Today is the first time I saw my Dad after his operation. The wonders of technology, that it allows me to see him from all these miles away. He looks well, in fact not much different than before the news. I am surprised and grateful that my imagination was wrong. He is keen to show me his scars. I inwardly grimace as I look at them, not wanting him to read the dread on my face. He calls the scars his roadmap, as they run down his chest, across his belly and under his arm. Tracks. I see that he is healing well. He proudly shows me he can now move his arm above his head and tells me he is walking 1 mile everyday. Although, today he admits is a bad day because he’s run out of painkillers and hasn’t been for his walk. There are a few moments when breathlessness and grimaces interrrupt the conversation. Otherwise, he tells me he is doing well and the nurse has told him she is her best patient because of his positive attitude and how he is recovering. As he says this, he shows me he is having his first glass of wine since the operation. Inside I simultaneously rejoice and chastise him but decide to say nothing. There is a moment where he acknowledges the odds he was given and the opportunity the operation has given him. There is a brief pause when the gravity of that sinks into both of us. He quickly moves on to tell me about his upcoming plans and we talk about my visit in the fall.
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I am Healing
I am a Healer I am an Artist I am a Writer I am a Poet I speak the Truth I am Brave I am Resilient Education has saved me Art has saved me Reading has saved me Knitting and Making has saved me I saved me July 22nd 2016 Rest in Peace Audrey Davison. Wife of George Davison (Deceased). Mother of Vicky, Peter, Janet and George. Grandmother of Elizabeth, Andrew, Adele, Katy, Adrian, Helen, James and Martin. Great-grandmother too. May you rest in peace from your suffering. May you have relief and calm wherever you may be. “How many kisses?” as Grandad used to say. Love Helen P.S By the way- did you set off the fire alarm in my building at 2am this morning? The fire alarm that woke me from deep sleep, made me put on mismatched clothes, pick up my keys and phone and head outside to the curb. The fire alarm that woke me, so that I might look at my phone and read the message from your daughter, my mother. The message sent at 00.19 that simply read “muMs just died”. Was that you? If it was, I can imagine you chuckling at your mischief. Hah! Love you. I performed my Metissage- Crazy Women. Neil had found a Birch branch to tie the braid to. I tied the branch to my bench easel and sat before it in the circle. As I held each coloured strand, I read out loud my writing about each woman. Then braided each strand into a Metissage. A matriarchal chord. At the end, I was met with stunned silence. Hard to read the reactions. Did I share too much? Was I too truthful? Should I have held back? Did I read the situation wrong. Overestimate their ability to hold it when I put it out there.Vicki said "Continue your healing journey. you know this is big right? You know what Aboriginal people say about dreams." "Go to the mountain. Look for the Meta view. Yes this is part of your metissage but there are other running alongside them too. Yes there's mental health and what you do." Afterward, I am exhausted but I feel cleansed, like I have been exorcised of my demons. Where is this religious iconography and language coming from? I do not believe in God and I do not practice Christianity. Yet when I look at the effigy I have created in my presentation, I can not deny it looks like the cross that Christ died upon. Did this image reach out through the genes of my ancestors, jumble my neurones and fire the idea into my hands? Interesting thought. One exorcises demons. My demons. The demons that have haunted me for so long. They have defined my story because I have never spoken of them, except to a therapist, my husband and very close friend. I wanted to share their stories because their stories are my stories. I am the Hummingbird seeking survival, sustenance and home. As were they. Their stories were considered unimportant and mundane. Not exciting. Not man-made. I had looked on them in judgement. Why didn't they go to school, get a job, why did they have so many children, why didn't they travel, see the world? Why did they stay in that one place, dominated by men. I don't know the answer. I don't know if they yearned for it even.Or if they were happy and satisfied with their lot, with what God had given them. Oops there I go again.. What made me different? What made me yearn for all those things? School, learning, profession, choice about children, travel, new experiences, different cultures, freedom. Why am I different? Am I different? When I listen to the women in my class, I am not so different. In fact I am at times a milder version of women traveling off to distant lands and immersing themselves in the culture, people, work there. All that alone. How I admire and envy that. That is freedom. That is emancipation. As I write this I think about my first trip alone which happened this year. I finished a visit to see my family, just after Christmas and New Year. Then I went to Paris. It was scary and amazing and life affirming. As I sat in L'Orangerie looking at the Monet paintings I had poured over as a teenage art student. At a time when life was at it's heaviest, I had escaped into schoolwork and art. Devoted hours to the work. Stayed late after school to avoid the bullies at the school gate, the absence of my mother and the oppressive responsibility of taking care of my brother and father. Art was there for me. Monet, Manet, Pissaro, Renoir, Lautrec. They were there. in their beauty and attention to detail. In their humour and bemused observation. They were there and I was there with them Inspired by the work of Cynthia Chambers (2009, p 70) in Life Writing and Literary Metissage as an Ethos of Our Times (Hasebe- Ludt, Chambers and Leggo 2009).
Her advice…… 1) Writing is a meditative practice 2) Writing a woman’s life is a Feminist practice 3) Writing is hunting 4) Writing is a form of truthtelling 5) Write with the blood of an actual life 6) Write as if the whole world is in a single dandelion 7) Write with your ears 8) Write with compassion 9) Write with a sense of responsibility to the word and the world 10) Write naked I have the idea to knit a metissage of the women in my family. To create a Matriarchal Chord. To weave their stories like they are woven into my DNA. Each woman will be a different colour. I hope to write about each of them and tell their stories as I braid their chords together.
Songs I used to sing with my father while walking:
1) She'll be coming round the mountain 2)This Old Man 3) If I had a hammer 4) Puff the magic dragon Literary metissage is a creative strategy to braid socio-historical conditions of difference and points of affinity into autobiographical texts. It is literacy that transforms readers and writers and the public, social, political places in which they live.
(Haraway 1994 cited in Hasebe-Ludt, Chambers and Leggo 2009) When I remember I flit between being there next to them and flying overheard, like a bird soaring over them. We are walking side by side on the dusty path along the side of the road. Me, my Dad and my little brother. My little brother in his pushchair. He’s not quite steady enough on his feet or trustworthy enough to not dart off into the road, giggling. We walk beside the dusty ditch and past surrounding fields. It is quiet and the sun is shining. Occasionally cars drive by, whipping up the wind and silence. We are singing. My Dad would often make us do this. He would teach us songs and have us singing at the top of our lungs. Without inhibition. Now I’m shocked that I didn’t care what others would think if they heard us. What would they think of this grown man, his 10 year old daughter and 3 year old son, singing at the top of their lungs. Singing “She’ll be coming round the mountain when she comes. She’ll be coming round the mountain….” making up silly lyrics as we went along. songs of peace, progression and social activism. I wonder where he learned them. It felt so good. He would walk us for miles and we didn’t notice. Over the years he has walked us across fields, up hills and down lanes in the sunshine and pouring rain. We talked as we walked and set the world to rights. We had his undivided attention. As we walked he would listen. As I grew older, he would listen, wax lyrical, have philosophical debates about the world. Many a lesson in morals and ethics. How to treat people. As we walked he would point out things in nature. He would name trees, plants, flowers and birds. Taught me their latin names. We would revel in the awe of it all. Afterward we felt cleansed, exorcised and calm. Sometimes a quandary was discussed, we left resolute with what action to take next. My Dad, my saje, my shaman. Us three. Indivisable. A unit. My family. Over the years we grew up and grew out of those walks. Now I feel a pang of jealousy as he tells me he is going for a walk with my 6 year old niece and I am not invited along. I want to walk with him, sing without inhibition and have his undivided attention.
I haven’t been able to find the perfect pot or the perfect size container for them. I have searched and can’t find the perfect one. Delayed putting them in a new home until I found the perfect one. But today I realized it does not have to be perfect. I can put them in the not-so-perfect pot that is not quite the right size and they will be ok. I don’t want to delay anymore. I want to enjoy them now. So I rip open the bag of soil and reach in. The smell of soil and it’s softness in my hand take me back. Standing beside my Dad in his greenhouse, pricking out his seedlings. Planting baby plants for his garden. Like he showed me I place soil 1/3 of the way up the pot, moving it against the sides to make room. I pour a dash of water to comfort the root. I gently hold the pot in one hand while holding the seedling between finger and thumb of the other. I tip the pot upside down and pat its bottom, gently squeezing the sides of the pot to release the soil and root into my hand. I place the pot shaped mound into the center of the soil in the new container. I scoop up some fresh soil and place it around the seedling. I push the soil down around the edges, like I am tucking the seedling into bed. Like he told me, I am careful not to break the root or leaf, while I scoop, drop, prod and press down gently with my fingertips. I press down the soil down so it is firm enough to support the stalk and stands upright. Now I will watch them grow and tend to them in their imperfect pots . I hope they will be ok. Later as I write this , I am soothed, close my eyes and nod with sleepiness. |
Helen Kennett-BaconOriginally from South Yorkshire in England, I've lived with my husband Neil in Kitsilano, Vancouver for 10 years. We are fur-parents to our French bulldog Dave, I am a Registered Psychiatric Nurse specialising in ADHD. Archives
August 2016
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