Friday, December 21, 2018
Monday, December 17, 2018
Renovations
I've changed the name and look of this blog.
Originally it was called "random ruminations and rants" but I've come to find that too heavy. The expectations are too negative.
So my attempt to put a bit of light into the world, I've decided to call it Swum Hell or High Water.
It seems lighter, floaty...
And it suits me more. Always swimming. So far unsinkable.
Not that there still won't be rants. Or ruminations. Or randomness.
But I've been navigating hell's high waters for some time now, and despite everything, I'm still afloat. As long as I keep coming to the surface, it's all good.
Thursday, May 24, 2018
a house full of ghosts
Laila Lalami says "Writing a novel is like living in a house full of ghosts.."
I liken it to being schizophrenic and hearing voices, but I like her analogy better.
She continues
"— even when you ignore them, they’re still there, waiting to talk to you. "
It's true.
I've been ignoring my ghosts a lot lately.
I hear them, swirling about, whispering over my shoulder.. "what about us..?"
I will return to them. So I say.
But my excuses drive the wagon. It's almost summer. I want to spend all my time at the beach.
Fall is better.
But then I want to be outside taking pictures.
Rainy days are for Netflix. Sometimes I don't want to be the one to tell the story.
Winter. Winter for sure. I'll have the ghosts to keep me busy. But winters come and go and still I haven't given a voice to the voices.
"They have all the time in the world. No matter how much you avoid them, the time comes when you have to confront them. Hear them out. See what they have to say. "
Ghosts have all the time in the world.
I don't.
Sunday, April 29, 2018
clean grief
I've been sitting with this for a while.
Partly because that's how it has to settle. It has to get in my bones until it doesn't feel uncomfortable any more. Then it is real.
And partly because I've been fighting what I've just said. Because if I sit on it, like it's a manhole cover, the sewage won't come bubbling up. Then it is really real.
My friend chose to die. He chose to die on his own terms as the law gave him permission.
My friend was terminally ill, but his decision was made many years before, as medical poison killed off cells, good and bad. He swore then if he survived he would never endure that treatment again. And twenty-two years later, when cancer invaded for another battle, Weldon Bona would not draw his sword.
Instead he chose to live what time was left as he had always lived. He lived like he was going to die.
I knew something was wrong before I was told.
I knew it in the way that those with a long history of friendship know when a pattern has slipped out of place. There was a sudden silence; unreturned calls and messages. Friends who were on the ground told me "You'll have to talk to Bone". I feared what I didn't want to be true.
He wanted to tell us face to face. It was his story to tell and as Weldon did everything, he would do it in his way. I drove to Cape Breton to see him. Friends gathered, talking, questioning, crying. He had an answer for every inquiry, and let us know his plans were already in motion. He would die when he decided it was time.
That night I stayed with him, our heads coming together in the cushioned angle of the large sectional sofa, watching television. In the middle of Coronation Street I started to cry again. He told me "You should be happy for me. We're all dying but most don't know when. I do. The problem is, most people live like they are never going to die. But if you live like you're dying, you have a much richer life".
I carried those words with me, back across the Causeway on that early Autumn day. I carry them closer now.
Christmas came and then the New Year, and finally, the date was set. But circumstance and the healthcare system had other plans, and when Weldon's case became a glitch, he became a fly in the ointment, and gave the last fight of his life so that he could die.
And then it was time.
He threw a party.
It was a gathering of about twenty friends, his inner circle. There was food, wine, champagne. He laid out the remainder of his medical marijuana and wanted everyone to partake. Many of us faked it, not inhaling because we wanted to be clear-headed for what was to come.
Weldon was in great spirits. He was happy that we were all with him, and he even pulled off one final practical joke on a friend. He had set it in motion weeks before, so he was thrilled with the pay-off that sent us all into tear-streaming laughter.
In the late afternoon, Erica, the woman who was going to perform the procedure, came to talk to those of us who were present. She explained what was going to happen.
There would be three needles.
The first would relax the body, and sending him into a very deep and peaceful sleep. That would be the last thing of which he would be aware.
The second needle would freeze the veins. Sometimes the third solution could sting and they wanted no discomfort at all.
The third would paralyze the organs, shutting them down. Shortly after that, his heart would stop.
Throughout the procedure, she would ask him at every step, if he wanted to proceed. He had every chance to change his mind. He assured her that he would not.
Erica asked him what time she should return and he told her 9 PM that night.
Friends continued to arrive and there was more talking, crying, hushed voices, loud laughs. Weldon sat or lay on the sofa, engaging with the group, or talking quietly to one person, or sometimes closing his eyes, maybe sleeping, maybe listening to his hive buzz around him.
At 8.30 I noticed the time and I felt sick. I mentioned to another friend "Oh my god, it's 8. 30". At the same time, I saw Weldon look at his watch and say "Oh my god, it's only 8.30". He was ready.
Erica was prompt. She came in quietly, and made her way to the sofa. Everyone gathered around, although not too close, as Weldon wanted only Erica to be next to him. The process began with the insertion of IV lines. She told him that once the lines were in, he could take as much time as he needed to talk to his friends and say goodbye. He waved that suggestion away.
"No need. I've said all I need to say. Let's get 'er done. " He was ready.
There are two levels in the loft apartment, and we sat and stood staggered, but together. I was on the upper level, with people in front of me and people behind. Erica explained that she was going to administer the first needle. She asked if he still wanted to go ahead, Weldon said a resounding yes, and then smiling at his friends, he said good night. Voices called out "We love you Bone". "Safe journey, Friend". There was the sound of soft crying, of tissues being separated from each other and pulled from boxes. We waited as our friend drifted away from us, with a smile on his face.
As I sat there, looking at those around me, I was compelled to capture what I saw. I took my phone from my pocket and I took a picture.
This is not something I would have ever considered doing, and certainly not something I would have ever considered posting publicly, except for one thing.
As I sat there, looking at those around me, I realized: This is love.
Our friend slipped out of this world, carried away on our love.
It took a few minutes for his heart to finally stop. Erica confirmed his death and the funeral home was called. The only thing I knew I couldn't bear, was to see him leave the apartment. I didn't want to witness them taking him out of there, so a few of us went downstairs to the next level. Sitting on the floor of the hallway that joined the front of the building to the back, we were given a comedic gift that Weldon himself could have orchestrated for our benefit. We listened to the sounds of trying to get his body down three flights of not very wide stairs. The drunkest of friends, and those who didn't fake inhale, decided that they would help "take my buddy out of here". Hearing the discussion and strategy had those of us in the hallway laughing so hard we were sobbing, because your body can't tell the difference between hilarity and heartbreak sometimes.
Partly because that's how it has to settle. It has to get in my bones until it doesn't feel uncomfortable any more. Then it is real.
And partly because I've been fighting what I've just said. Because if I sit on it, like it's a manhole cover, the sewage won't come bubbling up. Then it is really real.
My friend chose to die. He chose to die on his own terms as the law gave him permission.
My friend was terminally ill, but his decision was made many years before, as medical poison killed off cells, good and bad. He swore then if he survived he would never endure that treatment again. And twenty-two years later, when cancer invaded for another battle, Weldon Bona would not draw his sword.
Instead he chose to live what time was left as he had always lived. He lived like he was going to die.
 |
| weldon bona (photo by steve wadden) |
I knew something was wrong before I was told.
I knew it in the way that those with a long history of friendship know when a pattern has slipped out of place. There was a sudden silence; unreturned calls and messages. Friends who were on the ground told me "You'll have to talk to Bone". I feared what I didn't want to be true.
He wanted to tell us face to face. It was his story to tell and as Weldon did everything, he would do it in his way. I drove to Cape Breton to see him. Friends gathered, talking, questioning, crying. He had an answer for every inquiry, and let us know his plans were already in motion. He would die when he decided it was time.
That night I stayed with him, our heads coming together in the cushioned angle of the large sectional sofa, watching television. In the middle of Coronation Street I started to cry again. He told me "You should be happy for me. We're all dying but most don't know when. I do. The problem is, most people live like they are never going to die. But if you live like you're dying, you have a much richer life".
I carried those words with me, back across the Causeway on that early Autumn day. I carry them closer now.
Christmas came and then the New Year, and finally, the date was set. But circumstance and the healthcare system had other plans, and when Weldon's case became a glitch, he became a fly in the ointment, and gave the last fight of his life so that he could die.
And then it was time.
He threw a party.
It was a gathering of about twenty friends, his inner circle. There was food, wine, champagne. He laid out the remainder of his medical marijuana and wanted everyone to partake. Many of us faked it, not inhaling because we wanted to be clear-headed for what was to come.
Weldon was in great spirits. He was happy that we were all with him, and he even pulled off one final practical joke on a friend. He had set it in motion weeks before, so he was thrilled with the pay-off that sent us all into tear-streaming laughter.
In the late afternoon, Erica, the woman who was going to perform the procedure, came to talk to those of us who were present. She explained what was going to happen.
There would be three needles.
The first would relax the body, and sending him into a very deep and peaceful sleep. That would be the last thing of which he would be aware.
The second needle would freeze the veins. Sometimes the third solution could sting and they wanted no discomfort at all.
The third would paralyze the organs, shutting them down. Shortly after that, his heart would stop.
Throughout the procedure, she would ask him at every step, if he wanted to proceed. He had every chance to change his mind. He assured her that he would not.
Erica asked him what time she should return and he told her 9 PM that night.
Friends continued to arrive and there was more talking, crying, hushed voices, loud laughs. Weldon sat or lay on the sofa, engaging with the group, or talking quietly to one person, or sometimes closing his eyes, maybe sleeping, maybe listening to his hive buzz around him.
At 8.30 I noticed the time and I felt sick. I mentioned to another friend "Oh my god, it's 8. 30". At the same time, I saw Weldon look at his watch and say "Oh my god, it's only 8.30". He was ready.
Erica was prompt. She came in quietly, and made her way to the sofa. Everyone gathered around, although not too close, as Weldon wanted only Erica to be next to him. The process began with the insertion of IV lines. She told him that once the lines were in, he could take as much time as he needed to talk to his friends and say goodbye. He waved that suggestion away.
"No need. I've said all I need to say. Let's get 'er done. " He was ready.
There are two levels in the loft apartment, and we sat and stood staggered, but together. I was on the upper level, with people in front of me and people behind. Erica explained that she was going to administer the first needle. She asked if he still wanted to go ahead, Weldon said a resounding yes, and then smiling at his friends, he said good night. Voices called out "We love you Bone". "Safe journey, Friend". There was the sound of soft crying, of tissues being separated from each other and pulled from boxes. We waited as our friend drifted away from us, with a smile on his face.
As I sat there, looking at those around me, I was compelled to capture what I saw. I took my phone from my pocket and I took a picture.
This is not something I would have ever considered doing, and certainly not something I would have ever considered posting publicly, except for one thing.
As I sat there, looking at those around me, I realized: This is love.
Our friend slipped out of this world, carried away on our love.
 |
| this is what love looks like |
In a strange way, the most difficult of times of our lives can also be some of the best. This experience was as profound and beautiful as it was heartbreaking. The only thing I can say is that it is the first time in my life I've ever experienced clean grief.
I've lost those I've loved suddenly, and I've watched others linger and suffer.
In this case, there is a tremendous loss, but there are no "if only's " or "what ifs". There was nothing left unsaid. There is grief, but it is clean.
The loss is lessened by the reminder that this was Weldon's wish and that while those left behind ache, we must also, as he said, be happy for him.
Sunday, April 15, 2018
there's something in a sunday
On the Sunday morning sidewalks
Wishing Lord that I was stoned
Cause there's something in a Sunday
Makes a body so alone
And there's nothing short of dying
Half as lonesome as it sounds
On a sleeping city sidewalk
Sunday morning comin down
-kris kristofferson
That used to be my life.
Well, not constantly, but there were days
Drinking days.
As you did in those days.
Staying up all night until there was no more booze and the tunes drifted off to sleep. And the light put the darkness to bed.
Walk of Shame home with my shoes in my hand.
Ah but there was something in a Sunday..
The morning has a quietness unlike its six siblings.
It also holds more promise than any other day. It is a day to be spent exactly how you like.. whether it is sleeping and reading, puttering around the house, going for coffee, strolling the market or taking a swim or a road trip.
I love that about Sundays.
It is a day of naps in rainy day beds or on sandy sunny beaches. It feels like a day of rest, compared to the rest.
Now instead of going to bed as they day was getting up, we are in sync. I am awakened by the morning's first yawns and happy to get up and enjoy the quietest of times.
For many years most of my Sunday mornings have been spent with James Taylor. His greatest hits album has proved to be the perfect Sunday morning soundtrack. Sparkling guitar to accompany freshly ground and then brewed coffee.
Ah Sunday.. how I love you like no other
 |
| Sunday Morning Sunrise (Halifax Clock Tower) |
Friday, November 11, 2016
lest we forget
November makes me sad.
It reminds me of loss.
The trees lose their colour.
We lose light.
We have lost loved ones.
Today I feel as though we have lost our way.
On this day of Remembrance we honour those who gave the ultimate sacrifice.
I think of men- some of them barely men- leaving families behind. I think of women who watched them leave, or followed along. They left hopes and plans only to die on foreign soil. But they did so to fight for a cause and to keep us free.
Free from tyranny, fascism, discrimination, hate. They fought for loved ones and strangers. They battled for the oppressed and the marginalized, the victims and voiceless.
But today, I feel as though the events of the recent world dishonour them.
Just this week the United States elected a man whose campaign was run on fear and hate. It was fuelled by discrimination and disregard. The ugliness of humanity rose up and now thinks that it has a place.
What men and women fought against in other countries is seeping through the soil, staining the home land.
Race wars are the new order. Those are harder to fight than an unseen enemy. And harder to accept.
Even in my own beloved country that ignorant monster has smelled the blood spilled by bigotry. A conservative MP has called for screening immigrants for "Canadian Values". That statement turns me cold and my coldness turns to anger.
I am angry at the arrogance for this woman to assume that she speaks for the majority of Canadians.
I'm happy to say she does not, but sad to say she speaks for some.
To me, Canadian values are tolerance and acceptance. And caring for each other. Those are the qualities for which we are known. I am proud of our diversity, of our many different cultures. Wherever I travel in the world, this is the badge I wear, the flag I wave.
Today I am angry. Brought to frustrated tears angry. I see the smug hatred faces of bigots in the US gleefully causing harm to others, because they feel that this President Elect gives them the right to take away the liberty of others born in different skin, brought up with different beliefs, loving in different ways. They think that putting the Clown Prince on the throne justifies their hateful words and actions. They are too consumed with hate to realize they have gone from Super Power to Super Joke.
I am sickened by those in my own country who wear a poppy, and cry "Lest We Forget" while thinking that only those who are born here matter. Or rather, those with white skin who are born here. Those are the ones who dishonour our fallen on this day and every day. The men and women who went to war to bring peace may not rest easy. Those who gave their very lives so that ours could be lived in freedom are dishonoured with every racial slur, every misogynistic and homophobic action. Every Mosque vandalized, refusal of refuges, religious intolerance or violence towards others, spits on their sacrifice.
I don't want to be angry. I don't want to feel discouraged. Or frustrated.
I keep telling myself that the only way to combat this hatred is through love. More than ever I smile at people hoping it will carry through to the next person they see. I try to make my energy positive when everything around me is losing colour. It's not easy. It's not easy to beat back the darkness but I try. Not just today, but every day. It's just a small thing and it seems almost child-like to say it, but I hope it will make a difference.
I think of the words from "In Flanders Fields" - the words of the dead, blowing arounds me as if they move the poppies and the flags
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
Let's take the torch.
Let's continue the fight.
Let's fight hatred whenever we can.
Lest We Forget
Friday, October 28, 2016
it is time
There are those with the ocean in their blood.
Through the winter we anxiously await the day when we can plunge back in.
Every Fall we try to squeeze in every last swim.
Starting mid-September panic sets in. Panic that this swim could be the last of the season.
This year I made it to almost the end of October. This time there was no panic. There was only gratitude and acceptance. I felt the change in the air and water since last week. I spent beautiful day reading on the beach and then headed into the water just before I headed home. And I felt, okay, this is it. I can live with that.
Thank you Atlantic Ocean. You were amazing.
See you in June.
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