Secret Dreams

A long time ago a friend of mine lent me a VHS video of The Secret, which I watched again recently on NetFlix. I'm not saying I wholeheartedly believe it, but ...

There's a scene in the movie in which a very successful entrepreneur opens a box and finds inside it a collection of pictures that were once fantasies, now realized. He suddenly realized that he now lived in the exact same house he had clipped from a magazine and pasted to a board years and years earlier. Not a similar house, but precisely the same one. The man broke down and cried, with joy, presumably, and wonder, in front of his 5-year-old son. The dreams he dared to dream had come true.

Years before that, I too had roughed out a little dream board of my own. I don't even remember what inspired me to do it - quite possibly it was one of those spam emails that goes around. But for some reason I had made three wishes and I had drawn little - and I mean tiny - pictures of those wishes on a hastily cropped piece of printer paper. Not detailed sketches, but fairly simplified symbols. Again, I can't remember what drove me to draw the pictures but clearly I wanted to narrow down and focus on what my dreams actually were so I could make them come true. I would have been about 31 when I did that.

After I saw The Secret the first time, I went looking for that piece of paper. I knew it was tucked into the corner of a photo frame somewhere, somewhere in a box that hadn't been opened since moving, the same as the pictures found by the man in the film.

When I found the paper I beheld the tiny drawings. One was of a baby - a girl with a curl on the top of her head. One was of a group of people, heads and shoulders - friends and family. The third was of a little house with a distinctly pitched roof. A door to the left, a picture window to the right. One window at the top centre.

When I had dared to make these wishes, these seemingly simple wishes, we were going through some things that weren't fun. I had suffered an ectopic pregnancy, and possibly a miscarriage before that. Time was ticking and it didn't seem like we would be able to have the baby girl I wanted. We lived in a home that was very unhappy. Our neighbour was a man in his late 60s or early 70s who hated us beyond any rhyme or reason and made it his life's goal to bring misery upon my husband and I - to the point that he was arrested for criminal harassment. And we often worried deeply about our family members' health for one reason or another - so a guarantee that we'd have them around us for years longer would be very much appreciated.

When I saw that piece of paper and those tiny drawn figures I immediately recognized that bright-eyed baby girl with the curl as Rachel.

 And there was no mistaking that I now lived - very happily I must add - in the house I had drawn. With the windows and doors in just the right places, the high-pitched roof, and beside neighbours on both sides and beyond who were over-the-top friendly and welcoming and decent people.

And that third drawing - the little group of smiling faces - were instantly recognizable as my family and friends who were all as healthy and vibrant as I'd wished them to be.

Upon discovering that scrap of paper I experienced an aha-moment that lingers and tears me up to this day, to this moment I'm sharing now with you.

I'm not saying that these drawings created the life I would eventually be living. But they certainly were pinpoint accurate representations of the future that would unfold. Chicken, egg, I don't care. There's something going on. Something meaningful. And something worth taking seriously.

My dream now is to be a writer that people love to read. I'd like to make a living at it. Not just as I already do - I'm a copywriter and I enjoy that very much - but rather writing and being read, as myself. As Dana. In my own voice, or the voices of the characters that live in my mind, and not only the voices of a bank or other corporation. I'm extremely grateful for that work too, but it's okay to dream, right? It's okay to want to see myself with new dreams coming true. Not bigger than the ones that have already come true, necessarily, just new and different ones.

And so I shall dream.

Consider this the chicken-scratches that one day - hopefully soon - I'll look back on and smile, through misty eyes, with joy and wonder.

A polaroid photo of us the year we met (1994) along with the piece of paper bearing the drawings of my three wishes.

Good bye 2013, you little rascal.

Edit: Farewell Ginger, centre, 2001-2013.

A good writer will do some research before attempting to prepare a Year in Review. A great writer takes careful notes as the calendar pages turn. The retrospective essay practically writes itself. At least I suppose it does.

The lazy way of doing things can be incredibly revealing, though, about what is most important in a person's life. And therefore a Year in Review written off the top of one's head can be equally worth writing - if not equally worth reading - as a beautifully-engineered piece steeped in research and forethought.

When I look back on 2013 this is what (randomly) comes to mind:

Rachel, Joshua and my Mom, Lorraine.

My family all stayed alive and together. No deaths. My parents, J's parents, our siblings, our beloved child Rachel, my brother's precious baby boy Joshua, and let's not forget our silly little dog Benji.

Benji hides beneath a hemlock.

Not one of us stayed in hospital overnight, even, unless it was for the surgery my daughter got at the end of October to help her hear better. More on that in a minute, but first I have to say how grateful I am that all of my family members and my friends are still in my world, still a phone call or email or car ride or footsteps away. Thank you.

Illness. Having said that everyone stayed alive, I can't say I had the best year physically. I was tired and I seemed to catch every passing virus and take things harder than someone my age should. On one hand, I'm bitter that much of the year was lost to this cold, that flu, that back spasm, etc. But on the other hand, it has inspired me to eat (even) better and become more committed to exercise. Not a novel idea for a new year's resolution, yet I do mean it.

A family snapshot after the spring piano recital.

Love. I felt this year that my love for my family and friends is growing at a rapid pace and I'm not afraid to show it. I love my husband more than I ever have. I treasure him. I don't know if it's because the amount of time he has been in my life is now approaching 1/2 the number of years I've been alive, or if it's because I am more aware than ever that his presence in my life each day comes with no guarantee. He looks young, and handsome, and he is in great shape physically. He is smart and quick-witted. He is polite and gentlemanly. He demonstrates his love in quiet, gentle, thoughtful ways. How lucky can I be?

Love, part 2. I am not a particularly special person, and I am decidedly imperfect at the best of times, but for some reason I am very much loved by my family and by a very wide circle of friends. And though distance and busy schedules often keep us from having tea and hugs as often as I'd like, I rely on the undying support of these beautiful people I'm lucky enough to have in my life. Among them ... and this list will never be complete ... and I know I'll be editing this blog entry to add more names to it, but off the top of my head I am thoroughly blessed to have Lorraine, Jonathan, Rachel, Joey, 2 Michelles, 2 Karens, 2 Jennifers, at least 2 Barbaras, a Linda, a Lynn, a Sally, an Eve, a Josephine, a Kathryn, a Mike, a Naghmeh, Percy, Brenda, Italo, Mary and so many others who shine their light and wisdom and laughter and love upon my world despite the fact that I haven't earned an ounce of any of it.

The future. This year seemed to be a gateway year to the future for some reason. A bridge. I could be wrong, but it's a feeling I have.

Trying out the BAHA on a headband.

Over the course of 2013, starting in about March, we made a big decision to go through with Rachel's BAHA surgery. It's a device made by the same people who make Cochlear Implants, and it stands for Bone Anchored Hearing Aid.

As Rachel will be turning 12 at the end of January, it seemed insufficient and irresponsible to allow her to continue through life with only hearing and sight on one side of her head. She can't hear on her left side, but now she can at least pick up sounds coming from that direction and hear them with her right ear. Which means she can eventually walk to school on her own. Go for pizza at lunchtime with her friends. Have a conversation without saying Pardon Me every other word. She has only been wearing the actual BAHA for a few weeks but already the difference it makes has exceeded our (rather reserved) expectations tenfold.

Hours after the implant surgery, with Dr. Cushing from SickKids. 

Rachel gets her own BAHA.

There are lots of things that I assume/fear will change in 2014 - for some reason I just don't think we can get away with the health, prosperity and relative bliss we've enjoyed thus far. With love there is always loss, and letting go, even if it's only in the good fortune of watching a child grow up and out of childhood ... which is, inherently, the loss of a child, in a way, if that makes any sense at all. This next year will be the final year of having a daughter who isn't a teenager. She is still a baby, in so many ways, but she is still the one who helps me log into this blog when I forget what to do. She is the one who explained to me why I couldn't see the stats dashboard when I log in from this gmail account I'm using. She doesn't even have a Blogger blog, but she just knows. I think the tables will continue to turn, now, until she's completely the one in charge. Wow, huh?

Hello 2014. We've been expecting you.

And there you have it. That's what a list looks like when it's written off the top of one's mind. No mention of Toronto floods, or the Great Ice Storm Blackout, no talk of Rob Ford, or Sammy Yatim. The Boston Bombers barely came to mind. No great movies or TV shows or songs. Even the shiny new car got nary a mention.

I'm not the first to say this, nor will I be the last. But it is, however, the final thing I'll write in the year that was 2013.

Love is all that matters.

It seems odd to sell childhood memories - but sometimes it's the right thing to do

I have a very special friend who, over the years, I've liked to spoil with free hand-me-downs (and believe me, we have some of the world's best hand-me-down clothes).

Now that it's time to let go of some space-consuming American Girl items ... which I have wisely decided to sell instead of give away (OMG do they hold their value!!!), I gave my friend first dibs on the American Girl sale.

R has probably - hate to say it - thousands and thousands of dollars worth of furniture, clothing, accessories, animals and of course dolls.

I am not a hoarder, by any stretch of the imagination. But since R had eye cancer when she was 4 1/2, we received a lot of beautiful American Girl clothes and toys from doting grandmas, friends, aunts and uncles. Sometimes when they were in New York they picked up a horse or two to be carried home on the plane. Oftentimes it was my Mom sitting at her computer ordering the items to be shipped just in time for Christmas, or birthday, or ... just because she thought R had to have them.

So we do have a lot, and due to the sheer volume it is kind of cluttery in some ways. That being the case, getting rid of the stuff is a welcome notion. And R wants her room re-decorated to be more "older nature-loving science-minded wildlife photographer girl" versus "young, babyish doll-loving girl". 

A photo taken by our resident Wildlife Photographer

No, my 11-year-old doesn't play with dolls and hasn't in quite some time. When her friends come over they might dress up Chrissa in a soccer outfit or something. But Rachel just waves her arm at the extensive array of doll stuff and says "Instead of all those dolls I'd much prefer to have a chair in that corner so I can read. I'd like a desk so I can work on my blogs. I'd like the pink walls to be painted dark green, like the forest". 

So a sale of the doll clothes, furniture and accessories makes sense. After all, R is turning 12 in about 7 weeks so she is within her rights to want the room to grow up with her.

Last evening my friend Jen and I had a lovely time going over all the pretty little birthday cake sets and doll-sized karate outfits and ponies. After about 3 hours, she rushed out into the windy night carrying bags filled with Penny's horse and western saddle kit and tons of loot for her daughter's Christmas surprise. 

"Do you feel ripped off?" I asked her, with my cheeks flushed with the shame of making her pay for the purchases, even though I know I'm giving it away at a fair price. 

"Not at all", she laughed. "I feel like I just won the lottery!"

Ah, the memories of this dress.

When R and I went upstairs at 9 o'clock to get ready for bed, there were quite a few little boxes and outfits still sitting on the white duvet. Kaya's wolf-dog was out, as was the dogsled thing he pulls. A crisp once-opened box revealed a beautiful ceremonial dress for Kaya. And while Jen was here she had dressed Julie in a black and gold dress that R had once worn to a Make A Wish event at which she introduced David Suzuki as a speaker. Julie looked dazzling and brought back long-forgotten memories for me.

Before we knew it, we were ... you guessed it ... playing with the dolls. R set up the barn and fed the horses and dressed Kaya for riding. On and on it went. Just one more thing. Just one more box to open. Just one more thing to set up and try out.

"These dolls and clothes and horses truly are beautiful", R said, breathless, surveying the collection of items that was spread out before us. "I'm so glad Auntie Jen didn't take the doll sled. I want it. And I want to keep the doll who looks like me - not Michelle but the other one, the one with the long hair. And we can never sell Lanie because Nannie Raine loves her so much. We have to give that one back to Nannie Raine and never sell her," she said.

This morning when I drove R to early choir practice we talked about the dolls and she said "you know, I don't know why I didn't think I liked dolls. It's just that I'm trying to be the kind of person who doesn't get attached to objects. I want to keep my memories, not the things they are attached to."

"Devil's advocate speaking," I said, "But if things aren't important at all in helping us keep important memories, then why do we have museums filled with millions of objects?"

Her silence told me she knew I was right.

"Do you remember getting your very first American Girl Doll?" I asked her, while we were on the subject.

"I do. I remember on Christmas morning, opening the Just Like You doll we called Michelle. I remember I didn't like her. She did grow on me after that. I don't know why I didn't like her at first."

"If you can hold onto that memory,"I said, "you're always going to remember yourself just 10 days after losing your eye to cancer. That was just 10 days after that all happened."

"Hmmm," she said, wistfully. "That explains a lot."

Happiness Grows in Toronto (by Odd)

As I sit here with the laptop keeping my thighs warm and my fingers busy, the CTV News is on in the background. It's been around 40 minutes of non-stop Rob Ford chatter so far. 

Even the Argos football game will be spoken of through the filter of Rob Ford, since he was there at the game and drew an enthusiastic reaction from many members of the crowd. 

Over the voices on the TV, I hear the wind outside whooshing and sighing loudly. It blows in passionate gusts, forcing the tall coniferous trees to lean and sway in silhouette, like a cinema-noir puppet show against the grey curtain of sky. 

Our maple was stripped of its last leaves over the past 12 hours, most of which conveniently blew across the lawn and out of our lives. Which is good because I filled over 8 bags from the back yard alone and if I see another leaf I'll ... hmmm ... not sure what I'll do. Not sure what I'm more sick of. Raking leaves or Rob Ford.

When I took the photos above, I knew I'd write a post and share the images, because they are a gift you might enjoy as much as I do. The delicate flowers you see there are irises that are growing in a tiny patch of garden that graces my walk to and from school.

According to almanac.com, "Most irises flower in early summer. Some, mostly bearded hybrids, are remontant, flowering again later in the summer". I really do associate irises with late springtime, so when I see them coming into bloom on a chilly, windswept morning in the second half of November, I count myself very lucky. 

As I took the photos, a lady in her 60s approached and crouched down to see what I was doing. "They're irises," I told her, "It's so nice to see them coming up this late in the year." She smiled broadly, nodded rapidly, and said a few things to me in Chinese as she walked away.

Year after year, I struggle, fruitlessly, to find happiness in nature after about November 1st. As the fall colours fade to grey-brown and the sky turns white ... beauty is often difficult to find. Sure, the snow will be pretty when it arrives, but I like things that grow. I love green. I love colour. I love variety. I love change. I love a pleasant surprise. And I love to share the happiness they bring.

Cookies in odd shapes and sizes

As I write this, I'm very tired from baking 200+ cookies over the past 36 hours. I liked baking on Sunday, when R helped me measure and crack the eggs and shower everything with sprinkles and put away the flour and sugar and baking powder when we were done with it. Today, a Monday, I baked alone like an obsessive maniac with a rolling pin. I had my high-efficiency systems and they worked, but my industrial-baker-robot body could sure use a massage right now (with lots of oil).

Tomorrow my 11-year-old girl will sell the autumn themed cookies at her school in an effort to raise money for the Terry Fox Foundation. A cancer survivor herself, R is more inspired than usual this year because of her friend "Lara", the 12-year-old who is living with an aggressive case of osteosarcoma, which Terry Fox had as well.

They say "money can't buy happiness" but I don't think they were talking about RAISING money for charity when they said that. Fundraising for a favourite cause is actually one of life's greatest pleasures and I'm glad my kid likes doing it so much. We're also very lucky to have family and friends who can pitch in - not always a lot, but enough to help R reach her goal and make her feel like she's surrounded by people who care. She is just as thrilled to check her online donation page as she is to open an actual gift meant for her.

We know a Toronto couple who are very wealthy philanthropists. They have hospital and gallery wings named after them, not to mention a high-profile University college that bears their name. They also head a Canadian program that gives money to business startups - kind of like Dragon's Den but without the TV cameras. And without Kevin O'Leary trying to profit from any of it.

At a dinner party with these friends not long ago I watched their eyes light up as they talked about giving a million to this worthy cause and another million to that one. I listened to them recount stories of instances in which they were able to make people's dreams of starting a business come true. People who just needed $5,000 to leave their ordinary lives behind and get moving on something exciting and creative and independent and new. Some of the startup ideas were as simple as opening a bakery. But some, literally, were pursuits that might find cures for diseases in the not-too-distant future.

 "We offered [the entrepreneur] $10,000 to get her idea started", S recalled, "but the woman said 'no, I don't need any more than $5,000, so I won't take a dollar more'." Clearly S was impressed by an individual who, in her own fashion, was handing money away.

Whenever I think of this wealthy couple, I have never envied their big house and their butlers and housekeepers and their horses and exotic trips (wait - maybe I would like to have a few of those things, ha ha). But what I really would love to experience is that Santa-like quality of being able to grant people what they really wish for.

I can tell you FOR SURE that these two people who spend so much time giving money away are the happiest people I have ever met on this earth.

But tomorrow will prove to be pretty exciting and happy for R and me, too. Making and selling cookies to help find a cure for cancer is hard work. But it's worth every minute. And every penny.

The Powerlessness of Positive Thinking: A not-so-odd car buying experience

Today is the 10th. Not an especially odd day, by anyone's standards. You don't need to be a mathematician to see how even the number 10 is, but what the heck. I'll write anyway.

Today I am going to write about cars.

Last year I gave our nice Jetta to my brother because he ended up with a surprise baby at the age of 47 and he was driving a nasty, bumpity old Jimmy truck that no baby should be in. My brother is always stretched-out financially and at that time he prioritized that a new baby needed a house to live in (versus his King West studio with the awesome view and awesomer bar scene). With that new mortgage and all those diapers suddenly upon my brother's shoulders, a car payment was out of the question. So yeah, I gave our nice Jetta to him.

Which left us with my 1998 Honda in the driveway. Again, you don't need to be a human calculator to figure out that that is an old car.

The other day we went to test drive a few different Kia vehicles. We had a vague idea of what we can afford, which, for various reasons isn't much at this time, but we also had an interest in trying out a range of models in order to learn what they feel like. For example, the Kia Sportage, which J tried out of curiosity, was a big hit. We had gone in thinking maybe the Soul, or more likely the less expensive Rio, was for us. I don't think I should even have to explain why a customer would test drive vehicles, but I am, because the salesman could only see one thing in us. A sale.

Even though I know this isn't a remarkable revelation about car salesmen, it was still bizarre. He kept talking - to me, he could tell J would have none of this crap - about positive thinking. He would say "I woke up this morning knowing I'll make 4 sales today. I've sold 3 already, and I know I'm going to make a DEAL with you too."

Another gem. "Do you play cards?" he asked me. Thinking of all the games of Crazy Eights and Old Maid our family has played after dinner on wintry nights - all of us screeching and giggling trying to hoard our eights or get rid of the queen of spades, I said "yes". "What does the word ACE mean to you?" he asked. "Uh, it means number one in the series," I answered. "No," he said. "To me it means A Commitment to Excellence."

Were we speaking the same language?

"I believe in positive thinking, Hun," he said (I was called Hun throughout this experience, while J was called Ron as well as Buddy). "It's all about perception. You know, because perception IS reality."

I was really tired of having to field all this positive thinking spiel but I kept trying to be nice anyway. I made the small talk. I found out the sales rep, Raj, is 28 years old and supports his parents, who are from India.

In the end we couldn't really justify the monthly payments on a Kia Sportage. What a process it was to even find out what the prices would actually be. All the promises that had been made during the test drive fell away as we sat in the little chairs at the man's little desk/cubicle/thingy. The 10 year comprehensive warranty Raj had talked about on the test drive - that's only available if you don't get a discount on the vehicle. Like, you pay sticker price and you get the 10 year warranty that was promised to you. Which is also known as: you're paying thousands for a warranty you hope not to need. The 0% financing? That's only on the model that has no air conditioning. If you get the car with auto and AC - the one you were sitting in when Raj told you there was 0% financing for 84 months - you're looking at a nearly 10,000 buy-back in 5 years at the rates 2019 has in store for us.

When it was apparent that we really were going to leave without "making a deal today" Raj seemed a lot less positive. His language started to become peppered with words like "shit" and "shitty". He said to J - who is a seasoned car enthusiast with a mind like a steel trap - "you really should have done your research before coming here. Most people look at the website and find out about the warranty and the financing and pricing there."

"I did my research" J replied. "The first questions I asked you were about the financing and the warranty. You told us one thing, then later you told us another." I'm summarizing what J actually said, but it was detailed, airtight and razor sharp. I was proud to be his Hun.

When we got home we followed Raj's advice and performed some better car-buying research on the internet. Not that we hadn't before, but this time we paid a more careful eye to the fine print. The research did pay off, too. It turns out we can get everything we want in a car, for the price we can justify paying every month. From Hyundai.

So we'll be test driving a few Hyundais soon. That's my perception, anyway. Let's see what reality brings.

UPDATE: Photo above shows us with our just-purchased Hyundai car from Gyro Hyundai in Leaside. The staff there were so amazing, they actually deserve a blog post of their own.

Odd writings: Blogs from my father

It's an odd day so technically it's my day to write. Not that we observe the rules anymore.

I think I'll write about blogging. Bloggers do that sometimes.

Living several hours apart by car, I don't see my dad very much these days. But he does write to me quite often, by email. And from those emails I am certain that I can easily make the claim that my father is The Worst Speller of the Entire Internet. You need the Rosetta Stone to decipher what it is he is saying, and then in the end it was only a story about how he filled the mini-van gas tank on the way back from the hockey arena.

I guess it's cool that he still plays hockey at the age of 73. He's still pretty good looking, too, actually. A silver fox, Leslie, one of my art director friends, would call him.

But the SPELLING is not hot at all. It's so bad.

Last weekend we were all at my brother's cottage together and I got to have a rare visit with my dad. We barbequed a big dinner for everyone - he being my highly skilled grill man - and in our banter I casually made fun of his spelling and what a terrible writer he is. He said "I have a blog now". I thought he must be joking and I said "ha ha, you are the last person on earth who should have a blog."

When I came back to town he sent me an email containing his little blog that has two posts in it. I read it over and it was absolutely horrible. Really bad. All about his lawn and how he re-seeded the lawn with a friend of his who is also retired.

In that same email he also told me how to google a special blog that he really likes and has been reading loyally for a few years. A blog written by a man named Brian - a grandfather - who lives in a place called Nain Bay Labrador (Canada). My family has longtime connections to Labrador, and my father and brother go there once a year to fish on a glorious lake accessible only by bush plane. The rest of the year my dad thinks about the next time he'll be able to go up there. Thinks out strategies for how he'll pack more lightly. How he'll change the menu plans (he's the main cook among the men who go up there together) to be even more simple yet delicious.

My dad didn't know how to just copy that link and send it to me, so I did google it and I managed to find my dad's favourite blog with no problem.

The first - or most recent - page of the blog was a note from one of the man's relatives who posted that they regret to inform us that Brian had passed away a month ago. Wow, I thought. That SUCKS.

I read through some of Brian's postings about dog sled races, salmon fishing, and his political concerns about living in Canada's far north. I guess the politicians there are just as hopeless as the ones in big cities, if not worse.

Most of the blog posts had no comments at all. There were plenty of clear, beautiful pictures, including some recent ones of the man's son and two grandchildren. His granddaughter, a newborn, was all red and puffy and beautiful. "She's finely here", wrote the proud grandpa, unaware of his delightfully accurate play on words. He went on to mention how the new baby's big brother was "all into her ... for now."

Feeling I had grown to know this man a little better, I went back to read the 15 comments - the largest response by far to anything he'd ever written - that accompanied the most recent blog posting, his death notice. There was a lovely outpouring of appreciation for the blog he had shared. There was sorrow in losing the connection to a faraway yet fascinating place that he had given to people around Canada and around the world. Folks who usually did not reach back out to him, choosing to absorb his shared experiences in silence and anonymity.

One of those comments was from my dad. I saw his little thumbnail photo first. Then saw his name all spelled out, loud and clear, not hiding behind any avatar or pseudonym like the rest of us. My dad's message was spelled out pretty clearly too - no more than one apostrophe appeared to be out of place.

"So sad with Brian's passing he will be missed by Family,Friend's and Bloggers like myself.
I enjoyed his daily updates on what was happening in Nain and particularly enjoyed pictures of meals he created.
So we in the south Kingston,Ont who have been following his Blog will miss the link to the north.
Bob (last name)"

When I found my dad's comment, I read it furtively like someone sneaking a peak into someone else's diary, and instantly I couldn't help but shed a few tears. Even now, seeing it, I'm lumpy-throated and misty-eyed. And even now, while I think I know why I'm having that reaction ... it does surprise me a little.

So I thought I'd write about that experience here, here in my blog. And maybe someone will even read it sometime.

Here's that photo of Brian's granddaughter, Mia. She was born April 6, 2013. I'll never know her, but may the world treat her well.