BEYOND FACEBOOK: Reality Refugees--Scatterlings of Syria

How sublime a day it was today because you can taste the spring in the air waiting. We will know it is time when the Canada geese begin their symmetry in the sky and clutter the winds with their raspy singing. The moon in early evening sits high in the sky to remind us of eternity and our insignificance, while down here on the planet we scramble and play and make war and all the voices of all the human beings that live here are just whispers to the universe. We struggle and we love and we play and we die. We are each a singular journey sweet with memory, inattentive to the present and wistfully dreaming to an end we do not know.

I cannot find the world anymore sometimes for it horrifies me. I have to force myself to sit back and watch the children play and hear the giggle of babies and touch the soft fur on my fuzzy little dog to re-remember that it is not all bad. It is not all bad. That there is laughter in the hope and there is hope in the pain. And not everything is forever. And why would we want it to be?

I read this week the Guardian newspaper from the UK that "It has been a quieter than average week in Syria. More than 400 people were killed in the unimaginably awful siege of eastern Ghouta, most of them civilians. But in the seven years since the regime of Bashar al-Assad set in motion the Syrian civil war, almost 500,000 people have died – well over 1,000 a week.” My mind understands. My heart does not. My spirit cannot accept this but that is what it is.

I am apolitical. Mostly perhaps from ignorance. I don’t know who is right and who is wrong. I don’t know what in all honesty is going on over there. I know that all of the various entities playing out their games of war have all, each and every one, promised to protect and save the people. They’re not doing a very good job. Not one of them. What does the little child covered in dust from a nearby bomb too frightened and shocked to even cry say to these leaders about peace? What could this child say? It makes no sense. It is irrational to the heart. One small child. One very big world of rationalizations. Greed. Scrambling. Survival. Profit. Democracy. Power. At what price? At what price? And for who? These terrorized people?

It feels like, it looks like, it is quite arguably genocide.

The Syrians are left as refugees in flight, dropped into bits and pieces of places all over the world for those who will take them. Scatterlings. They bring with them no doubt fear, suspicion, anger and pain. This kind of stuff is not fixed overnight. I was asked why I was choosing to teach these refugees English and I say that I want this family, just this family, to know that we do care and that they are now safe. That they will not be hurt, that their children will grow up to a country that will not physically harm them in any way. That they can breathe again. It is a hard thing to explain if they have not known it for quite awhile. Perhaps they think that is just a dream. It is hard to know.

I am aware that the father in my refugee family has experienced torture and imprisonment. I don’t know by who or why or where and do not ask. The story does not go with this funny extroverted gentle man who so obviously loves his wife and children well. They tell me that their country is like a pizza. It is being cut into slices. It is crazy says the father. I agree. Is there anything crazier than this I don’t know? But that is politics and I am there to teach them what the word breathe means so that when the doctors tell the mother in labor to breathe she will know what they are saying. I say it also in French so she will understand.

This little child will be a big baby. He is still not quite ready to come out into this world. I want to say to him that it is okay now. You are safe here. I, for one, will not let you be isolated, judged or alienated. As long as I can and I have no idea how long that will be, I will teach you in what small way I can. And if not you, then at least your parents. Some of the refugees in Quebec, if they learn enough English will find work in Ontario where there is more opportunity and will possibly move back. But as long as I can, and with great hope I want them to know that not all people judge and/or discriminate. That they are welcome here. That people in Canada have good hearts and don’t wish them harm. I want to believe that.

These refugees don’t necessarily bring fear, suspicion, anger and pain. They may have all that. They also have strength, strong will, intelligence and fortitude. They also have laughter and kindness and love. I think this little baby that will be born will grow up and watch the Canada geese fly overhead perhaps all the days of his life. I want him to smile when he does.

BEYOND FACEBOOK Reality Refugees: The helpers and the helped

I often wonder now why I am a hermit for the most part. Whenever I’ve wandered out into this world off of Facebook I meet some amazing people. Amanda Cliff who has spearheaded help for Syrian refugees continues to amaze me. While I bumble along with my now beloved family, she has managed and cared for approximately 60 refugee families for a few years now. And she is humble with the work she does in a way that makes everyone who meets her, a better person for knowing her. She is so humble she will squirm for me having said that. So squirm. :) :) It is what I believe.

This night we had the very first meeting of the volunteers who are teaching these families and I met some more remarkably good people. Clearly the woman who arranged the meeting Susan Chabot is brilliant, helpful and a prodigious resource of ideas and philosophies and understanding. She too has a way of humbling us with her insight and she’s a godsend to us all. I might have driven her crazy with questions. I’m turning into one of those little old ladies that people cross the street to avoid because I talk too much. She had every answer and I’ve never been so relieved.

The old way of learning a language is no longer how it is approached. I found out what I’ve done wrong and what I’ve also done right. Some things are instinctual I think. Other things are going to be a concerted effort. I believe for the most part that the families will teach us how to teach them. They are likely being more patient with us than we are with them. 

The other volunteers are lovely. I felt an immediate comfort in their shared experience. One thing that is already coming of these meetings with other volunteers is the reality of these newcomers’ lives. The real needs becoming clearer when shared experiences happen but the greatest difficulty is ensuring we do not define the problems from our own experiences in the western world and from our own culture. And very importantly we cannot define solutions to our perceptions at this point. We may see a need that they do not see as important and vice versa. It is a fine balancing act requiring a great deal of ruthless self-exploration of cultural norms. Do the women need to be more assertive?  That is my need perhaps. It is not their need. Yet each family seems to be different in what expectations are. How do we teach the children and the parents all at various levels? We focus on the parents because the children will learn English simply by living here. Don’t overwhelm them. Celebrate the small victories. It is a matter of time and patience. When there is a quiet time, it’s likely because they are thinking. Give them time to think. There are no awkward pauses necessarily. Have a purpose to the class. Only speak when necessary or when modeling language. Use hand movements and visuals. When you speak use full sentences. Don’t use idioms. Get them talking. We talk 20% of the time. They must do the other 80%. (That's no small feat for someone like me I might add.) These are all things I’ve learned from our meeting and from the wonderful Susan Chabot. I feel stronger for the experience now and look forward to our next meeting.

My family is still expecting. She is over the 9-month period and is due for an ultrasound on Tuesday. They may have to induce. It’s amazing how being relatively new to English these complex ideas are explained. It’s really unfathomable. It’s the difference of being in person that does it I think. There isn’t a computer program in the world that can simulate hand gestures, facial expressions and little drawings and the odd word or two to create such a symbiotic understanding. It would be an interesting study.

We had quite a laugh together our family. The husband explained that he had received a phone call from the government about how his French language training was going. He has been absent for a while. He said to them “I register. I three month. I run.” It is funny because I said, “You know the verb to run!” His tortuous ordeal learning French is painful to hear about. Refugees in Quebec are given benefits up to two years with the stipulation that they learn French. After that they are expected to find work. Imagine the nightmare “that” presents if language training is not going well and you have 3 children, one on the way and a wife to support. Yet the husband is resolute in learning English. He is beginning at this point to correct me. I don’t have a handle on the number of different avenues he is accessing to learn the language. He is using the computer. I explained that there is a hard “g” and a soft “g” and he explained that it is a soft “g” if it is followed by “e.” I dunno I said. I don’t think so. I have to look that up. I was a bit disconcerted being corrected at this point. That also made me laugh.

The wife is getting that “oh lets get this over with” look to pregnancy. She grimaces slightly then smiles and laughs when the baby kicks. He doesn’t want to come out, she explains. We all chuckle communally examining her great girth. The children are rambunctious. They have the apartment door open and are racing up and down the stairwell. The father keeps a watch on them from the corner of his eye. They always serve me coffee. This time I received both coffee and tea at one point. It is always sweet and hot. She had baked some lovely muffins and a cake for my last visit. She loves to bake. I’m thinking of doing a recipe with her so she can learn measurements. There is so much to learn.

Outside the parking lot is no longer icy from a deluge of rain. On the way to the car I see how bright the stars are. I feel the immensity of it all, the universe and the odd circumstances of me being where I was at that very moment doing what I was doing. It is nothing and it is everything. A gaggle of teenagers pass me. They are on their cellphones. They do not see me. But I see them. I wish they would look up and see the stars. Just for an instant. The stars watch these teenagers’ destiny from their perches in the dark. I look over to the window where the family has settled in behind the dark curtain and I think of little Rohan who will soon be born.

BEYOND FACEBOOK Reality Refugee 3

A part of me dreaded visiting my refugee family this last visit because I’d left them inadvertently in the conditional past of regular verbs without having explained the simple past. True troopers, they took it relatively well. The past is never easy I tried to explain. We’ve concluded that a simple “ed” at the end of the verb is enough for the moment. Apparently they might not be interested in learning to read Shakespeare in its original text. That is most definitely something I must remember for the next family.

The landlord of the buildings has done very little if anything to handle the absolute treachery of sheer ice on the driveways and walkways of these buildings. I wonder if I should get their name and start raising hell but I remind myself that I am not here to solve everything. I think about this mother 9 months pregnant walking on that ice. I'm hoping that it was just an off-chance day and that it will be fixed next visit. The mother is riotously plump with her due date. I figure it should have been yesterday by the looks of it but there are a few more days to go. She is, and the children are, giggly and yet reverent with the imminent arrival of the family’s first Canadian child. It really is fun to anticipate this new child in the world. My family is under strict orders to call me and say “baby” and I’ll be there. That is all they have to remember in the flurry of activity it will no doubt bring.

It is a different thing to sit at a table with a family, particularly the parents, who are so keen on learning. It is written in their eyes, in their manners, in their effort. I wish I could wave a magic wand and it would be instantaneously understood but I can’t. In his effort to learn English because French proved utterly impossible for him, the father had registered with an on-line English program. I don’t know what it is but I know it is likely more than they could afford but that is what desperation can do. It is reality, not wishful thinking. Not ‘political will’ but reality.

Many of the refugee’s wives do not know how to read or write in their own language I am told. So learning to read and write is a real issue on different fronts. I’ve not run into that here. The father, who is a born teacher, spent five minutes explaining what a distributor in a car was and by gum, I think this Syrian refugee from far across the ocean explained something I never did understand. The translation program on the computer is a little dicey; reading fire sticks for spark plugs. He also wrote a word. It made me laugh. Their language is infinitely precise with tiny little nuances in how a character is formed. To me it seems it is both pictorial and written. It is beyond my feeble or even less than feeble efforts to understand. It just makes me laugh. I also am having a difficult time pronouncing their names. But that will eventually arrive. Repetition. It is all repetition.

Driving home I think about where I live. In this privileged community there is great generosity and it is this generosity that is making the difference in many lives. There is, also, unfortunately a poignant if not disturbing reality that not more than 10 minutes, possibly less down the highway is a very different world. I am asked why I volunteer here instead of the good charitable and/or non-profit organizations in my fair community and I thought long and hard about it. I decided I needed to go most definitely where I am needed, utterly needed if not desperately needed. This is not a group of people who chose to live in a foreign country without language skills. This is not something they did or didn’t do for whatever reason. It was politics and war. They were ripped from their lives and dumped here. They are bewildered and contending not just with language, but bureaucracy and technology. And winter. It is a world of Kafka. They are also not a group who are necessarily familiar with poverty and familial isolation and societal prejudice. I imagine they are learning quickly.

I am far from an educated woman on this matter but I believe we need to accept differences in a healthy way. If we can stop the fear and prejudice here at this point, with this family, with these children with this new child, we can possibly find peace side by side. Yes. This family is culturally different in many ways but they are also intelligent, extremely hardworking, patient, considerate and polite. We cannot necessarily expect such a strong culture to suddenly assimilate to our values. And what are those values anyway? Respect of differences is critical now.

I remarked to myself that I was making headway with the parents but the children are still watching French television. I think about whether I even remotely want to teach them English. What have we got to offer these children culturally? Justin Bieber? Video games? It is a pipedream to suggest they will not gravitate to whatever their peers are into. Is our current cultural reality any kind of shining example? I don’t know. It could be me being darkly judgmental and probably seriously ignorant on the matter however I feel a small pang of regret that a certain innocence will be lost.

 A few have told me that I am naïve. That this group will soon take over the country just through population growth alone. Okay. So what if they do? I am not at all concerned about it. It is after all, why they are here partly. If we have shown tolerance and acceptance it can work both ways. I believe it is possible that they have more to teach us than we have to teach them. But I avoid politics for I am not here for that. What we have to strive for is that respect of differences. Beyond everything. To each his own. It is what Canada is about. Isn’t it? If that is naïve I’m sure I’m in good company.

As I lock the car and wander into my cozy home overlooking the river I think about the hard times I’ve had in life and I think, at least I did not have this nightmare of war and displacement and cultural divides. Knock on wood. We must be grateful always for not just what we have but what we don’t have.

BEYOND FACEBOOK: Reality Refugee 2

I pick up a car-seat and stroller and books at Amanda’s house to deliver to “my” family. Amanda and her husband live in a small warm home tucked into the forest on a windy hilly street in Chelsea. She is always on the go that woman. Never a breath to take. Never a moment knowing where she’ll be next. She tells me I’m going to love my family and comforts my fears over never having done this before in my entire life that I recall. She assures me I’ll be fine. She’s a dear. 

I feel like Santa Claus coming with books and baby strollers and a head full of verbs. I wonder if I should try and find a chimney to climb down but instead I take the stairs.

The stairs in the stairwell leading to the first floor of the apartment building in Hull seem very narrow to me. As if only people with very small feet would ever use them. Then I think of the petite and beautiful French Canadian women and the stairs make much more sense. Although the mixture changes over time, these descendants of the voyageurs were no doubt the main group of people living here in these apartment buildings likely back in the 60s when they were built. On the first floor to the left, a short six steps on those linoleum tiled stairs, is a family from Mexico and to the right my Syrian family. And they are decidedly “my” family, not in a paternalistic patronizing kind of ownership way, but in a sense of affection for a fellow human being when we will both be learning something together for a period of time.

I’m greeted at the door by the husband and in comes the wife. She is particularly more pregnant it seems to me in just a week. Her great circumference of a belly is as round as the eyes of her children who are all excited to tell me that they had been to the doctor today and the child will be arriving a lot sooner than they thought. The mother does not seem to be as tired this time but she is sad to learn I do not have children. I tell her that is why I love her children now. She smiles. I’m not sure how much she understands as of yet. But I realize she is very quick to learn but much shyer in letting me know. He is very quick to learn. There is no question.

He is clearly frustrated with French classes. He has spent a year and feels as though he has not made any progress. He laughs and shows me his daughter’s head trying to put her head into his because she is fluent with ease in Arabic and French. He wants to be young like her and able to do that. He laughs though with that frustration. He tells me how easily some of his friends have managed to learn English in such a short period of time because they live across the river in Ontario. It isn’t even the fact that it is English but that it is a language that is easier to learn and gets his friends up and running more quickly.

I feel for him. French is the ultimate language of diplomacy because of its precision, but it is that precision that makes learning it a nightmare for some. The comparison of lives and languages is likely unique to our region with the provincial borders five minutes away. It is a vast difference however for the immigrants learning new languages. It would be wrong of me, without any nuanced understanding I’m sure, to say perhaps that this is unfair on humanitarian grounds to expect to learn the complications of French over the simplicity of English. To say such is not intended to start another Separatist movement but to simply state the obvious and question our compassion for a group of people already up against a lot of odds. Far be it from me to say. It is my humble observation. We are not after all Montreal or Quebec City with its vast employment resources for French-speaking job-seekers. And I don't wish to take anything away from the french teachers who are laboring hard to bring this group up to speed. It is simply a question of logistics and humanity at this point.

The children tend to drift in and out while I spend my time intensely teaching the mother and particularly the father tenses of verbs. Once the father understands something, he’s immediately making sense. He is almost making complete sentences. As I explained the present tense of the verb “to be”, a light seemed to go on. "I am,” he says. Then he says "You are... You are crazy!" It is his first complete sentence. I think it is hysterical.  I am crazy. You are crazy. He is crazy. We are crazy. I explain it is probably not a good idea to use that phrase for a bit. Then I think, ah hell. It's likely true. We're all crazy. Each and every one of us.  It is good to laugh. I think of all the sadness life has to offer and how this family and myself went through what we went through and end up sitting at a table across from each other a world away from where we began. Still alive. Still able to laugh. Looking forward to the birth of a new child into this world. I think of that quote from Ehrmann “With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams it is still a beautiful world.”

I tried to explain to this father, this family that the gift was to teach them and that I thank them for the opportunity. But I’m not sure that the machine that does the translation explained that very well. It will simply have to be understood.

BEYOND FACEBOOK: Forever Forest

Her home is nestled there at the edge of a ravine that is clustered with forest. She is a lovely and precious woman who has always been one of the kindest people I know. A now world-known photographer, she is unassuming and even quiet in the way she handles herself. She moves with grace and certainty. One gets the feeling she is unflappable, although great artistry runs in her spirit and ripples beneath the surface.

She and her husband have lived in Chelsea for approximately 30 years. They had originally bought property to build on Link Road but on a whim checked out a for-sale sign on Dunn Road and fell in love. They had no idea what made them do it but they purchased the place that very day. But it is almost as if the forest itself chose this woman particularly to live there where the wilderness catches at the edge of civilization. The forest picked her particularly to love it.

Chelseaites know her well. If not from actually knowing her in person, then from her photographs. We have lived with her and continue to do so throughout the years. We have seen where we live through her eyes. We have seen her forest, her trees, our forest, our trees. Her crows, our crows. We have seen her back yard with its turkeys, hostas and deer in all the seasons. We know her backyard almost as much as she does. It almost seems unfair that towards her twilight years she has to do anything whatsoever to maintain a property that has almost become Chelsea’s own. Adrienne Herron has shovelled the walkway herself for my visit, those snow-covered slate stone steps with its charming handrail. She is strong and competent. A woman for all seasons.

Adrienne and her husband Richard will be moving to an apartment in Aylmer within a year or two. It is a stressful time disassembling a house and a lifetime of work and redistributing it. How hard it is to leave a place. How hard it is to part with a memory. But Adrienne is optimistic and resolute. I am fed gingerbread and peanut butter cookies and lovely coffee at her kitchen table. The house is immaculate and welcoming. It is warm with kindness. I remember the last time I was there was with George. She, as with many of the older women I know, by my presence is reminded of what could be their own loss. And I tell her if she should be left alone she will be fine because I know she will be. We do not know the strength we have until it is needed and I, looking at this wonderful woman, know strength when I see it.

Outside the windows I see the snow and cool colours of winter that belies the warmth of Adrienne and her kindness. I imagine the deer there and the crows and the hostas waiting under the white for spring. I am remembering when I first met Adrienne. It was maybe even as many as 20 years ago but perhaps not. I cannot recollect exactly when. There was a crew of us working for the Gatineau Valley Historical Society. We would gather at Chelsea’s Pub on an afternoon and eat walnuts. Adrienne insisted we eat walnuts. They were fun times and I still eat walnuts.

Adrienne has done work for the Gatineau Valley Historical Society on the image bank for a very long time. Here over 11,000 images of Chelsea and the area’s past have been carefully scanned and recorded for posterity. The image bank itself was imagined and created by Adrienne and has been added to by many since. It is a well-loved piece of the Historical society's mission. She has helped give us our very soul: the spirit of our town and particularly its landscape. Where urban buildings grow, it can be assured that Adrienne has walked those fields and taken those photos. Is it true then that we do not know where we’re going unless we know where we’ve been. It is someone such as Adrienne who has given us a piece, a wise direction to our very journey and don’t we need such enlightened direction! She is earnest in her love of this town. “I’m not even Catholic,” she says of her donation way back when to help pay for the new steeple of St. Stephen’s church. It is the love of the landscape and its buildings and history that drives so much of what she has done and continues to do.

I will be back for coffee. I am reluctant even this day to leave the warmth and walk up that snowy path to the car and home. I leave her standing in the doorway. Her snow-white hair highlighted against the darker interior. I wish I had a photograph of her there under the snow-covered roof. I will try and take one next time.

BEYOND FACEBOOK: Reality Refugees

I had arrived a bit too early to meet the family I was going to be introduced to by the most marvelous Amanda Cliff who is Wonder Woman to many many people in her efforts to help Syrian refugees. She is well-loved indeed by the people she is helping and they are affectionate and happy to see her. I am to meet the family to teach them English. I haven’t got a bloody clue how to teach someone English but I’m sure I only have to do the ABCs. Surely I can do that? I am grateful that Amanda has set up a FB page for us volunteers because the majority of them have experience at this. I have some trepidation in my ability to do this. But nothing ventured, nothing gained. And they need me. 

Because I was early I sat in the car and watched the world go by. Early evening, the day after a snow storm, the streets of Hull are piled high with snowbanks and the roads themselves are slick still with snow. The streetlights have come on casting amber on the ground and I am mostly impressed by the number of people coming and going. Even when I leave later in the evening it is busy. The side street bustles with people dressed up against the weather in all sorts of outfits. There are children everywhere. It is the kind of street where you have to drive very slowly and carefully for little bundled things toddle along behind parents just below eye level. I feel a certain irony really thinking of urban planners and walkable communities in places when no one really wanders about as they do here despite the conditions.

The family is one of many Syrian refugees living in apartment buildings in the Hull sector of Gatineau. The building is tidy but older. The father of the family is an extroverted sort with a wide smile and is quite handsome. His wife is beautiful with astounding almond eyes. She is lush with pregnancy and is due next month with her second son. There is an 8-year-old, 9-year-old and 10 year old. The children are beautiful not just because they are children as all children are, but because they have wide dark eyes and the kinds of smiles that spread across their whole face and they are polite, dutiful and affectionate. I am of course immediately in love with the children. Who couldn’t be? And they are beyond clever. In a bit I begin to wonder who is going to teach who in this scenario. The young son is particularly adept at two languages and has already mastered some English. He amazes me this child for with all his intelligence he is sweetly respectful and not at all boastful.

This family spent only a year as refugees in Turkey before arriving in Canada unlike many who have spent many years in limbo. There are some horror stories there that would break your heart which Amanda well knows. This family’s neighbours have had relatives shot in the back of the head, or starved to death, tortured. It is not something we can even understand. With this family I am not certain of the stories yet. It is enough they have had to drop all that they had to start a new life in a foreign land with winter. Even we can’t handle winter but they seem to manage it with a certain bravado.

This family would have been one of the first waves of immigrants brought in. They have been here a year. In his original work the father was a mechanic in Syria and he is determined to learn English. As an immigrant to Quebec the language he is being taught is French and is supplemented and expected by the government. The man however finds so very much of what he has to do as a mechanic demands knowledge of English. He has registered with an English-language teaching program on the internet. I am to teach the whole family which has varying degrees of knowledge. I am chagrined to realize that is going to involve much more than ABCs. They already pretty much know that. It is apparent that the level is much higher. It is going to take some innovative ideas for me. This is not one of those, “oh I think I’ll learn another language” deals. It is a man’s livelihood and the welfare of his family.

The small impeccable apartment for the five, soon to be six family members is furnished with donations that Amanda has garnered for the refugees. The woman works wonders with a van and a prayer. She laments her cluttered place as it is piled with donations awaiting distribution. She has found sometimes she will give something to one family and it will make the rounds from family to family. They, unlike most north americans, will share things with each other in a kind of common welfare situation. They find family with each other while their own families (which in Syria were close knit indeed) have been spread across the globe. It is a hard thing for them. Amanda, a bright beautiful woman who worked in the government and is now retired says it was the picture of the child on the beach that started her on her mission to help the refugees. She is attending to over 60 families at the moment. It is no easy task.

I don’t know what my Apple password is. This becomes an issue because I need to download an app apparently to translate arabic to English and vice-versa. Fortunately I can use theirs until I figure out what I’m doing. The world changes. It is the very technology I often complain about that has allowed this family to learn languages and speak to family members around the world. It is an invaluable tool for anyone learning a language. I wonder then, sadly, if indeed human to human contact in terms of learning is even necessary anymore. But I know that the turn of a head, a gesture, a smile can infer meaning no machine could. I believe this. Otherwise why are any of us volunteers bothering?

I’m looking forward to teaching this family. We were fed fruit and special coffee off trays. The young ones explaining something to me about an extra plate which I didn’t quite understand. Next time maybe. The baby is due at the end of March and he has a name already. It is not a family name but just a name they picked that they liked. The wife retains her maiden name, much like Quebec and she is a proud mother of her well-behaved children and is a well-loved wife. I ask them if they would like to return to Syria if it is ever fixed. They say yes, if it is fixed, but they say it will never be fixed and it is a new world and a new life to be made here in this good country. I sense only some sadness from the mother but not so much from the father. He is trying to learn English and that is his frustration. When we leave, the young girls hug Amanda and myself and we shake hands with the father and son. Amanda asks me if I am okay with them and I am more concerned that they are okay with me. They have been at this for a very long time. And I am only new to it all.

I got lost getting home. Don’t know how I managed that. Driving though the back streets of Hull I was thoughtful about life and about this new child to be born to this family. A Canadian child ripe with the future and how we must protect what we have to give him. I am also proud of my country, that we give men and women and children what we have to give them. With this group of immigrants there is no way we can go wrong. I don’t believe so. They will make us a stronger and better place to live. It is however sad to see how hard it is for them. As it was I suppose for the immigrants before us. It is not the kind of hardness that our pioneer ancestors went through, but a very different one. Certainly no less difficult in its way. The labour of our pioneer ancestors was physical. For this group, the labour demands huge intellectual and emotional fortitude. The likes of which most of us will not need to know or experience. There is no easy path for this group.

Like Amanda, I grew tired and sad watching news stories. It is about trying to actually help instead of watch. I hope I can do that. We will see.

BEYOND FACEBOOK: River Boat Man

There are five people on Facebook who are beyond precious to me. They are my fellow warriors in grief. They are my brothers and sisters at arms. They too have taken the road no one wants to take. We may not see each other much if at all, beyond Facebook, and we may not be exactly familiar with each other’s lives but we are bonded none the less. There are words for the words that aren’t there if that makes sense: words that don’t have to be said because they are a given in any conversation. Where would I be now without my fellow warriors who drifted to the path before me and have found their way? And so it is with an old but odd familiarity that I met my first Beyond Facebook friend The River Boat Man. For those who have walked the path before me it is always my question as to what did they do? What did they do when their world fell apart?

Travelling to visit River Boat man involved a precarious drive down an icy road aptly named River Road. It was so thick with that ice it was like a foreign landscape in the afternoon sun. And all the while that shimmering simmering sparkle of life waters rushing downstream, always rushing and I’m remembering for some strange reason the Voyageurs in canoes. But that was long ago and not a memory of mine. A bit of history of lives lived then and now perhaps, our small lives in context, this seemingly finite parcel of time we call our own.

River Boat man lives there along the Gatineau River in a small house with lovely bits and pieces of carefully placed beautiful things steeped with meaning and memory. The floor is fairly new and River Boat man shows me the floor because it is something done in honour and for his wife who passed away from pancreatic cancer. They had six months from diagnosis to death. And I just know it all. I know the shock, the pain, the crisp cut of emotion, the stunned anguish. It is yesterday. It is a thousand years ago. It is today.

I am fed a wonderful cup of tea at the kitchen table. Around me I feel the presence of the woman who loved River Boat man. She was a power house. A treasure of the community. A well-loved woman living still on in memory and heart. Against all doctor’s orders, he took his love on an airplane to the southern sun-filled sands for one last time, despite all the difficulties it presented. All the medical logistics of taking his dying love for one last trip. Listening, my heart broke again. I remembered the precious gift of wanting to give one's very life in honour of love. River Boat man was and is an honourable man to the last of his love and beyond.

I asked River Boat man how he coped and he said he walked every day. And I remember on Facebook, in fact expected a near daily picture, a photo from River Boat man of the River in it’s many-splendored beauty. How used to seeing that I had become. It was a daily gift. A comfort. How did he cope after this grievous loss I asked, and he said he took people for rides on the river in his boat. That is what he did. He took people on trips up and down the shimmering river and I began to remember the pictures on Facebook of people laughing on board a boat. Did I know the spiritual quest at the time that I saw it? I don’t know. I know that it was. River Boat man is wise with the history of his own life, of the things he has overcome, of the truth of life. I am beyond pleased to know this man. I hope we will always have each other’s back if we need in this world. For don’t we both know what it means to have loved and lost. It is River Boat man who explained to me that a heart is wide like the river and can open to more than just one. Just because you may go on to love another does not mean you have replaced the one you lost. River Boat man is in another relationship and he seems content there. Loving, caring. Safe again. I hear his heart there. My four other Facebook friends know. How we recognize each other! How familiar we are yet unknown. Beyond Facebook. I’m invited for tea again. Soon I hope.