Caravan day

A year and a day after David was admitted to hospital, our home went up on the market. I felt my stomach twist a little as the Real Estate Agent drove the For Sale sign into my front lawn. Am I really moving? Can I leave these memories behind?  Last April seems like such a long time ago, and only just yesterday. It was last April that David was taken to hospital and never came home.

This morning our home was put on Caravan, which sounds like a rather strange occurrence, but is just a term real estate agents use to show off new listings on the market. All agents are provided with a list of homes to be viewed on Caravan. My home was scheduled for 9:00 a.m., first one on the list.

Well, for some reason I did not want to stay. I had to get out. I could not face all those people walking through our house, making comments. Not that they wouldn't be pleasant or professional. I'm sure they were. And not because the house was messy. It wasn't. I had cleaned and polished and aired. I even sent the cat outdoors, out of the way.

I had some errands to run anyway, so left the house early. And then I remembered that the bank wasn't yet open. Darn! I would have to start at the last stop and work backwards. And what would my last stop be, all  you blogging buddies who know me so well?? Coffee. Of course.

I started at the end and picked up a coffee at Tim Hortons. It was still rather early. I had lots of time, so instead of taking the highway back, I decided to meander along the scenic route towards the village, grocery store and bank. Driving leisurely along the river road is always a pleasure. It reminds me of the days David and I used to bike that route. I would peek into peoples' gardens admiring their pretty flowers, while David would enjoy listening to birdsong. He'd be the first to notice a bluejay or a cardinal or a fat robin poking in the grass. He was always the first to hear geese honking as they migrated each winter or returned in the spring. He'd watch for that familiar V in the sky, excitedly pointing upward to share his find with me. Canada geese seemed to hold a special place in David's heart and the artwork in our home reflected this fondness.  The natural world was important to David and he paid attention to all her signs and listened as she spoke.

Cool, fresh air poured through my open car window, and as bright morning sun warmed my face I began to relax. The road was rather long and winding with no traffic to speak of, so I took my time. The landscape had changed over the years. New homes were under construction on the waterfront, sadly taking over the agricultural part of the land. Cows grazed in the fields next door, making for a strange hodgepodge of granite and grass. Cheerful spring flowers scattered lawns and sprinkled over into ditches. I found myself both lulled and pulled along by the song of the river.

I had to go back the next day to take this. Luckily the geese were still there.

Then all of a sudden I was looking into a soccer field that dipped down towards the river. Oh my goodness,  Thompson Park! I had not thought where this road would take me; my only thoughts were on the end point - reaching the village. Thompson Park was the place where we had scattered David's ashes nine months ago. Not in the park, of course. The park part is a soccer field, with the land sloping down to the water. I might have driven right past, if not for the geese. Canada geese, here in the park! I'd never seen Canada geese in that park before.

I quickly pulled over and parked the car. With my coffee mug in hand and the sun on my face, I drank in the scene before me.

"David, you did it again! You sent these geese to me as a comfort. You knew I was nervous about people going through our home and you wanted me to know you were here, by my side, supporting me. Ha! And you even made sure I'd had my coffee with me too!"

Good thing nobody was about to witness this crazy lady talking to the geese (or herself, which is probably worse)!

This too was taken the next day. Too bad the sun was not out!

Just as the soft rains......

 fill the streams,
pour into the rivers,
and join together into the oceans,


So may the Power of 
every moment of your Goodness,
flow forth to awaken and Heal all beings,

 those here now,
those gone before,
those yet to come.... (beginning of a Buddhist prayer)

 I love to try to capture Sunlight...

 as it illuminates each flower and leaf.

But you can never really capture the essence of the Sun.

The cycle of Life continues.....
as once again, the Sun warms the Earth for a time of renewal....

Happy Birthday, dear David.
Though your Earthly life is done, I continue to feel your blessings, and pray you feel mine.

Harsh Realities....

 

It's been almost nine months since David passed away.
I was sitting in his favourite comfy chair by the window, reading the morning papers. I had been up most of the night with a stomach bug, so was taking it easy that morning just a couple of days ago.

Grief still comes in waves. I can be fine for a while and then some trigger or sometimes even nothing I can put my finger on, brings out a fresh round of tears.

The telephone rang. Do I get up to answer or just let it ring?
"Hello?"
"May I speak to Dr. Nelligan, please?"
"Um... may I ask who is calling?"
"Are you his wife?"
"Yes."
"This is Lily from Blaa Blaa Pharmaceuticals. Dr. I-forget-his-name would like to know if Dr. Nelligan plans to attend the upcoming symposium on such-and-such a new drug"
"Oh" (pause, while I choose my words)
"Oh, Mrs. Nelligan, is he already planning to attend? In that case, sorry to have disturbed you." (don't I wish!)
"No, Dr. Nelligan died last summer."
"Oh. I'm sorry."
"I thought the medical community would have been aware of this. His obituary was published in the medical journals."
"Our mistake. I don't think you will be hearing from us again."

I certainly hope not, I thought, but did not say. I guess this young lady was just doing her job, but she didn't sound the least bit sorry, nor did it occur to her that saying "I don't think you will be hearing from us again." sounded more like "well, you know, we might call you back next year if we forget that your husband died."

Some days this incident would have lingered for a few moments then let go. That day it hurt. Probably because I was not feeling well.

Looking out the window to distract myself,  I noticed the familiar V-formation of Canada geese flying home, signaling the return of spring and warmer weather.
"Welcome home" I called out to them with a smile. And then continuing my conversation with the air or the cat or the window,  "Ahh, David, I see you sent geese to cheer me up. We always loved to watch the geese returning home after a long and cold winter."

 I suppose this type of phone call will continue until I move and change my phone number. And I'm sure others have stories similar to mine or worse. But it always seems to come at a time when you're unprepared.

You asked for it!

Imagine - I actually asked a stranger to take my pic. I've never done that before, but wanted a memory of this vacation.  It's very hard to see my beaded hair.

So tonight, I took my own pic. Not very flattering, but you can see the beaded hair. I only got a few on each side. Tomorrow, I will wash it out.

Ibis (or egret, I'm not sure) fishing in the early morning.

Shoreline

Lots of boats here

Can't you just feel the spray on your face?

The market place in Marigot (capital on the French Side)

More boats

Cruise ships in harbour

Good- bye, St. Maarten!

The Power of Choice

I was at the bottom of the well.
Crying.
I was stuck. It had been going on for too long;  so I came to a decision.
I Chose to leave those tears behind,  pick myself up and fly away.
South. Where the energies are warm and strong.

I Chose Travel, rather than Drowning.

"Who did you go with?"
"Nobody... just me."
"Ohhhh, you're brave."
"No, I"m not."

I Chose to travel alone, rather than wait for somebody, anybody to go with me.
I Chose my own time.
I Chose my vacation, and went to Sint Maarten, the Dutch side of the island (the other side is French).

It did me the world of good.

I listened to the timeless rhythm of  ocean waves; their gentle voices reaching out to soothe my soul.

I allowed the softness of sweet ocean air to caress my skin; its tenderness a balm for raw, sore nerves.

I waited expectantly every morning for the peachy-golden glow of  a Caribbean sun to wake up the earth. As the softness of first light transformed into the passion of a strong and fiery yellow sun, I relaxed into that heat; the warmth spreading throughout my body, awakening a faint stirring of joy. A feeling I thought had been lost, buried, forgotten; a subtle shimmering from somewhere deep within my being.

"Braid your hair, Miss?"
I blinked. Sat up in my chair. Where had she come from? Wasn't it rather early to be working the beach?
I looked around. There were more people here now. Had I fallen asleep? I looked at my watch. It had stopped.

The brightly clad, plumpish Island woman looked at me curiously. She was waiting for my answer.
"No thanks," I started to say, sinking back into my beach chair. Then I changed my mind. And sat back up.
"Yes, I'd like my hair braided. Let's do it!"
"Welcome to Sint Maarten!" she sang with a friendly smile and a swish of her skirts. She plunked herself down, reached into her bag and brought out a multitude of coloured beads for me to Choose.

I Chose pink and white and blue beads.
I Chose to lighten up and have fun.
I Chose to open up and breathe.
I Chose Life.

The Power of One

One teardrop glistening down the windowpane.

One butterfly perched on the back of a garden chair, the day after David died.

One bloom on my mother's hibiscus plant. I was presented with this lipstick pink bloom on Mom's birthday a number of years ago. It hadn't bloomed in the two years previous and hasn't bloomed since.

One chickadee at my feeder. As you know I haven't had any birds at my feeders this winter.

The other night I had gone to bed obsessing about wanting, needing to dream of David.  I had read that if you focus on a person before going to sleep, you will dream about him/her. Makes sense, however I was so obsessed with forcing my thoughts back into our memory bank, that I prevented myself from falling asleep, my mind going round and round in circles. And the dream never came, of course. So, I made up my mind in the morning,as I took my cup of coffee over to the window, to just let things happen naturally, in the time they are meant to. With that thought in mind, the chickadee appeared! That was February 4th and I haven't seen any since.

One person living in
One house
One person driving
One car
One place setting at the kitchen table
Cooking for One

One can mean aching Loneliness; a river of tears washing down grief-stricken cheeks. Sad, alone, empty,  unbearably quiet, echoing rooms.

Yet One can mean Solitude, getting-to-know-oneself in the depth of that stillness, a time of reflection, of learning to stand alone, of  listening to the gentle inner voice of....One being.

A Dinner To Remember

Valentine's Day will soon be here. Memory takes me back to another Valentine's Day about a year or so after David and I were married.

Always the romantic, David decided to take me to an elegant restaurant for the occasion. So we dressed up, hopped in the car and drove up the mountain to Auberge des Gallant, a well known, but rather secluded Inn at the top of Rigaud mountain (which is not really a mountain, but a hill).

I was impressed by the massive stone fireplace in the lobby. Our table was not quite ready, so we decided to make ourselves comfortable in front of the roaring fire. A waiter brought us each a glass of rich-looking red wine to sip.

It wasn't long before a hostess appeared to take us to our table. We had requested a table by the window, since at this time of year the deer come out of the woods to feed. They come right up to the windows as food is put out especially for them, adding a uniqueness and charm to this restaurant.

Our waiter was very French, of course.
He set out tasty tidbits, a basket of bread, and water in crystal glasses.
Resisting an urge to pick up a tasty tidbit with my fingers, I politely stuck my fork and knife into what looked like a toast triangle.

That was the wrong thing to do! It was hard as toast usually is, and flew over David's shoulder to land on the floor! Thank goodness nobody was looking.

Surprised by the flying toast tidbit, David knocked over his wine glass. Fortunately it was almost empty, so he quickly put it right again.

By this time I thought I'd better be safe than sorry, so I chose an innocent-looking roll from the bread basket. It was crusty on the outside, but nice and soft and buttery on the inside.  I'd just finished eating it when Monsieur Waiter appeared at our table with a whisk.
"Vous permittez, Madam?"
 I was taken aback. Permit you do to what? I hesitated and then nodded my head, wondering if he was really going to sweep up the breadcrumbs I had carelessly spilled on the white linen table cloth.
He did.
David choked on his water.

Monsieur Waiter then asked for our orders.
"I'll have the duck," I decided, wanting to try something different.
"How would you like it cooked?" asked M.Waiter.
Again I hesitated. I didn't know there were different methods of cooking duck. Doesn't one just roast it?
"Sanguine?" asked Waiter.
I nodded again.
David gave me a funny look but then went on to give his order.

Le canard (the duck) was presented to me on a bed of rice surrounded by tender-crisp vegetables. It was rare. Eewwww. I could not eat it.
"Didn't you realize that when you ordered?" David asked me. "Send it back."
"No, no, it's o.k." I'd lost my appetite for it anyway. Just ate the vegetables and rice, which were very tasty.

A young couple sat down at the table behind me. I could hear M. Waiter asking what they'd like to eat. It was obvious they spoke no French, so the waiter had to speak English.
"Perhaps a salade, Madam?" he asked the lady. "A lettoose salade?"

David and I looked at each other, then quickly looked away, in case we burst out laughing.
Lettoooose? Lettoooose? What else would a salad be made of than lettuce?
O.K., it could have been cabbage, but that would be cole slaw. Or potato salad, or greek salad. But really it was the poor man's pronunciation that had us chuckling in our napkins. 

Coffee arrived in delicate china cups. I picked up the silver cream pitcher and poured some into my coffee. It didn't look like cream; it looked like milk. A small sip confirmed my suspicion.
I asked M.Waiter for cream. He looked horrified.
"Non, Madam, we do not have cream."

Well, excuse me. I thought. Isn't this a French restaurant?  Don't they put cream in all of  their sauces?  Well never mind. We stopped at Tim Horton's on the way home and picked up coffee to go - double double for David and just cream for me.

We had had a delightful evening and laughed about it for years.