearing them talk to me like that…it hurts so much.” He sobbed softly.
He told me what his parents often add to their supportive messages, my mouth dropped as I heard it, “We love you, we care, what are you STUPID?!” I was silent. I felt like I’d been kicked me in the belly. I could not imagine how hurtful it must feel hearing such “criticism” day after day, for so many years.
We explored which trusted adult he could ask for support. Someone who might be able to help his parents understand how he feels. He thought of a family friend, his father’s best friend. I asked him if he would consider seeing his family doctor. He seemed wary about seeing his doctor without his parents knowing even if he was permitted at his age but would consider emailing his father’s best friend after our phone call.
He sighed and said he was very tired now but would call us again. “It feels good finally getting this off my chest. Thank you.”
Tournesol dans un Jardin 
