The Magic of Teaching

Nineteen years ago, I was given a class of 31 students. I loved the group so much I pleaded with my then-principal for a chance to teach them again two years later, and enjoyed them in grade 6 as I had in grade 4. They remain, all these years later, the loveliest class I’ve ever had the pleasure of teaching.

Last night, I felt that magic come back. I was invited to the wedding of one of my favourite students from that group. What was remarkable, beyond the honour of being invited to share such a momentous occasion, was that Sophia had two of her classmates in her bridal party: Lisa and Andrea. More favourites, and all three of them there together in one place!

Though I cannot remember any of the curriculum I imparted to them, I do recall little skits and plays about the Spice Girls (huge favourites in 1998!), our weeklong field trips to Quebec City, and then to Ottawa which included, at Sophia’s suggestion, a trip to the National Gallery to see a Picasso exhibit. Conversations we had together come back to me easily, some more bizarre than others… I giggle that my use of the “t” word (tampon, for those of you wondering) was particularly shocking back in the day to Andrea. I am humbled at their admiration for my teaching abilities, which I must admit had more of the "make it up as you go along!" technique than anything else. I am also deeply grateful and humbled that they look back in time with a soft-focussed lens that is filled with warm memories and a generosity of spirit that made us all smile. I will absolutely treasure the stroll we took to the photo booth Sophia and her husband Matty had installed in the reception hall. The four of us, armed with silly hats, boas, and other odd accoutrements, posed for silly photos together, and I will treasure the strip as a memento of this serendipitous reunion. 

Those two years were truly some of the happiest I spent in my career. Despite the large size of the class, I was always impressed by the lack of bullying and negative behaviour between that particular group of students. Their dynamic was one of incredible acceptance of how different they were from one another, and the neutrality with which they treated those who weren’t "friends" was impressive at that age where cresting puberty can often make for angry, malicious behaviour. There were the usual minor squabbles, but as Lisa said last night, “We were like a family and families do that.” Even when I was giving out to them, apparently, it was well received because it came from an honest, caring place. Having a group is a gift that you have all too rarely in a career, and I am delighted that the affection went both ways and is still remembered fondly by these students as well.

What was so powerful about our reunion last night was that it reaffirmed all those things I am passionate about in teaching, and reminded me that the battles I’ve had with administrators not to become a “cookie-cutter, teach to the test” teacher have been worthy ones. We are not there to impart facts and figures, but rather to inspire young minds and to teach them how to learn, as my husband said so well last night. Curriculum only matters in that we can use it to get children engaged, curious and excited about the world around them, and then move them to follow their dreams and loves. The personal connection between teachers and their students is the most powerful force in the educational system, and the recent obsessions with standardized testing and what I call their "false accountability" are wrong-headed. They seek to measure what is essentially not measurable until many years later if at all, and destroy all that is creative and unique in the students we are helping to form into independent, thinking adults. It is a soul-sucking exercise of the worst kind, and catching up with three intelligent, accomplished young ladies who never suffered a minute of it under my watch convinced me that what I’ve believed and exemplified in the last 25 years has been the right thing to do. 

Instinctively, I felt from the beginning of my career that the children I connected with would largely turn out to be fine individuals, and that they would grow up and eventually find their place in the world. It is reassuring to have discovered so many years later, through various random encounters, that this has indeed been the case, even with those who had greater challenges than others. The kids, as Pete Townshend once put it, are alright. Speaking with them also reminded me of what a privilege it is to teach, to make a difference in so many lives, and to have those very young people you’re in charge of for a moment in time make the same difference in yours. It truly is what makes this profession so magical.

As a colleague and dear friend summed it up today when I told her how wonderful the evening had been, ”You never know the good you do.” It goes in both directions.

The Price of Loyalty

One of my school parents recently called me a hippie. She was trying to convey her appreciation for how I had been dealing with her child, and the compliment amused me because I don't think she was actually describing the qualities I associate with hippiedom. She simply liked my open-mindedness with regards to a difficult situation; I don't think she was expressing an opinion on how I tend to be in the moment more than most (thank you, ADD!) or how I feel and express love and affection freely. I lack the "don't worry, be happy" bit that would make me a perfect love child, but I'm working on it. As a friend recently told me, he is learning to put himself first, and suggested I should follow his lead.

Easier said than done for me. I am by nature an optimist, and a great believer in the idea that everyone deserves forgiveness and redemption. I am also fiercely protective of people I care about; once I love someone as a friend, it is difficult for me to accept being any other way with them. It is a source of pride to me that people can count on me to be kind and compassionate, and I've found that being this way has brought me so much in return.  However, there are dangers in always being generous emotionally; people can take you for granted, and you can sometimes drown by trying to be an anchor for those around you who need you. I know this instinctively and fight to keep a balance, but I am not always successful. As a result, my empathy and loyalty often come at a detriment to my own well being.


This has certainly been the case in the last short while, and it's been very frustrating because my loyalty has been tested by what I perceive to be a lack of appreciation. I don't like lies and dishonesty in general, which is not to say that I cannot keep secrets or respect the need for others to maintain their privacy. I have, and I do. What I struggle with is my own need to have closure and my endless battles with impatience. I suspect I will never win the last one, and will be forced to accept that flaw as being permanent. Perhaps it's there for a purpose, or perhaps it's my other Achilles' heel. Certainly, I've always battled my swell of emotions: the deep feelings I have are at once my superpower and my kryptonite, and I'm grateful that I can release and process many of them into the novels I write. I'm sure I'd go mad otherwise.

My creative outlets are not enough for me to heal though. I can keep anything private that doesn't impact me, and have done so countless times. It's different when I've been hurt by the same actions as someone else I care about. Recently, I chose protection of another over my own need for personal closure, thinking part of my healing would come from the recipient of my loyalty. However, I've been disappointed by this friend's general lack of contact and acknowledgement of my part in making both our lives better. It has made me feel uncared for, and perhaps that's the part of me that is easily hurt by others lashing out unfairly. Perhaps it was wrong of me to expect that in return but I tend to hold my friends to the same high standards I expect of myself in the long run. It's how I feel and how I've admitted I am reacting, and only some further dialogue with my friend could change that perception now. At the moment everything seems rather precarious, and it means I may need to accept letting go and concluding my healing path on my own.

In true personal style, I have no idea whether I'm right or wrong here. My emotional intelligence is fairly strong, but the mind is notorious for filling empty gaps with the most dreadful and dramatic scenarios it can conjure up. I'm not sure how anything will go or where my choice will take me, only that it seems the right direction to follow in this moment with what little clues I have.  If I'm wrong about my perceptions, I hope I'll be corrected soon enough; if I'm right, a further loud silence will emerge to drown out my hope. What is clear is that a truth of some kind will be revealed, and a lesson about loyalty will be learned in either case.  Fingers crossed that it's a kind outcome for all involved, but I've seen enough ugliness in the last year to take nothing for granted anymore.

Connections

In the late spring of 2001, my father died after a three-month battle with cancer. It was his fourth round, and I was crushed that he couldn’t kick its ass once again. I sought refuge in a two-week summer holiday to Scotland with my then-boyfriend (now my husband). We drove up, down, and across the countryside, logging over 1600 km, and soon fell in love with the stark and rugged beauty that surrounded us at every curve. We left to bury my father in his adopted German hometown, promising ourselves to return someday to this majestic land we had grown so attached to in such a short time. 

Loch Ryan in August, 2014, coming home from Belfast.

Last Sunday,  I spent over eleven hours making my way home from a weeklong school holiday to Scotland. After landing at London’s Heathrow from Edinburgh, it was obvious that my cider excesses of the previous afternoon had dulled my brain: instead of following the familiar purple sign for my “flight connection” to Canada, I stumbled out of a yellow door and found myself outside of all the security zones and among the general public. Luckily, I had plenty of time before the next leg of my journey and no real harm was done.

The concept of connection has been on my mind a lot lately. There has been gentle teasing from close friends and family about my current “Scottish phase”, and ongoing poking fun at my fondness for kilts and Biffy Clyro. Underneath the jokes lurks the deeper question of what exactly connects me to the land of the unicorns. I think I may have figured it out on this last trip.

In 2012, I published the first of four books that would comprise a series of rock novels inspired by The Who’s song Behind Blue Eyes. To date, three have been released and the last one is my current work-in-progress. When I sent an ebook to the local classic rock deejay I’d been listening to as I worked through my editing stages, he supported my writing, we formed a fast bond, and I began to engage in lively, witty banter with a small group of people on social media who were part of his intimate circle and would eventually become the core of my Scottish friends. Later on that fall, I appeared on a literary podcast featuring a rock fiction writer and another Scottish connection was made. The following year, a Glasgow Who fan became the last of the friends I would eventually meet for the first time face to face in August 2014.

George Square on March 20, 2015.

Friendship is measured in many different ways, but to me, is primarily rooted in laughter and in kindness. During my last two visits to Scotland, I’ve nearly drowned in the tears brought about by the verbal sparring and harmless antics of my new friends. Likewise, I’ve been humbled by the continuous care and hospitality they have each offered me at every turn, whether it be in accommodations, evenings out, or rides to and from airports. I can speak at length about their generosity and affection, for it seems at once so genuine and effortless on their part, and immensely touching to receive. Their big hearts make it so easy to want to be in their company, and to return their warmth with equal sincerity.

The Kelpies at Grangemouth.

The Old Oaks at Chatelherault.

Arria by Andy Scott at Cumbernauld.

Why has the connection been so immediate and so deep? I think we are all kindred spirits of sorts. Many of us are the first in our families to transcend our working class roots and become very successful professionals, but whose humble origins have kept us grounded and appreciative of our good fortune. We are, as far as I can tell, not only witty and clever, but also seem to be great storytellers: beyond the banter and gentle teasing, there is an ease in spinning yarns that keeps us all in stitches. Finally, I think what unites us that much like most middle-aged people, there is a small part of us that is broken or wounded by the battles of our past. We carry that hurt just under the surface, but the realization that we all wear a dented armour seems to have further cemented the bonds between us. It is perhaps why we care for each other with such protectiveness, and why we give of ourselves so freely to those in our circle. The Scots are not unlike the French culturally in that teasing, bantering, and even gentle mocking are displays of affection. The mutual giving and receiving of these intimate insults are signs of trust between friends, for only when we let down our guard and allow ourselves to be vulnerable do we appreciate how much we are loved and cared for. Twisted logic, maybe, but a code of behaviour that I can live with:

As I was told on Sunday as I made my way to the departure gates of Edinburgh Airport, “Haste ye back.” We’re hastening, we’re hastening. See you soon, Scotland, and those lovely, dear people inside your borders we are so blessed to call our friends.

Empty Glass

I cannot believe it's February already.

2015 rolled in just a month ago with no great fanfare in our household. I've never been a huge fan of grand New Year's Eve soirées;  overpriced clubbing surrounded by drunk strangers hasn't appealed to me in over twenty years, and it's usually too cold to head towards the city centre for a collective countdown. We chose to go on a date to watch the final instalment of the Hobbit trilogy, indulging ourselves by booking the VIP adults-only section of the local theatre, which allowed us to sip wine in plush, wide reclining leather seats. It was a lovely night, and started the new year on the right foot.

So far, I have high hopes for 2015. The past few weeks have been ridiculously busy as school life has revved up, but I've not minded the buzz of activity because the bulk of reporting to parents is now behind me and I have regained much needed balance once again. I've embraced a new fitness regime that has me in the pool and at the gym five times a week, and the changes have given me energy and boosted my mood. I've also jumped back into writing my final novel in the series I started in 2011. Honestly. Truly. Really. Finally. I promise you, such an avalanche of adverbs will be edited out of the final product.

Getting back to writing fiction is a major step forward. It has been a huge struggle to find my voice again, but as my good friend Ron reminded me earlier tonight, "lots of life lived in between always helps the creativity."  I think he was being his very kind self in saying that, which I do appreciate so much from him.

He isn't wrong, though. For a writer, observation and introspection are likely ingrained habits, and it's certainly true in my case. Life experiences often become springboards for narratives, and while my plot outlines have long been set for the final instalment of my Behind Blue Eyes series, I do think some of the things that have happened to me in the last two years will add richness and realism to my story. That's not to say for one second that these insights have been worth the pain that anyone has gone through, including my own: I would throw away all my words if I could go back in time and make some of what I and others have endured disappear, but life is not like that and we must go through rough patches to appreciate the smooth ones (again, my friend Ron's words floating into my ears).

I'm learning to make peace with myself and I am looking forward to disappearing into my imagination once again. I think it's far healthier for me to relegate some of the last two years to my creative memory, where I can use any insights to bring a better story to the page. I'd rather have events from the past serve a constructive purpose than let them linger and fester like an old wound. Mind you, having resolved to detach myself and forget about certain matters doesn't mean anyone should expect secrets to be revealed in any passages that I write. That's really not how my brain works, and I would like to think that I am not so obvious or transparent in how I absorb life lessons. Rather, I hope to add empathy and understanding to the characters I've created by infusing them with some of the depths of my own experience. It will not erase the hurt I witnessed in others or felt personally, but hopefully it will allow it to dissipate so healing can take place.

The title of the last book will be Empty Glass, borrowed of course from Pete Townshend's solo catalogue. It has a specific meaning for the main character of the series, and for me, it is a positive phrase at this point. My glass is only empty because it needs refilling, and getting back to what gives me joy will do just that.

The Return of the Light

I am an Earth sign, if astrology charts are to be believed, and while there is a certain truth to the characteristics I am supposed to possess as a Capricorn (fierce loyalty, the need for security), my preferred earth is of the sandy variety, and there is a deep longing in me to be close to water. I don’t remember a time when I couldn’t swim, or a moment near the lake or the ocean that didn't soothe me.

Today, on the first full day of my winter break, the dog and I disappeared for an afternoon stroll by the lake. It was a profound moment to be alone with him by the shoreline, just the two of us and a cluster of swans. The waves were gentle, the sun shone brightly, and despite the below-freezing temperatures, the hour-long walk brought me calm and joy. It reminded me that my year is ending on a high note, and that I have much to look forward to. I’ve got a book to finish, and for the first time in almost 20 months, I feel ready to tackle it and give it my full attention. After many false starts, this is a major mental victory.

2014 has been a year of stark contrasts: in the end, the light drove away the darkness, but there were moments when I doubted the outcome. Two people in particular caused me tremendous stress and pain, one in my professional life and the other on a personal level. They were both toxic and destructive in different ways, but luckily were only around for a few short years before inflicting their damage. They have now been removed from my life permanently and I feel lighter and happier for their absence. It is for them a blessing that I will never have to see them again because I would likely be tempted to seek revenge for the enormity of harm they have caused me and friends I care about. That too, is apparently a classic Capricorn response. Hurting me is bad enough, but hurting others is unpardonable. 

While I’ve tried to I think of them as deeply flawed women who deserve my forgiveness, I’m afraid I haven’t yet found the grace to excuse their narcissistic and sociopathic behaviours. Perhaps that’s a tall order with the wounds so raw, despite the time of year. I’m satisfied enough to have let go of the past and accepted that I cannot change anything that's happened, and I hope that others affected by their negativity will be able to do the same. The goodwill may have to wait a bit longer, I’m afraid.

Despite the rough patches, the light of others shone very brightly this year, and I am very grateful for the beautiful friends, family, and places who helped me through them. As we celebrate the return of the sun tomorrow with the winter solstice, I think back to the many healing moments the last six months have given me: July was the summer start in New York City, followed by a magnificent adventure to Scotland where I spent three weeks having the time of my life with my husband and some new, wonderful friends.  In October, a quick weekend in Chicago reminded me why it’s important to seize the chance to meet new friends and enjoy life. In between these little foreign escapades, I had many local angels who were supportive.

The magical Kelpies at Grangemouth, Scotland.

                                                  The river Tay and surrounding hills, Scotland.

To the old and new friends who crossed my path positively this year: the world is a gentler place because of your continued kindness, and the best way I can repay you all is by following your lead. Thank you for your example, and I’ll try to work on that goodwill and forgiveness thing. Maybe that will be my 2015 resolution. To those of you still hurting, just remember that only light can drive out darkness, and that stars can’t shine without it.  You deserve the best, so reach out to the stars nearby if you need to.

Happy Solstice, and Slainte Mhath to you all.

1000 Words...

Another Happy Anniversary

Eight years ago, I took a second walk down the aisle, holding the arm of my soon-to-be husband’s father, who was standing in for my deceased dad. It had taken me ten years to get there, all of it spent with a man I loved and lived with, someone I knew I wanted to grow old with but was afraid to marry until that very moment. In truth, it wasn’t even the fear of marriage that had rattled me all that time, but the idea of the actual ceremony. I such a clear memory of my first wedding day, and of the optimism and joy that marked it: I had been so madly in love the first time I took those vows, and so excited about all the things we were going to do and places we would visit together for the rest of our lives. Six very short years later, the dream was in tatters, and I stood alone in what had been our home, tearful and devastated, left wondering how something that had seemed so full of hope could have evaporated so quickly.

Somewhere in Germany in the summer of 2006, having the pre-honeymoon.

To his credit, my husband has always understood that my fears had nothing to do with my feelings for him, but were rooted in how seriously I had taken my vows the first time. When I love or care for someone, I am deeply loyal to a fault and remain a friend for life no matter what transpires between us. Because of this, the end of the relationship crushed me, and the idea of repeating the same words was difficult; I had meant them so earnestly the first time and had never planned to say them to another man. I was very touched that he accepted my reticence with grace and generosity, letting me know that if I ever got over my doubts, I was just to ask him for his hand in marriage and he would absolutely say yes. In the meantime, he added, we would just continue to enjoy our life together.

Our first dance as a married couple. 

I did eventually ask, largely influenced by the safety net he had placed around my heart by his casual acceptance of my trepidations. We had a pre-honeymoon in Europe that summer, then let our wedding coincide with American Thanksgiving to allow his family and our friends to come from the US to attend the festivities. We held the ceremony and reception at the Old Mill in Toronto, enjoying a final burst of uncharacteristically mild weather that made the event all the more enjoyable. Perhaps the most heartwarming part of the service was the reading of a passage from The Velveteen Rabbit by my brother, for it really captured the essence of how we felt then and still do about each other:

“Everything changed and everything stayed the same.” That, in a nutshell, is what followed our exchange of vows. He grew more protective of me in many ways, his arm reaching around me like a subtle cloak to keep me safe emotionally and physically. Our household routines did not alter much, but there grew an ease of manner between us that likely had less to do with being officially married than with the comfort and confidence that the passing of time gives you if you are happy together. And we have been happy, finding common interests in playing tennis together, travelling, and just enjoying one another's company as much as we do spending time apart to pursue our own hobbies or cultivating separate friendships. Some of our tastes clash, whether in music or movies, but none of it matters as we have both been willing to take deep breaths to try and find common ground. Sometimes it means I roll my eyes through a science fiction movie, and sometimes he grits his teeth through a concert I've brought him along to. In our better moments, we find ourselves both enjoying the new experience.

There is no one I trust more than him, and events of the past five years reaffirm for me that I married well this second time: I went from the chronic pain of two separate shoulder injuries (both fully healed now) to experiencing menopause, and the side effects of each condition were immense. For all the emotional upheaval, uncertainties, and mistakes I’ve made in recent months, he is the only one who stood by and held my hand steadily through it all, calmly accepting episodes where I overreacted to events around me, agonized over bad choices, or felt defeated by personal and work-related conflicts. He has, for eighteen years, always had my best interest at heart, and his devotion and kindness have never wavered or been marked by either jealousy or indifference. He has also been a great partner in my professional aspirations, offering advice to keep my teaching career successful, and in helping me to achieve my dream to write and publish novels. I am quite proud of this particular accomplishment, which I could never have done without his assistance and support.

Having a drink together at the Cow Shed in Edinburgh during the 2014 Fringe Festival. Still travelling, still smiling together.

I am a lucky woman to have found him, and perhaps a wise one for asking him the big question before the time grew too late to do so gracefully.There are moments when I wonder how and why he puts up with me, for I know I am at once a useless hausfrau. I often joke that I am just decorative: to this, he will reply that I still amuse him to no end, and that along with my other talents, that this is enough. As you can see, playfulness and affection are alive and well between us. While I know that I am a strong, intelligent, and independent woman, I shudder to think of where I would be today had I not met him all those years ago and taken a chance with him. I'm one of those fearless "act before you think things through" types, and I've lost track of the number of times he has forced me to take a deep breath before I made yet another foolish decision. In exchange, I've likely done the opposite and made him less cautious than he might otherwise have been in many instances. There's a nice complementary balance to our relationship that allows us to bring the best of ourselves to the surface. Despite the nine-year age gap (I'm officially the mature one), it still works, and it works well.

I fucking love you, Austin. Happy Anniversary, and here's to me still loving you when I'm 70. I know you don't love Ed like I do, but at least it's not Biffy, right? ;)

Remembrance Day as a National Holiday?

At the beginning of the week, federal MP Dan Harris introduced a private member's bill in parliament to make Remembrance Day a national holiday in Canada. This may surprise those who already though it was, but it is in fact only a paid day off for federal employees, and is not currently marked by Ontario, Quebec, Manitoba and Nova Scotia.

In the wake of the recent attack on the cenotaph in Ottawa and the death of reservist Nathan Cirillo, the national mood would favour the passing of this bill; there is a sincere desire to honour those who have made great sacrifices in the service of their country, and certainly a recognition of all veterans with a national holiday would be a respectful way to achieve this. Likewise, I can understand the frustration of those who would like to participate in local Remembrance Day ceremonies but are unable to do so because of work obligations, and admire their commitment to honouring those who have suffered great loss to secure our freedom. Yet, despite a deep respect for members of the armed forces, I am against the idea of making this day a statutory paid holiday, and it has everything to do with my job as an elementary school teacher.

When I was a child, we enjoyed a day off on November 11th, and I have to admit that I have no recollection of ceremonies. Sometime between my own formal education and being hired as a teacher, schools recognized that children were likely just staying home without context and that there was a need to make them aware of why marking the day was important. For me, adulthood was the first time I participated in meaningful Remembrance Day services. As the child of a WW2 soldier who fought on the German side, our family never spoke about the war when I was growing up and certainly didn't feel we were entitled to any kind of remembrance for sacrifices made by anyone on "our side". This point of view has thankfully changed in recent years and the commemorations are framed around a wider theme of war, loss, and the need for global peace; in this land of immigrants and of multicultural experiences, this is largely a good thing, although the day retains a Canadian flavour and a commitment to honour our past.

My father: 16 years-old and about to join the war in 1942.

William Longstaff— Ghosts of Vimy Ridge,from the  House of Commons Collection, Ottawa, on display at the War Museum of Canada


I am apprehensive about the parliamentary bill because I don't want our school system to lose the link to our veterans and their contributions to the nation's history. I've watched children over the last twenty years learn about their own family contributions, asking questions at home and then bringing mementoes and artifacts that belonged to grandparents; I've listened as school choirs sang "In Flanders Fields" and got chills down my spine; I've looked on as ten year-olds escorted a frail WW2 veteran to help light memorial candles and wish for peace, and smiled at the respectful interaction between the generations. I can't help feeling that all that would be lost if the bill gets passed and we all take the day off.

Perhaps the best compromise would be to give the day to all working Canadians, with the understanding that schools would be responsible for hosting a ceremony that parents could join with their children. I would certainly support this practice and not mind the sacrifice of an hour or so to prepare and supervise my students for the occasion. It would be a pittance of time, given what the veterans of wars and those who keep me safe every day of my privileged life have done for me and for those I teach.

A Heartbreaking Week

I can't recall the last time I wrote a political entry on this blog, if ever. I'm usually fixated on music, travel, and literary matters, but the events of the last few days have hit me hard and left me struggling to make sense of what is essentially senseless. On Wednesday in Ottawa, an unarmed reservist died while protecting the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier at the Cenotaph, a post only made necessary because vandals urinated on the hallowed monument a few years back. His killer then continued his rampage through the Centre Block of Parliament Hill, thankfully gunned down before he could claim more victims. Two days before in Montreal, a 'radicalized' young man from Québec had driven into two members of the military to cause them harm; one of the pair, Warrant Officer Patrice Vincent, died from his injuries.  In the last 48 hours, the country has been united in grief at the loss of Cpl. Nathan Cirillo: photos of him and of his dogs, and news that he had a young son caused an eruption of sadness across Canada. The bullet holes embedded in the corridor walls of the Hall of Honour were shocking, and video footage of our MPs hiding in their caucus chambers with desks and chairs stacked against the doors for protection only added to our impression that this had been a brutal, horrific day.

The Hall of Honour, Centre Block, on Parliament Hill in Ottawa.

When the lockdowns had ended and the ministerial speeches had been made, the question that seemed to linger in the media was this: had Canada been irrevocably changed? No.  What happened on Wednesday was devastating, but I don't believe the essence of what it means to be Canadian has been altered.

We are a strong country, and our resolve has not weakened. Even as members of the armed forces were advised to remove their uniforms to keep themselves safe from targeted attacks, others dismissed the idea as giving in to fear and terror, and still others volunteered to don uniforms so that we could all collectively give terrorists the metaphoric middle finger. Today, in a building riddled with bullet holes and shattered glass windows, our parliamentarians returned to work and the Cenotaph was reopened to the public, many of whom came in large numbers to pay their respects to Nathan Cirillo with flowers and other tributes. This is not a country that will allow itself to be frightened into submission. Under our mild exterior, we are fiercely defiant.

Carnations for a fallen soldier.


We are a modest, almost self-effacing nation; it is not our style to be alarmist and rash, and we tend to buckle down and do what's necessary without fanfare in times of duress. All these qualities were evident not only in the televised scenes we witnessed but also by the nature of the reporting of the major media outlets. The CBC (and news anchor Peter Mansbridge in particular) refused to speculate and share information they couldn't confirm, and so were repeatedly scooped by other networks, especially those in America. It was a tweet about the calm, measured response of our national radio broadcasters that alerted me that something was happening in our capital city, and by the time the night was over, I was in awe of the restraint and professionalism shown by our CBC journalists. You can find a media comparison between US and Canadian media here.




Finally and most importantly, we are a kind and compassionate people. When tragedy strikes, we tend to unite to give each other strength. There were hugs between the leaders of our three federal political parties today as Parliament reopened, and a standing ovation that lasted more than two minutes for Kevin Vickers, the House of Commons' Sergeant-at-Arms who bravely came out of his office on Wednesday and emptied his handgun clip into the killer to end the siege. Today, when Cpl. Cirillo's casket was taken from Ottawa to his hometown of Hamilton, mourners lined the road and the stretch of the TransCanada Highway known as the Highway of Heroes in the thousands to pay their respects for his sacrifice. Barbara Winters, a lawyer who found herself at the scene of his murder, epitomizes the gentle nature of so many ordinary Canadians: as Cpl. Cirillo lay dying and the emergency workers desperately tried to save him, she held his hand and softly repeated soothing words to him, telling him how proud and loved he was by his military brethren and his family. To hear her retell her experience in a television interview tonight, crying as she recalled her final moments with the young man, I was moved by her empathy and kindness, but not surprised in the least: unable to offer medical assistance, she contributed what she could, and gave him the gift of shared humanity, making sure that he was surrounded with love and appreciation in his final moments on Earth. It is at once a beautiful and heart-wrenching story.

Paying tribute to Cpl. Nathan Cirillo on the Highway of Heroes this afternoon.


What bears remembering is that this was not Canada's first experience with homegrown terrorism. I am just old enough to remember the FLQ (Front de Libération du Québec) crisis of October 1970, when the kidnapping of a British diplomat and  the murder of a provincial minister resulted in the imposition of martial law. Our country also saw many of its citizens murdered during the deliberate bombing of Air India Flight 182 off the coast of Ireland in 1985, and those responsible were found in our own backyard then as well. In both these cases, we responded with a stubborn refusal to recoil in fear and fought back by remaining true to our values.  I firmly believe that despite our current heartbreak and shock, we will once again respond with strength and love. In a few weeks, on  Remembrance Day, we will honour those who gave the ultimate sacrifice to serve and protect our country.  I suspect that the ceremonies will have an added significance because of the events of this week, and that there will be a heartfelt outpouring of support and admiration for the members of our military from a grateful nation.

Random Musings

It's report card season again but as is the norm for me when my deadline is still a week away, I'd much rather put things off and do writing of the more creative kind.

I've been back at school now for seven weeks, and seem to have found my groove finally. September was a slog, despite enjoying the new surroundings and the people (both big and small) that I am in close contact with. It dawned on me in mid-September that I was missing my butterfly days of August in Scotland,  gallivanting across the country and fluttering from one lovely meet-up to another, and that I needed to balance out the hard work of my job with the semblance of a social life to avoid sinking into another round of misery.

So far, so good, a month later. I've seen a couple of good concerts and managed dinners and drinks with close friends that I just don't see enough of. I'm resigned to the fact that we will likely not see each other again until the spring, in a few cases, and that's okay (see #2 below). As ever, as it is when friends and alcohol collide, such evenings leave me pensive. It's a mix of getting older and hearing different perspectives, I suppose, and I don't mind one bit that filling in some gaps about situations and people I care about often leads to reflection and eventually changes some of my thinking. It's certainly been the case the last two weeks, and I feel all the better for it.



In no particular order, here's what I've gleaned from being out and about:

1. I've realized that I miss my former colleagues and that if I don't make a concerted effort to see them, it will not happen. I don't want that.

2. I've been impatient and unreasonable with people I care about too often this year. Part of it was hormonal and an effect of my situational depression, but I'm ready to be better about this. I am grateful that those friendships endure and that I have the opportunity to fix past mistakes and errors in judgement.

3. Most of us are doing the best we can in the situations we are in, and it's essential to believe that about the people we care about, including ourselves. Sometimes, you need to receive certain information to realize that your mind is often your worst enemy and that you give it far too much power to imagine the worst in others when the best would likely be a truer representation of reality.

4. I've found, in this sharing of stories, that we seem to find it much easier to tell others how we feel than to let people know directly. Is it fear and insecurity that makes us dread or avoid telling someone how much we love them or have affection for them? I'm not sure, but it hit me this week how detrimental this reticence can be to our happiness. Go ahead, tell people you like them, and tell them often. It will make them smile and feel loved, and it will reflect back to you. Kindness is contagious, so pass it on.

5. Lest I get accused of being sappy or soppy, there is always room for criticism.  My emotional collapse earlier this year did me in physically, and I need to shed pounds and the past. It's time to hit the ground running, literally. Well, maybe not running because I hate running. Walking fast. With a big dog in front of me. Eyes forward, onward and upward.

Giving Thanks

Unlike our American neighbours, we here in Canada celebrate Thanksgiving early on in October; our harvest time is earlier and we desperately want to pack in the fun before it snows and we get cabin-bound until April. The last bit is an exaggeration, but just barely some years. This year, for the first time in ages, there will be no family feast this long weekend; no one has fallen out but we've postponed getting together for a week due to a family birthday and my oldest brother being out of town. It's a strange turn of events, but as a vegetarian, I'm not lamenting the loss of smelling a cooked turkey (it's vile, to be frank!) and as an overwhelmed teacher, I'm grateful for the added time to catch up on piles of papers I need to grade.

Gratitude. It's one of those words that gets bandied about so much these days that I'm loathe to use it, but this year, I feel especially thankful. I'm here, I'm in one piece, and I am fairly settled and working my way back to feeling content with life. Everything isn't perfectly in place, mind you, but that's okay too: those pounds I put on over the last six months being too miserable at work and stressed beyond belief to exercise and eat reasonably are starting to come off as I recapture my fitness routine and my energy, and the demands of my new job are beginning to wane as I get used to it and find a system I can manage.

What exactly am I thankful for, in a year that was largely defined by the evaporation of two close female friendships and a deteriorating work situation? First, there is my husband, who is undoubtedly the kindest person I have ever known and the main reason I didn't give up on myself. When I felt I had nothing left to hold onto, he was there, hanging on with me and giving me sound advice and hope. Just leave, he said. When something stops working, you need to leave it behind. He was wise, calm, and gently supportive of all my decisions but more importantly, he was understanding of the terrible mistakes I made along the way. If I'd listened to him sooner, I would have also avoided impatient and unfair exchanges with another friend. I've forgiven myself for my part in things that went wrong this year, but I know that I would have been lost had he not been there for me.

                                   The love of my life. I will admit to being very jealous of his hair.


I am thankful for the support and affection of wonderful friends and family both near and far. The laughter, banter, and conversations that I had over drinks, food, and sometimes over the Internet kept me afloat in what was a turbulent, emotional year. I was not always rational and often took myself and those around me on a wild, roller-coaster ride of menopausal overreactions and angst, so thank you to those of you who humoured me or indulged me when I was an emotional twit, and also listened and empathized when I was a mess. I'm all better now, I swear.

I'm thankful for the music I discovered this year, because it gave me a refuge from the world when I got overwhelmed and too sad when the going got tough in the spring. Ed Sheeran, Simon Neil, Frank Turner, Marcus Mumford, Mike Rosenberg—thank you for writing songs that I could connect with and find hope in when I feared I would drown.

                                     Three of the records that I've listened to repeatedly this year.

I am thankful for Whiskey, Creemore, Sirius, and Pandora, who fill me with unconditional love every day. There is something so pure in the love of an animal, and I am quite fortunate that there are four of them in my life to keep me warm and calm.

                                          Creemore never gets tired of giving me her love.

I am thankful for my sister, who continues to support me even though she does not always approve of my choices and decisions. What I love the most about her is her frankness and her unwillingness to tell me anything other than the truth. Sometimes, what comes out of her mouth is a home truth, but this is one of the many reasons I love her to death and have trusted her all her life. She is smart and generous, and she always has my back, even when she is shaking her head at some of the situations I get into.

                                                     My beautiful sister. Love her to bits.

I am thankful that I was able to get away this year when the going got too tough to stay home. I found solace in New York City on the very day the school year ended and I was ready to break down; I will never forget the kindness of my hosts during the four-day getaway, and I hope to someday return the favour and show them this great city I live in. The time in New York was healing, and something so simple as spending the day on the beach at Coney Island allowed me to forget the preceding months and look forward to the summer.

I came across this at Coney Island during my beach day. Perfectly summed up my NYC weekend.

And then there is Scotland. I've likely made everyone sick of hearing about that trip, because who can actually believe that there is a place on Earth with such a hold over me that it can take my broken spirit and nurture it back to health not once but twice in a lifetime? I'm not the least bit religious, but there is something about this country that I cannot explain except in a way that could only be labelled magical or miraculous. Our second time there was no different than in 2001, when I was crushed by my father's death, with one big exception: we had friends to be with this time around, wonderful, silly pals who gave us banter and laughter, and also generously went out of their way for us in ways that truly humbled. There were concerts, football, coffees, ciders, meals, long drives and serendipitous meet-ups that left a big impression on my heart and reminded me that #realfriends were more than just a running gag online. There was such kindness and affection from the people we met that I know we will be back there again soon.

I love this photo because Michaela and I were photobombed by two random Glasgow lads.

Dumfries and Galloway Forest Park in the southwest of Scotland.

To those of you who helped me get through this year, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I have nothing but love, respect, and admiration for each and every one of you, and I am very grateful that you took the time to demonstrate such kindness and patience towards me. I hope you recognize yourselves in this post, and that the world treat you as kindly in return. You all deserve no less. Happy Thanksgiving.