Category: Writing

Catching Life

Writing day, but this is the first I’ve gotten to the computer this morning. Fooey had her major dental appointment this morning, so that took priority. She was fully conscious during the surgery, but on nitrous oxide (“magic nose” as the dentist calls it) and additionally on a drug that kinda makes her look and act a bit drunk. Amazingly, the dentist (Super Dentist, as I shall forevermore call him) drilled and filled three cavities, including between her two front teeth, and shaved off an additional three more cavities, all in one go. So she’s taken care of. For now. Heaven knows, we are flossing and brushing and treating juice like a rare treat these days (“Juice!!!” the kids squeal with delight when it is offered at a birthday party; the way other children might scream, “Candy!” or “Cake!”), but there are hard teeth and there are soft teeth, and it’s looking like my babies have the soft ones. Something tells me this won’t be Fooey’s last”magic nose” experience. It was quite trippy trying to imagine the experience through her eyes, lying in that chair, breathing nitrous oxide into her innocent lungs, sunglasses on, in a dental office that looks like it’s perfectly preserved from the 1960s, while Super Dentist and his assistant spoke soothingly of “pink and yellow sugar bugs” being “washed away.” (Drilled away). I was starting to see pink and yellow sugar bugs. It wasn’t a bad sensation, actually.

I’ve been meaning to blog all weekend and it’s already Monday. These were some of the topics in mind. Carrot cookies: really good. Taking four children ages three to seven to the musical theatre (Annie) for a 7pm show: surprisingly fun. Midwifery: lots of Big Thoughts. In fact, that’s where I’d like to go in today’s blog.
On Friday evening, I attended the Eby Lecture at Conrad Grebel College, which this year was given by Marlene Epp, a Mennonite historian. The place was packed out with the local Mennonite crowd. It is impossible to show up at something like this and not a) recognize 99% of the audience, b) be known by name by at least 33% whose names you do not, in turn, remember, and c) actually turn out to be related to 5% of those in attendance. (Note: All figures are wild estimates). The subject was Canadian Mennonite women who were midwives/healers. I love this kind of history, largely story-telling, using oral sources, diaries, notes. I loved how she integrated and contextualized the Mennonite story into and within the larger story of immigrant Canada. Proof that I would make a lousy historian, what jumped out at me instantly was the source of great fiction this history could make.
Some of you may know that I harbour distant fantasies about becoming a midwife myself. Likely from the moment I saw my own sister born at home (I was twelve and a half), the profession has seemed to me almost magical, and certainly powerful: guiding a woman through gestation to delivery, being present and receiving new life. It’s the only alternate career path I’ve been able to imagine for myself; yet I’m excruciatingly aware that my interest in midwifery is more idealistic than practical. It seems like the kind of profession one should feel “called” to (though that may be more of my idealism talking). Children and grandchildren of these midwives recalled holiday celebrations broken by the mother or grandmother grabbing up her brown bag and heading out on a mission of mercy. Midwives also acted, in some cases, as naturopaths, chiropractors, bone-setters, healers, and undertakers. Because, of course, tied up so closely with birth is death; at least, it was for most of human history, and still is in many places on earth. The responsibility seems vast. I feel myself torn between wanting to discover whether my own hands and mind could care for women and babies in this way; and being pretty darn sure that pursuing that course would bury my ambitions to continue writing fiction. Not to mention limit my time with these four small children I’ve produced who still need constant care.
I figure on four years of grace till CJ starts kindergarden. In some ways, it doesn’t seem like much time, yet when thinking over the changes in our lives these past four years there are almost too many to integrate and understand. We just are where we are. I like planning ahead. But I like staying flexible and open.
Four years ago, I was just about to get pregnant with our third child. Four years ago, Kevin was travelling long distances, regularly, and working for someone else’s company. Four years ago, my parents were living in the same house they’d lived in since 1991. They were still married to each other. Kevin’s dad was still alive. Four years ago, our kids had two sets of intact grandparents. Though we could hope for more kids, and hope for Kevin to change his job, we really couldn’t predict or control many of the events that occurred alongside those others. So it is. I just finished reading Elizabeth Hay’s Late Nights on Air, and there’s a line that’s stuck in my mind. (I’m paraphrasing). One character says that some people believe everything is all about timing; some people believe everything is all about luck; and she believes everything is fragile. Life is fragile.
I believe that, yes, everything is fragile, connections and relationships are fragile; in some ways. In other ways, everything is damned tenacious. Connections and relationships stick and tangle and surprise us and hold us and remain. Even if only in memory.
Life is fascinating, isn’t it? And that’s why I can’t figure out whether I want to be catching it, literally, or catching it in this other way: on the page.

Getting Dumber

I should say that the life cycle of a butterfly is actually a really amazing thing. Boy I sounded grumpy in that earlier post. Guess it wasn’t just the kids that day. I like to think I’m immune from bad moods, just riding the wave of the day, up and down, without too many fluctuations … you know, calm mama, serene mama. With a little bit of creative editing and amnesia, this is true.

But this is also true: I am trying to drink a cup of coffee, while listening to the radio, while CJ climbs my leg, while Fooey shouts from the living-room that it is time for her mommy to read her a book, NOW! While blogging. There was an article somewhere (Globe? Maclean’s?) recently about how we are training our brains to lose the ability to concentrate deeply by multi-tasking on our electronic devices. This bodes ill for writers of novels, et cetera. But I still enjoy reading, and would confess to being a ridiculous multi-tasker; though maybe I’ve dumbed myself down and don’t even realize it.

Except this is also true: I can still write a story. I can sit for six or seven hours straight, and focus entirely on an imaginary place and imaginary people, and write a story. And yesterday that task brought me great pleasure because the story was good, and it twisted and turned in ways unanticipated. In the world, and out of the world. A bit of both.

Way too rambling. Turn off the radio, maybe! And go read that Fooey some butterfly books, marvelling at the life cycle of these fragile (seemingly fragile) creatures.

Writing Day, with Poem

I’m going to post a poem that comes from a suite I’m working on called “How to Be a Writer.” This poem originally started with the words “don’t be,” which tells you how ambivalent I continue to feel about this writing path. Despite ambivalence, I’m looking forward to going to “poetry club” tonight and talking verse, talking writing. It will be an all-around writing day, from bottom to top. Here’s the poem …
iv.

don’t sit before the screen and tap tap tap

don’t lick your pen and fill a blank
with scrap scrap scrap
don’t whisper lines of verse
at the grocery store
don’t narrate yourself at a quarter to four
don’t half-light darkness
with old joy and ruin recast
don’t lie don’t leech don’t bargain thieve and grasp
don’t write, small soul
don’t pretend or imagine
don’t ache for a reader
don’t prance for recognition
don’t do it, you’ll regret it
the black dog will eat you whole
don’t do it, amputate, amnesiate, enfold
but you can’t?
then it’s fatal
but you can’t?
then you shall
be a writer
be a writer
be it well

Superhero Cinderella

Today I feel like a superhero, except without the super powers. No, I’m the superhero with the double life, changing in the phone booth, racing from one reality to another in the blink of an eye. Today, we slept in, and the day started with a multi-coordinated dash to get dressed and fed and breast milk expressed and the children out the door in under an hour, in the care of their super-dad. Then my writing day started, except not really, because I still needed a shower. This superhero starts slow. Eventually, the writing portion of my writing day began, and I sat on the blue exercise ball and worked on poems. It was definitely a poetry day. I even wrote a new poem! I worked around the muffins for dictators theme of an earlier blog entry. Sort of a recipe for poetry poem. Somewhere in there, I fed the baby, packed my handsome leather bag (for professional use only), dug my nice boots out of the basement, and brushed my hair. Kissed all goodbye, jumped in the car, and drove off to the symposium on fiction for Chinese and Canadian writers. Apparently, I count as a Canadian writer, which is nice to know. In fact, this was my disguise.

Parked, followed signs, entered typical room in typical university facility, pleasant but furnished on budget and by committee. Hoarsely informed organizer of my temporary disability–though thankfully my voice worked enough that I could make myself understood, which was not the case yesterday. Spent the first fifteen minutes chatting with Alistair MacLeod, whom I’d met once before, a long time ago. He seemed to accept my disguise. I was the representative young local writer. One woman thought I was a university student. Which is a pretty nice compliment at this point in my life.

The Chinese writers, flown in from China for this event (though perhaps for more?), spoke very little English, so we were seated in groups with a translator to facilitate conversation. I found the whole process very interesting. I was seated with Dennis Bock, who coincidentally was our neighbour when we lived in Guelph, and his wife and I had babies at the same time, so that felt most unintimidating. I was only kinda in disguise at that point. At our table was Fe Gei, a writer who was working on a massive trilogy about modern Chinese history; he also writes short stories, one of which I was able to read in translation before meeting him. Few of the writers had the opportunity to read each other’s work, since most hadn’t been translated. At our table, we talked, with some difficulty, about concepts of economic class in Canada and in China, and about ideology. It felt like we were trying to represent very different worlds to each other, through the voice of the translator, who had moved to Canada sixteen years ago, and had her own opinions on subjects.

Toward the end of the conversation (well after the meal of take-out Chinese food had been consumed), I was able to ask Fe Gei about his story writing, and about his interest in Western writers, and about Raymond Carver, whose stories he greatly admired. He asked what ideas I was trying to convey through my writing, a question that very nearly stumped me, so I simply said that I start with an emotion, that I write about relationships. That I try to get at the essence of what seem like ordinary moments. He seemed quite chuffed about this. I was taken back to China, which I visited as a high school student in 1992, and to those formal, funny gestures of goodwill, of elaborate and heartfelt hospitality that are much greater than we Canadians are accustomed to offering or receiving. How can I get at this? He said it had been an honour to meet me, and that he would tell young Chinese writers he mentors about me and the kind of writing I was doing. I said something in a similar spirit. But I am not sure whether these were empty compliments of the sort we are used to giving and receiving; or whether he meant it with all his heart, which is what it looked and sounded like. I guess I will never know. Lost in translation.

Then I said a quiet goodbye, and slipped away, because my time was up. Come to think of it, it was less superhero, and more Cinderella. The clock struck midnight and I dashed to the car, just Mommy again, and drove home to my baby, who was desperate for a nurse, and my three-year-old, who, in the few moments while I was changing CJ’s diaper managed to colour both of her hands with a green marker. She approached me with hands hidden under sweater. “Mommy, I not colour my hands.” Huh? “No, Mommy, I not colour my hands.” Oh dear. What a sweet confession. So we added scrubbing hands to our to-do tasks before walking up the hill to school to pick up the kids. I took off my boots and put on my sneakers, and that was all it took.

No Hurry, No Rush

I’m so appreciative of our new school schedule this year: last year, we had to race off to get AB to senior kindergarten by 1pm every single day, along with taking A first thing in the morning. This year, both kids are in full days, and I love those morning and afternoon walks and chats with the children. And I love, love, love that unbroken stretch between drop-off and pick-up. It means baby CJ gets more time napping in his own crib, and I can plan special activities for F, and it means we can have days just like this one: with no plans at all. And no hurry, no rush.

It means baby CJ can nap for two straight hours, like he did this morning, while F and I bake muffins together (Healthy ones. If these turn out, I’ll post the recipe). It means the two of them can play together in the living-room, as they’re doing right now, without me worrying that we need to stuff lunch into everybody and get dressed up in winter clothes for an unwanted outing. The fate of the younger child is to be dragged along on various outings that benefit other people. Yesterday, CJ was in his car seat, or waiting outside F’s music class, or in the stroller, for two and a half straight hours. He was going mental by the end, and I didn’t blame him. I sent Kevin for the CSA box because I couldn’t bear making CJ endure yet one more errand when all he wanted was the freedom to crawl around on the floor and play. The older kids spent an hour after school at a local history club organized by neighbours who are homeschooling. Having dashed from F’s music class, then home to walk to school, then walked the big kids to the library, then home again–a full hour of walking–I indulged my impulse to do NOTHING, and F and CJ and I played together in the living-room. I read her some stories. She coloured. CJ and I played the piano. It was as lovely as it sounds.

It felt like winter this morning, without snow, but the sun is gorgeous, and I hung out the laundry. I still have no voice. Laryngitis (sp?) is my Achilles heel (to mix metaphors). I miss speech! It feels very isolating. I’ve dug out the humidifier to use tonight, and continue to swill hot drinks, including my ginger-garlic brew. It would probably be best if I could manage not to talk for a full day, but that’s impossible. I have to squeak at these poor children on occasion. And tomorrow I’ve been invited to participate in a dialogue between Canadian and Chinese writers at the University of Waterloo. Apparently the Chinese writers don’t speak any English so we will be speaking through translators. At least it’s not a reading. I am a last-minute fill-in for someone presumably more qualified to attend, because the other Canadian writers are: Wayson Choy, Dennis Bock, and Alistair MacLeod. I was a little bit worried about being such a novice among these other writers, but my greater concern now is that I may not be able to say a word.

CJ is on the move! I just found him standing by the bookshelf. Completely standing! And F would like instructions on how to snap her fingers. Her face is covered with chocolate. The muffins weren’t completely healthy. I ad-libbed.

Writing Day

This writing day is feeling a tad useless … or perhaps a better descriptive would be non-cathartic. It was interrupted by an appointment mid-morning, and I’ve spent the better part of what was left filling out grant applications. Not exactly exhilerating.

I had a revelation (apologies for navel-gazing; it could be a writing day theme) a couple of evenings ago when I was feeling quite low, just kind of sitting with this sadness inside of me, and realizing how many other people also sit with a sadness or a loss, and, wondering how to answer that feeling–and it came to me: often, the answer is in the healing power of song or a book or a movie. In other words, ART. Listening to, watching, reading, experiencing. It made this continuing effort to write feel more valuable. I have a hard time justifying my writing to myself, or thinking of it as anything other than purely decadent and self-indulgent, partly because it feels so good to do it (anything that feels this good must be bad!), and partly because it earns our family next to nothing. 
But imagine a world stripped of art’s beauty and honesty, without stories outside ourselves that remind us who we are or were or want to be. So that revelation was enough to keep me going–at least for now! Till I forget again and need reminding.
Here’s what I found in my journal, written a few days after baby CJ was born this spring. I read it over this morning, thinking about my friend Katie, who is waiting for the birth of her third child, and wanted to share it.
“Feeling immense sadness at this being my last time to experience this. It’s been a hard and long pregnancy, yet such a gift, a real gift, the kind we don’t deserve and accept knowing we are blessed. I wish you could see this round, perfect, smooth face, open mouth, asleep lying across my chest, skin perfectly coloured, hair indeterminate, his own unique self so new in the world. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I’m so extremely happy, and simultaneously nostalgic for this passing/fleeting moment, that I just want to weep for the temporality of everything. We can pretend for a little while, here and there, that we can make something that will last; but all of life is temporal, fleeting, every stage, the good ones and the bad ones, and there is something about holding this brand-new perfect baby that makes me know for sure how true this is. How I can’t hold on. How I can only enjoy, enjoy, take in, love, exist; but not hold on. This doesn’t have to be terrible, does it? Just a mortal truth. Can I accept? And if I can, won’t I be a happier person? I could have another baby, but at some point it would be my last baby; and it could never again be my first. Life makes us move on, whether we like it or not.
Damned hormones!”
Yes, that was written about the same time my milk came in, which my midwife said usually comes along with tears, too. A general leaking, if you will. I was really struggling with that being my last birth experience. But right now, feel very much at peace with our decision. Four is enough, woman!
I had a difficult recovery after the birth, and found a list I’d made about two weeks on.
“Things I will do when well: Hang laundry. Go for evening walks with baby CJ. Walk the kids to school. Cook from scratch. Bake cookies. Walk uptown and to the library. Maybe even jog, with the kids on their bikes. Write. Fold laundry. Pick up toys. Do storytime for my kids. Play the piano. Go out dancing. Have a drink. Host a party. Go camping. Visit friends. Host friends. Buy new clothes. Clean the bathrooms. Go to book club. Sit outside in the sun. Yoga. Relish health.”
I loved coming across that list and realizing how many of those very ordinary things I do regularly now, and in fact, how routine life has become in the six months post-birth. Still haven’t gone out dancing, I’m sad to report. But so many of those activities are ones I take for granted–even complain about. (Okay, bathroom cleaning = hard to get excited about). But it’s good to be reminded otherwise.
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