Let it Snow

It's Monday evening and it's snowing. Not those namby pamby flakes that barely make it to the ground but big, lush flakes of white crystal that dift to settle over everything. I love times like this because there is a certain quietness about the city. It's true that snow muffles sounds but the majority of citizens are wise enough to stay home and not go anywhere which cuts the traffic noise to almost zero. Falling snow seems to allow people to shut down the busyness of life.

On nights like tonight we open the curtains fully, turn off all electric lights and put on candles and the fireplace. We make hot chocolate, turn on some wintery feeling music (Vivaldi's four seasons is great) and just sit and watch the snow fall. If it's a weekend and its late we will sometimes grab sleeping bags and all sleep-over in the living room. There is nothing as serene as laying there surrounded by your family, including the dog and two cats, and watching the snow fall until you drift off into sleep.

With only three days of work left this week and three weeks of vacation scheduled I'm really looking forward to spending more time with my family. Thankfully we don't celebrate Christmas so there is no need to get caught up in the shopping and craziness that I see so many going through. So despite the fact that I know it incoveniences people I am really hoping that we'll be blessed again this year with a lot more snow.

(Snowflakes under Microscope-Kenneth Libbrecht)

As Dean Martin puts it so eloquently..




Salynne ©2009

Family Traditions

Sunday evening is quite often family night and this week after dinner we decided to play a family game favorite, train dominoes. It was one of those evenings that you see on those commercials that show a idealic family sitting around the table enjoying each others company. We chatted, played and laughed at silly family jokes until tears ran from my eyes and my sides hurt.

Every family has a number of sometimes quirky traditions and we are no exception. Keeley and I have been going to a certain tea shop once a month since she was three years old, we all take the first really snowy day of the year off from school or work and have a sleep-over in the livingroom at least once every summer and winter. One custom that we cannot wait to do again this year is to indulge in making crazy and unique snowmen. In previous years we have created entire snow families-mom, dad and children, or sometimes large dogs and cats. Last year we created Winnie the Pooh during one snowfall and then during a later one we created two of our cats sitting on the hood of our vehicle as well as a snowman who had been hit by the car and was laying injured in front of the vehicle.

This particular family tradition started years ago with my love of Calvin and Hobbes so I thought I would share some of the cartoons that have inspired us. I don't know what we have planned this year but when we do get out in the snow to create some kind of art we'll be sure to share photos!
Salynne ©2009

Therapy for Archaeologists

On Saturday I checked out The One Minute Writer and found the prompt to be Archaeologist. My thoughts first turned to Egypt and far-away places but then I started thinking about what I have spent the last week doing--digging deeper into the places in my soul. The concept struck a cord and I decided to combine that into a little therapy session for myself--it actually worked wonders and I think I saved myself several hundred dollars!





Therapy for the Archaeologist

“Ok,” my red-haired therapist said, “Let’s dig a little deeper. How did you feel after your daughter died?”

“The emotional pain was so intense that I thought I would die. In fact, my heart started physically hurting. My doctor did a lot of tests but in the end it proved to be anxiety,” I said, tears welling up in my eyes.

“It’s not uncommon for parents who’ve lost children to go through physical symptoms. In reality, you had a broken heart, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” I sobbed. “It was so broken. It just laid there in pieces, until I came to see you.” I looked at her through the distortion that the tears in my eyes created.

“And over the time we spent together you picked up those pieces and put them together. I don’t know if I’ve used the analogy before but you were like an archaeologist who finds the remnants of a very precious vase. He picks up the pieces up carefully in his hands and over time glues it back together until it is whole again. It was hard work then to fit together and mend your heart but you did do it.

“It’s true, Angie,” I sniffed. “ I did put things back together, but it’s been ten years and lately I feel as though the glue holding everything has come apart, and I don’t know what to do."

“Well, you are archaeologist of your life. If something precious like your heart has fallen apart into pieces then you need to pick those pieces up carefully in your hands and very tenderly brush off any dust or dirt. You need to spend time and focus on putting things back together. It sounds as though this would be a good time to focus on you and treat yourself with care and gentleness.”

I nodded and looked down at the remnants of the shredded wet Kleenex in my hand. “When I was going through the worst of it I used to get up in the night so I could be all alone and write. I would write for hours, about what was happening in my life, how I felt about it and what I was going to do about it. Those moments were a commitment to take care of myself and they helped me sort things out.”

“So it sounds like maybe you need to do some writing again then?"

I sat quietly and thought for some time before I spoke. “Yes. I have been writing just not that kind of writing. I’m working on a lot of projects, some short stories I want to submit to magazines and I’m even labouring on two novels; but I think the problem is that I’ve stopped writing things about me, just FOR me. I need to write for me. I like the analogy you used—it’s like I should take a shovel and dig down into the dirt to find those parts of myself. Writing sorts out the pieces and helps me make sense of them and put them back together.”

“That’s a really great observation and I think something a lot of people could learn from.” Angie looked at me and smiled. “Our time is up for today, would you like to book an appointment for next week?”

“Let’s make it a month,” I said, my tears starting to dry. “I’ve got a lot of sorting and putting things together to do.”

“Ok, well the session today will be $500.00; will that be cheque or credit card?”

“Hmmmm...would you take a couple of old beaten up relics that I found while cleaning out my garage? It’s mostly some of my husband’s stuff from his school years and according to him it’s pretty precious.”

“Ha,ha” laughed Angie. “Just remember you may be the archaeologist but I’m the therapist. How did you want to pay?”


Salynne ©2009

Winter Doldrums, Grief and Onions

It seems that this time of year and I don't mix very well. The winter doldrums have set in; the weather is blah, its seems to me to be dark twenty-four hours a day and I'm feeling down and exhausted. Over the past two months I've also had some heart palpitations which it turns out have been anxiety attacks.

Some of you may know that this fall I committed myself to editing and compiling stories from the time period that my daughter Brenna was alive, with a goal of having a finished manuscript by spring. Writing about and dealing with that time period is not helping matters and/or causing a lot of my current anxiety issues--writing this book is proving to be much harder emotional work than I thought it would be. Members of my writing group (part therapy group :) suggested that I blog about what is really going on and how I feel consumed with thinking about my daughter and why; they suggested that being open and honest about it all will in itself help me lessen this feeling that I'm blocked by sadness and going in one direction only.

They've also encouraged me to start writing about the process of putting this part of my life onto paper and that has proved to be very good advice. Since our group on Wednesday I've been penning like crazy about what has been going on while I'm writing the book and the reasons why I need to take myself on this difficult journey. It's been twelve years since I became a bereaved parent and although I thought I was doing "well" I've learned that term is very subjective. There are different layers of grief which are often compared to the layers of an onion; you peel off one but there is always another under the surface. Sometimes you get "blindsided" by grief, it pops up unexpectedly. In this case I've opened the can of worms myself and after my experiences over the past several months its very clear that when you purposely dredge up things from the past and allow yourself to feel some of those tragic feelings again it can take a heavy toll. I'm determined to press on but I have to start taking better care of myself, give myself breathing space and let others know what I'm going through.

On top of all of this hard emotional work I've been doing, last weekend I felt that I had to attend the memorial of a fifteen year old boy. His mother and I have done volunteer work together at Canuck Place Children's Hospice, and although I'd only met her son once, out of respect for her I went. When I arrived there were over a hundred people there but the first thing I did was search out the faces of the others in our Canuck Place group. They, like me were also bereaved parents and felt it important to attend. The plan was that we would sit together and support each other.

In the end I did not sit with my group preferring to stand in the back to let the large number of arriving family and friends have seats. There was also the part of me that hoped that I could escape early. The memorial itself was emotional but I was not particularly moved. What struck me the hardest and made me the most sad was watching the faces of the parents in my group. The pain on their faces was so evident and I knew this sorrow was not just for our colleague but for themselves and for every other parent who has lost a child. I could see them remembering the last moments of their child's life as our friend talked about her son and that they fully understood and remembered days of numbness afterwards which helps you to be brave and get through the memorial. Being a writer I am an observer, a watcher, almost a voyeur into other people's lives. On this occasion though, it wasn't so much that I could place myself in others shoes or read on their faces the gaping hole the death of a child leaves in their hearts; I realized that the pain on their faces and the sorrow in their hearts was only a reflection of what was in my own.

Salynne ©2009