Peeping Mom

 I've run out of day again (which seems to happen more often in December; shall I blame the Soltice?), so here's my Advent calendar this year. It's the kind of Advent calendar I loved as a child: where you open the doors and windows and see what's behind them.

Or else something has changed.

I still love it.

Good night.

Music therapy

An impossible day. Well, clearly not impossible - I got through it.

Due to a delayed grocery delivery, I found myself at Demeter's at 2 pm trying to serve and clean up after lobster bisque without running water.  I only remembered when I went to fill the kitchen sink that there was a scheduled water turn-off for Demeter's building that afternoon.

As I was boiling pots of water to clean the dishes, and trying to wipe up sticky umbre soup drips without scalding my fingers, a waltz tune drifted into my addled brain, along with snippets of song.

I realised it was The Story of Celeste, something I hadn't heard since I was quite a little girl.  It was written and performed by Paul Tripp with an orchestra, back in the days when there were quite a few of these kids' stories with symphonic orchestras making the rounds and being recorded.  Tripp also wrote the rather better-known Tubby the Tuba, but as a little girl, I thought Celeste's waltz tune was just the most beautiful thing ever.

It's a Cinderella story, with Celeste, an orphaned tune looking for an owner, being locked up by the cruel Miss Squeak (a clarinet), who detests tinkly tunes.  Celeste, of course, finally wins the heart of Prince Cello, and becomes his tune. So she can belong to him.  And he can play her. 

Okay, perhaps it's wiser not to look too deeply into this story, but the music is lovely.

Close to tears from fatigue, I left Demeter's and ran into her neighbour, who told me what a good daughter I was, and thumped me approvingly on my injured arm.  

I didn't cry out, but staggered home to see if I could dig up the recording I remembered.  YouTube didn't fail me.  It's about fifteen minutes of your time, if you have it:

Dieu veille

When we had small children, a new mortgage, and little money, I made "blessing bags" on Christmas for the Resident Fan Boy, Demeter, and my Friend of the Right Hand. The idea came from the "Angel Cards" we had on a table at Victoria Hospice. One of the nurses told me that if you drew three at a time, you would have many, many combinations.

The Resident Fan Boy didn't seem to have much use for his, so I commandeered it, and draw three blessings each day.

It was only this morning, after a sad phone-call about a professional set-back for elder daughter in London, that I remembered I had tucked a handful of keepsakes and inspirations in the blessing bag as well.

Among them is a treasure from Mary Helen, the friend who died three weeks ago, but the news only reached me yesterday.

(Courage donc, et patience, monsieur. Courage pour les grandes douleurs de la vie, et patience pour les petites. Et puis, quand vous avez laborieusement accompli votre ouvrage de chaque jour, endormez-vous avec sérénité. Dieu veille.  - from an 1841 letter written to Savinien Lapointe, a cobbler and a poet, whom Victor Hugo encouraged.)

Mary Helen gave me this years ago, during one of my summers in retreat to Victoria from Hades.  It was probably during one of my "used years".  She scribbled it on the back of one of her business cards.  I hadn't forgotten it was there, because I regularly take it out when I've used all the blessings and shuffle them before returning them to the bag.  But, in the shock of yesterday, it had slipped my mind.

It's a message from her, on repeat, every few months.  It's a comfort to know that this will continue.

Quo vadis

I feel slapped.  

The day was going well, and I left younger daughter happily listening to Michael Bublé Christmas music while preparing macaroni and cheese, went over to Demeter's, bearing Wednesday's lunch, courtesy of the local Japanese eatery.

Demeter looked up from her book.  "Did you know that Mary Helen died on November 13th?"

I froze, gaping at her.  

Mary Helen was diagnosed with ovarian cancer something like five years ago.  Immunotherapy, a relatively new break-through in cancer treatment, brought her a fair whack of quality living, reducing her pain and boosting her energy for a couple of years.  The final descent began a few months ago, while visiting friends and family in another province.  A "Go-Fund-Me" was set up to pay for the astronomical cost of bringing her back to Victoria via air ambulance.  (Demeter and I sent modest donations.)

The last report I'd heard, via Demeter's church, indicated that she was doing well in hospital and regaining some independence.

Then I had eye surgery.

Then I fell.

And there I was, reeling at this expected and unexpected news, realising that I hadn't checked Demeter's emails for more than six weeks, which is why neither Demeter nor I had heard.  Holding back tears, I set up email reminders for me to check every other day.  

Demeter herself seemed relatively unmoved.  She's at that stage of life, when letting people go has become a necessity.  It's a necessity for me, too, I guess, but I'm still pretty bad at it.

Mary Helen was one of the most centred people I've known. She was one of those highly organised, capable women, who did not use her capabilities and organisation to bludgeon those less so.  She used those gifts for good, finding time to help and support, even when illness clouded her final years and sapped her energy.

If I wish to truly honour her memory, I need to attempt to emulate her.  I'd never fully succeed, but I'd be a far, far better person.

So many will miss her.  Surely, that's a great way to go out, with family and friends sad to see you go, but letting you go, wherever it is we have to go.

I spy with my little eye

Today would have been my second eye operation, but my tumble to the pavement ten days ago has pushed the procedure into late January.

Never mind.  Having just one eye done has made a significant difference.

I was just reading my journal entry from six weeks ago.  It sounds euphoric, to say the least:

Oh. My. God. I CAN SEE.

Today was my first post-operative visit to Moka House.  In the pre-dawn light, I peered into the lit windows of the buildings I passed: lamps and shelves and wallpaper.  In the arch of trees, I could see branches, leaves.

Walking by a man at the bus stop, whose figure stood out in clear relief.  He stared into nothingness, listening to whatever was in his white earbuds.  He didn't appear to notice me, but, by golly, I could see him: his side profile, the strands of his blond hair.

I stopped at the bottom of the steps leading into the coffeehouse patio, taking in the individual bulbs in the string of lights.  I entered and could actually see the baked goods, and read the menu on the chalkboard.  For the first time in over a year, I read the posted clip of the day's horoscope by the pick-up station.

There's a beautiful, small, dark painting on the wall opposite me.  I've never noticed it before.  The other paintings are clear and colourful, not impressionistic at all.

And this was long after the Ativan wore off.  On the morning of my operation, I was offered medication, as I sat in a recliner in the waiting room, my eye full of various preparatory drops.  I told the nurse that giving birth twice has taught me to accept any drugs offered before a procedure.

"Fair," he said, cheerfully, giving me the tiny pill to pop under my tongue.  A fair bit later, I was gingerly positioning myself on the narrow operating bed, and the doctor pressed a kind of white gel pack to my eye, through which he opened a hole.

And all I could see was a kaleidoscope of brilliant oozy smears of light, blobs that changed colour from magenta to royal blue to poison green.  It reminded of the "Stargate" bit from 2001: A Space Odyssey.

Thank goodness they were playing a classical guitar piece, and not the weird music from that part of the film -- or the rather clubby, thumpy stuff which was on when I came in.

I was told to focus on the farthest left of a cluster of three brilliant orbs, and I held my breath, then forced myself to breathe slowly, trying to relax my hands, under the blanket which firmly swaddled me to the stretcher.

It was a short procedure which seemed to take forever.

I had no trouble rising and walking on my own back to recovery.  Yes, I could see, but nothing dramatic.  At home my operated eye was cloudy, but nowhere near as bad as it has been for the past year.

It was early the next morning en route to the first operative check that I noticed I could read signs out the taxi window.  After the appointment, we elected to take transit, and the Resident Fan Boy commented on an approaching bus, several blocks away.  Without thinking, I told him it was a "Not in Service", then realized the significance of what I'd just said.

On another bus, which was in service, I gazed at the faces around me, the braids of the girl ahead of me, the couple bent over their phones, the details of the design on the ancient seat upholstery.

By evening, the images on the big screen television - purchased because I could barely make out things on the smaller screen of our old TV - were vibrant and clear.

"They always were, " said the Resident Fan Boy.

"Shut up," I told him.

By bedtime, I realized I could read books again.  I could make out what I'd written in my journals.

My mocha is topped with bubbles edged in brown, I noted in my current journal, my first morning back in the coffeeshop.  The croissant is made up of crisp crumbs and flakes.  I can see.

I can wait for my other eye.  When I close my new "good eye", the old "good eye" reminds me of what was.  For now.

This is vastly more entertaining than it sounds

Okay, I've spoken about Jay Foreman's videos before, but I'm married to a maps geek -- particularly transit maps. As the Resident Fan Boy is a Doctor Who fan, this may not surprise you. 

This is the second half of Foreman's dizzying verbal essay on the classic London Tube map, and like all of his videos, it's advisable to keep your finger on the pause button to catch the visual jokes that flash by, so quickly, it's practically subliminal. 

For example, there's a section in which Foreman lists transit maps from around the world that owe their appearance to Harry Beck's original design. One of those cities is Toronto, which you are not going to register without pausing the video. Trust me. 

Also included is a quick written critique of each city's transit map. I paused the video (after repeated scans) and quickly transcribed what Foreman wrote about the TTC: 

Toronto. At first I thought the uneven distances, wonky angles in the suburbs, and "north" compass point were redundant, but I just had a look on Google Maps, and it turns out Toronto's pretty griddy, and this is pretty much to scale. 

Foreman is not wrong; I lived there, and as a home support worker in my misspent youth, went to almost every TTC station to reach clients. 

Anyway, if you like London, and especially if you love transit systems, you'll enjoy this. You'll probably enjoy it, even if this is not the case. There's a very funny ad at the end, but it's a wee bit disgusting.   I'll be showing this to the Resident Fan Boy next. (But not on my blog; I'm not that crazy.)

The abyss of Christmas

Look, I love Christmas.

I really do.

This year's is shaping up to be somewhat of a challenge.  One of my American cousins is coming up from California to pay her respects to Demeter.  She's coming five days before Christmas, and will depart on the morning of Boxing Day. This is because she's American, and, as far as she's concerned, Christmas began on the American Thanksgiving and will end abruptly on Christmas Day.

This means my deadline for getting Christmas ready has moved up sharply.  It also means a Christmas of fire signs, because, naturally, Double Leo Sister and Jolly Not-So-Green Giant Brother-in-Law (an Aries, like my American cousin), plus, possibly, my younger nephew (another Leo).  All wonderful people.  All exhausting people.  All people who dwell in a different world than mine. And I will be picking through an emotional minefield of expectations and extra effort - with my injured right arm.

It'll be lovely to see them.  My daughters will be thrilled.  

And I'll be looking forward to Boxing Day, which is, after all, the second day of Christmas.  Americans don't observe either.

I've been avoiding the preparations I should be making, and doing genealogy and watching YouTube videos.  I've shared this one before.  It's about British Christmases.  They understand something about darkness and depth, even in a festival of light.

Watered in fears

A little over a week after my fall, I find myself overwhelmed with gratitude that I sent off the Christmas cards early, as hastily written as they were. One in particular was scribbled and tossed into the mailbox, to prevent myself overthinking, because I did way too much thinking in February, while someone else did way too little thinking.

I'm not going into much detail about the so-called "Freedom Convoy" which occupied Ottawa between January 30th and February 20th of this year.  There's a pretty good timeline and break-down at Wikepedia.  Suffice it to say that I was once again relieved to no longer be living in Hades, because the situation there was hellish for my former neighbours, to say nothing of elder daughters' friends and colleagues, most of whom live in Centretown.

I followed events from a distance, getting social media updates from people I knew.

When the whole trucker mess started, there were reports of people blocking long-term contacts on social media, as they learned that relatives and friends supported the truckers.

I thought that was an unlikely thing to happen to me - me with my intelligent reasonable friends.  Of course, within a distressingly short time, I found myself spending days, weeks, trying to pull together a compassionate, polite, calm response to my best friend from high school.  This kind and gentle lady had posted a link to a blog-post, which, among other things, declared that the truckers were honking out of love for Canada, to save it. 

This blow came in the midst of reports from people I actually knew: reports of sleeplessness, of watching helplessly from their windows as people defecated against their buildings, of being unable to get their children to daycare or school, because truckers and police had blocked off access. Two of elder daughter's friends watched from their living room as two men put starter logs in the lobby of the apartment building facing theirs, lit them, then tied the entrance doors shut. (Elder daughter's friends, who are of many colours and sexual orientations, lived in terror, because they were visible targets. Most of them eventually fled to friends and family living outside of the downtown core.)

After a couple of weeks of despairing and steaming, I felt I was in a better place.  I quoted William Blake to myself:

I was angry with my friend/I told my wrath; my wrath did end.

I should tell her.  Then I could stop being so damn angry.

To better illustrate my diplomatic and calm arguments, I re-checked the blog post she had shared, in order to ascertain who was writing.  (I was pretty damned sure she wouldn't know.)  It was some guy named only "Dave", who described himself as a "leading data scientist".  In the post just before the one declaring that the truckers were honking night and day in downtown Ottawa to save Canada, he compared the "unvaccinated" with - so help me - Jews in Europe over the centuries.  A "culture of cruelty", he called it.

Nope, I wasn't going there.  (I'm pretty sure she hadn't read this post; I'm pretty sure she hadn't read the blog entry she did post very closely.)

I felt the exasperation and rage well up all over again.  I envisioned my friend, in her house on a suburban hill in the Okanagan, picturing her reaction if she were surrounded by people using her driveway for a toilet while honking for days until, in a blur of sleeplessness, she stumbled out to walk her pedigree bull-dog.  Not likely.  Which is the point, isn't it?  Too angry to contact her; I distanced myself.

Her birthday is in early November, and I had the pile of Christmas cards out.  I scrawled out a quick greeting, then hurried to the mailbox, before I could change my mind.  She's my friend, after all.

Just not my Facebook friend.

I think I see a pattern forming.

Do I?

I spent most of the day not getting stuff done -- well, not getting the right things done, anyway. 

This song, according to Spotify, is in my top five for 2022. Naturally, it's from 2008, but I never heard it until this year. I like the driving tempo, with the surprisingly wispy vocals (which I like as well). I was a little disappointed when I looked up the lyrics, but I can ignore those. Feel free to ignore them too.  

 On a whim

We climbed in a car 

That was headed down South

You were older

And I was hard-pressed for action

Could you tell?

You said, "Here, my dear!"

At the vanity fair

"Let's make hay while the sun shines!"

But was it fair?

Old playthings are all laid to waste

Thrown out to make better space

So I got a job

Cleaning toilets

In a nightclub in Baltimore

And I guess that's that

Almost shorter than a dream

And definitely less noise.

(Do I? Do I? Do I? Do I?)
 

Music for dinosaurs

I'm not exactly hip, am I?

On the edge of December, Spotify once again released Spotify Wrapped, an algorithmic imagination of what I liked in music during the past eleven months.

In 2020, I was bemused and baffled. Last year, I don't remember paying it that much attention.  This year, though, it's pretty accurate.  I assume it's because I've got better at nudging the algorithm.  Or something.

I was also wooed by a little - I dunno, what would you call it? - reel on my phone, telling me, among other things, that my morning mood was "Poetic Empowering Confident", my evening bent was "Easygoing Tender Sentimental" (must be that "Sleep" playlist I compiled for my sleep-bar), and that I "seized the day with Lit Fancy Relaxing".  (Personally, I think Spotify should invest in some commas.)

Elder daughter and I compared profiles during our weekly Skype call.  We're both "Adventurers", according to Spotify, and we suspect that everyone gets that.

"What on earth is 'Stomp and Holler'?" I asked her. (It's supposedly one of my favourite "genres".)  She said it was American folk and country.  Apparently, I'm not the only one who has asked this question, and there's a sort of answer in this not-entirely-reassuring article. 

Still, this year's playlist is a good fit for me, which means, I suppose that next year, I'll be categorized as what?

"Complacent"?  

"Jurassic"?