my dear friend

 I am going through our book shelves once again.

"Will I ever read this book?"  I ask myself. And the question, "Will I reread this book?" follows in quick succession.

A pile of "No I won't" balances precariously on an Ikea black stool in our den.

I see a piece of paper tucked between the "30 Minute Seder" haggadah and The Diary of Anne Frank.

As I begin to read, I see it is a letter I wrote several years ago after my dear friend Jean died.

Today, as my blog entry, I will transcribe this note, just as I wrote it. 

It is an honouring of Jean.  

"dear source. I am needing your comfort right now as I feel compressed- holding myself too close- I wish to understand where to find comfort for the sadness I am feeling with the loss of my dear friend   Jean and the sadness I feel that I will not be able to walk around the neighbourhood with her and notice the trees' cones and the flowers, with falling seeds to put into our pockets. Who will miss me, I wonder- and where is Jean now? I believe she must be somewhere, floating around making shadows on my studio wall- beside me as I tidy my garden. Oh, the source of all- where do people go when they die? Where will I go? Who will hold my shadow in their arms, as I hold Jean's.

My dear Jackie- your heart is open- to sadness and also to love. The sadness will never leave you fully- it will sit and mix with gladness & the joy that your heart also holds. You will still notice the flowering plants & you will still gather seeds & put them in your pockets. The memories of Jean will be a part of your life forever. It will not be in the same way, and remember there are many many ways. An uncountable series of thoughts & feelings, and you will experience them all.

Jean is with you- though in a different manner than before.  Your parents are also beside you always. In the sun's rays, in the clouds' forms and in the dancing shadows on your studio walls."

   May her memory be a blessing.

This is the letter I found, tucked between 2 books

   If you would like to comment, please send me an email, or a message on Facebook

tidying

This week I have decided to Really Do A Tidy Up.  To go through the shelves in our den and dispose of bits of paper, old notebooks and some piles that presently camp out on the floor.

Of course, that means reading everything first.

I find a list of words and half sentences on pages from an old day-timer.

"incredible sweetness - fearless contender - rivers of my heart".  Why had I gathered these beautiful words together?

And, "the sadness of leaving behind- change"

The note,"walk with Ken", is from years ago, reminding me of a friend who moved away and with whom I've lost contact.

"Nov. Will's birthday 1984" reminds me of another young man who has slipped away from my knowing. 

And written in black ink is "shiva @ 5", yet I don't remember whose death was I honouring.

And, finally, the phone number of Victoria Pest Control Ltd., bringing back the sounds of the nocturnal scratchings within my bedroom walls!

But these scribblings were really only a cover for the most important papers I found.

These are two somewhat brittle and browned newspaper articles from The Globe and Mail, one from December 11, 1993 and the other from January 27, 1998.

I remember finding them perhaps 6 or 7 years ago, when, after reading, I carefully tucked them into a faded red file folder, which I returned to the cluttered shelves.

The earlier article is written by Roger Rosenblatt, of The New York Times Magazine, titled, "WHAT NEXT?" Its subtitle reads "After a lifetime of writing, research and meditating on biology, Lewis Thomas contemplates his own imminent death from cancer."

Reading it this morning, the question Rosenblatt hesitatingly asks catches my attention. "What does dying feel like?" 

"Weakness," he answers with a strain of bitterness.  "This weakness. I'm beginning to lose all respect for my body."

"Is there an art to dying?",  Rosenblatt continues.

"There's an art to living." Lewis brightens a bit. "One of the very important things that has to be learned around the time of dying becomes a real prospect is to recognize these occasions when we have been useful in the world. With the same sharp insight that we have for acknowledging our failures, we ought to recognize when we have been useful, and sometimes uniquely useful."

The second article, written by Alex Mogelon, is titled "Whose funeral is it, anyway?" In it, Lila tells her husband of 47 years, that she wants the poem "Do not stand by my grave and weep, I am not there, I do not sleep" read at her funeral. 

She continues that she has made a list of her pallbearers, friends that she wants to carry her. When her husband sees that she has not included "George" in this list,  he worries about what this man will think. Her reply is that George can be on her husband's list, and says that she will be the last person to know what he thinks!

The most wonderful part of this article is when she wonders if her husband has thought about her obituary. She does not want the devoted wife loving mother kind of stuff.

When he asks what she wants to say, she recounts an amazing list of accomplishments. "That at 16 I was a radio operator intercepting Japanese sub signals off the coast of Vancouver Island...that I was a youth leader...a camp director..an artist...a magazine editor...a business executive...a video producer.  That my life meant something! That I didn't spend my years making chicken soup."

"And, one more thing. Tell the rabbi not to call me a woman of valour." 

"Lila, I can't tell him how to..." stammered her husband. 

"Yes you can. Whose funeral is it, anyway?"

I would love to hear from you, however, the most reliable way is to send me an email or leave

 a message on Facebook

outspoken

And, she had this weird habit of being herself all the time; that’s why, not everyone liked her. -unknown

Being myself.  Who is this self that I'm being?

If I were to ask 10 people who they think I am in this world, would I get 10 different words describing me? 

If I were to ask a co-member of Congregation Emanu-El's social action group, Avodah, would she/he see me differently than a member of my mahjongg group? 

Would both groups see me as "involved" or  as "outspoken"?  

If I had my way, I'd like "committed" and perhaps "dedicated" added to "outspoken".

Vocabulary.com defines "outspoken"this way:   

adjective

 characterized by directness in manner or speech; without subtlety or evasion

Reading this definition, "outspoken" doesn't sound too bad at all!  

Searching online, I see that the Merriam-Webster definition of "outspoken" includes "candid", "direct", and "forthright" and then adds "openhearted" in the middle of 20 descriptive words!

We recently held an art exhibit in our studio, showing and selling work that spans about 45 years. There were paintings of mine whose mediums included powdered poster paint and house enamel! 

       painted in 1977

In most of these paintings, there seemed to be an explosion of creative energy!  Direct, confident and...outspoken!  I had no barriers in our  Cowichan Valley studio.

the remaining image from a series of masks I painted, influenced by our African art collection

               

           

 

I've never before thought of my art work in that way.

And my garden?  Maybe that too.

As I recently celebrated my 78th birthday, I become even more aware of the finite life I have been gifted.

How do I wish to be in this world and at this time? 

How can I truly live my values? 

In what way can I contribute to the well-being of one single person?

In what ways can I contribute to the well-being of more than one single person?

Returning from our first trip outside of Victoria during the pandemic, after having spent 3 1/2 days walking on the peaceful beaches of Tofino, I am committing to more often pressing "delete delete delete"  on my computer's screen. 

 

-Being in my body as I walk more often.

-Contributing time and energy assisting agencies and community centres.

-Being less impatient. (a hard one!)

-Saying "I love you!" more often.

AND, being outspoken with AN OPEN HEART!

fromtheothersideofseventy/plus

 

Brian has recently been forced to adhere to a very limited diet for the health of his kidneys.  Think very little green and orange, no seeds and nuts, and the elimination of what we have learned to believe is healthy eating. Okay is: white rice, pasta, cauliflower, cucumber and, for a hit of color, kale. Plums okay, prunes not. Cooked carrots okay, quinoa and beans not allowed.

It has become a challenge to cook what both tastes good and is very low in potassium.

 So, this evening, I opened the oven to check on what I was preparing for dinner. 

Pulling out the roasting pan, I suddenly realized I had no oven glove on my left hand.  And, yes, I continued removing it with ONE hand.  Half-way out I knew it was a stupid mistake and 3 seconds later it crashed onto the floor.  The cabbage, sliced thin and marinated, and the carrots with a new combination of cayenne and cinnamon ON THE FLOOR!

Oh, and the skewers of souvlaki-marinated chicken from Red Barn on the floor too.  After screaming with words assembled from the eighties, I took the spatula and gathered together the seasoned cabbage and returned it to the pan. After all, I had swept the floor just this morning...and it would be heated again before we ate it.  And, quite frankly, I didn't care! I can think of deaths worse than one caused by floor-a-bacteria.

Back into the roasting pan and into the oven.  I pulled out the mop and bucket and washed the floor and wiped down the spattered lower cabinet.

I poured another glass of wine and gathered together plates and silverware. 

Another crisis averted. Or, rather, overcome.

I think being on the other side of seventy let me move through this without tears.

However, it isn't all hot water and movin' on.

Earlier today I sent this to my brother-in-law and to my sister who has just turned 80. 

I wasn't prepared for the response:

"One of our neighbours fell while putting on his pants and broke his hip"

Continuing on the theme of aging, yesterday was my birthday and Brian and I had planned to go to Gordon's beach. The small cooler was ready and a small knapsack was by the door to hold some new beautiful stones and rocks that I planed to collect. I love this small beach and going there has become a beautiful birthday ritual.

However, the weather did not say "come to the beach".  It was drizzly and cold.  

Instead, we ate blueberry cornmeal muffins from Pure Vanilla and set out to a few special places. I believe that on my birthday it's about "giving" not about "receiving",  so we first drove to St. John the Divine to make a donation to their food bank and then to Quadra VillageCommunity Centre with another donation envelope.

Two of my paintings then found new homes with friends who loved them. 

Gifts so lovingly given and so warmly received.

A perfect birthday, even without salt air and sandy shoes.

So, as always, I wish for good health and bountiful love. For creative energy and for kindness. 

For patience when things seem to be out of control. 

For a more just world.

And gratitude for Zara's soft coat and unconditional love.

a few of the paintings sold at our art show 

& finding new homes

acceptance

 I'm not sure why this is happening again and again.

I seem to be unable to concentrate on reading.  I start a book and then very soon I slip in a bookmark. When I return to reading, this bookmark might advance only a half-dozen pages.

I belong to a book club and I haven't read more than a dozen pages from this month's selection. And now, someone passed on their copy of October's selection, The Boat People.  I settled on the couch to spend an early morning hour to begin reading.  

By the 20th page I understood that this was going to be hard read: a boatload of refugees arriving in Canada and the man we have been following has his 6-year old son taken from him and placed on a bus with the women and children.

 I have closed the book and instead have started this post.

I have noticed, over these many months, that I seem unable to read anything that is painful: either sad or angry. A few months ago I jumped ahead in another book to read the ending, something I have very rarely done before.  In fact, something I have reprimanded my husband, Brian, for doing!

I do recognize that I am a sensitive person and feel things deeply but this new avoidance seems different, more acute, more poignant.

Looking for reasons, I grab onto The Pandemic. I wonder if the isolation and pain surrounding Covid is the culprit. Enough pain in our present lives; why read about more.  

Yes, The Boat People is fiction, but only the refugees' names and country of origin have been changed. 

This has happened before. 

During the Second World War, a boatload of  Jews was not allowed into Canada and was instead returned to the Nazis.  And now, especially by the United States, many hundreds of thousands of other refugees are being returned to the danger of their homelands.

Many years ago I looked through our bookshelves.  There were a number of books that I hadn't read, many purchased at a wonderful bookstore in Flagstaff, Arizona.  A great many of these related to the Holocaust. Without even reading the blurbs on their back covers, I packed them up and gave them to Russell's Books.

Visiting with a dear friend yesterday, drinking glasses of Prosecco, she related how many years ago she had forced herself read the entire TimeLife Issue on the Holocaust. She told herself then that if she read and saw photographs of this horror, she would never need to revisit it again.

Maybe I won't read The Boat People.  Maybe I need to accept and honour my avoidance-- accept that this is too heavy for me to carry right now.

                I created these collages about 35 years ago

trust

I remember being told that I should stick to one thing and not spread myself too thin.

Because this was said at my first show at the Cowichan Valley Arts Council, and because it was a family member who said this to me, I was deeply wounded by these words.

I guess this was referring to the fact that I had previously been a teacher, (thing #1), had co-owned an antique store (#2), started a Cowichan Valley AIDS Network (CVAN) (#3), and was presently growing and selling herb plants. (#4) As well as being an artist!! (#5)

I've long ago discounted this remark, realizing how the diversity of my experiences has enriched my life.

However, occasionally I can hear that comment once again. It appears when something I've been involved with winds down.  

When my paintings became forced and my love for the colour and spontaneity of my brush strokes ceased to interest me, I put my canvases aside. 

It made me afraid. I was a painter....now what?

I don't remember how I soon discovered that blocks of wood were wonderful surfaces on which to paint, and that my sketch book and drawings and my love of using bits of text would lead me to create what I call Talisman Blocks. 

I created single blocks that could be stacked and partnered with other blocks.  And then...I began painting chairs and tables on these same wooden blocks.  Those were great fun, channelling my love of colour and design, and taking far longer to complete than a large painting might!

These blocks partnered perfectly with the small chair paintings that I had done several years earlier. 

It seemed as if by curtailing my struggles with painting, I had left space for these new works to emerge.

Trust.  Be open.

Earlier today, taking out one of my business cards, I saw that under my name it says "artist -photographer". But I have barely used my camera since my last trip to Havana, just before the pandemic lockdown.  

I had returned to Cuba four times, photographing the beauty of old Havanas's surfaces and the sadness of its decay. These visits created a bond between my casa particular hosts Rafaela and Willie and myself which has greatly enriched my life. 

It seemed my photography was intrinsically tied to Havana: the people and the city.

And then, once again, I worried that my creative soul was being tested. I felt that I was no longer a photographer and that, without art, my life would be empty. 

And then I "wrote" a letter to our grandkids, who we hadn't seen for nearly a year.  I cut out and pasted down letters to create a 11x 17 inch book about things they may not know about me. It grew to be ten pages and the beginning of another journey.

Since then, I have fallen wildly in love with letters and words, creating what I call "letter poems", a medium that pushes my creativity into new discoveries. I don't write words down, but rather allow a thought/feeling to emerge.  As I search for the letter I want, I become open to other words. 

It is a silent process.  And often a process of discovery.

And yesterday I became fearful.  What if these poems stopped coming!? Would there be something else?

Trust.  Be open.

I mean, like really "stick to one thing"?  WHY?!??

treasures

Finally, I have decided to get rid of some of our things. 

"Get rid of" what a phrase! Does part-with sound better?  Or maybe simply sell or give away.

My daughters don't want my treasures: one lives in Israel and the other in a tiny condo with her family.

Neither one wants the huge task of disposing of art and antiques when I die.  Nor does my husband, Brian.  So, being well into theothersideofseventy, the responsibility seems to be mine.

My collection of objet d'art is as varied as I am complex. 

Porcelain, carvings, paintings and some wonderful folk art collected when I had an antique store in Vancouver.

 I have an exceptional steel-beaded purse purchased in Paris when I was a college student. There is a tiny lipstick stain on the lining so I used this treasure at least once!

                                         
Each object has a story from my life.

The vintage shadow puppets remind me of traveling to Bali with my dear friend, Sheila. And of trapping a rat who had been "visiting" our room at night to eat the soap.

Crystal champagne glasses remind me of Pierre, a friend who died of AIDS many, many years ago. He wanted there to be a case of champagne when we celebrated his life.

My folk art collection began when I had an antique store on South Granville Street and when my business partner Nora and I travelled together on buying trips. 

It reminds me of our craziness when we travelled to Armagn in Ireland in the midst of fierce battles between the North and South.  The hotel in which we stayed was bombed soon after we made a hasty retreat two days after arriving.

There is the tiny antique buddha that my sister gave me for a wedding present.  She had thought it was the god of fertility, although we discovered later that it was rather the symbol of wealth! 

These objects bring life stories to mind. They are anchors. When they are gone will the intimate reflections go with them?

 I believe that the stories, and especially the people, reside deep in my cells. Parting with the objects doesn't erase that 

Writing this, I feel a sense of relief.