A Very Good Morning

Rosie our rabbit finally moved into her cottage last night.
I've been waiting for 1) the grass to grow thick and tall inside the outdoor cage and 2) the nieces and nephews to arrive so they could help. They are so eager to help Aunt Sa with the chickens and rabbit but they are quick and many, curious and long-limbed, and scare more than they mean to.
Despite being half-wild, not really a pet, Rosie lay frozen still in my arms while the kids gave her a good patting. Her fur is so soft. They marveled at her cat-like nails.
As I carried her outside and around the corner of the coop, she lifted her head towards the setting sun and relaxed in my arms.

When I checked on her this morning, she'd already made trails through the grass and was soaking up the summer sun.
Content.

The Memory House

We had supper last night with some old, dear friends in this old, dear house.
A house my family called home for fifteen years. Really, it was my parents' summer home; my sister and I were far away living our own lives yet when my first marriage ended and I knew I would leave Vancouver, this was the place, the only place, I wanted to go to. Where I needed to be.
The Memory House. Title of a 2008 Saltscapes article but also how I felt last night.
It started when I saw how tall the roses were growing, a foot over the railing. I realized the front of the house now resembles how this old house looked, several transformations ago, in its original state in the 1890's when the Seamans lived there, when the house was further down the hill and the lilacs (torn out for the new septic system) pressed up against the front porch.
So much has changed and yet nothing has changed. 
I thought I'd write about how I felt last night, how looking out at the yard, at the lupins and the shed, at the aged apple tree under which my dog Maggie is buried made me wonder if we should have kept the house, how being in the pantry kitchen made me miss the house so much I choked up, how seeing the vast and vibrant sunset over the harbour made me long for those summer nights again. But what I am going to say is how grateful I am that the house we loved is still the house we loved.
It is not an empty shell no one visits.
It is not renovated beyond recognition.
It is not rundown or neglected or abused.
Our memories are still there.

Why I Love My Work

And would love to take my work home with me!
This is Tutti Frutti, one of the goats who lives at Willow Lodge in Tatamagouche. She and Annabelle plus Barney the pony are part of the story I'm writing for the Chronicle-Herald newspaper. This piece is a labour of love; going to have to strive for neutrality because anything that shines a light on good people taking good -- make that exceptional -- care of elders in a long-term-care facility deserves enthusiasm.
When you interview half a dozen employees, from the administrator to the Master Gardener, and find out all of them have worked there for 23, 26, 31, 34 years...you understand that you are in a very special place.
Of course, the joy of Gerald's face as he feeds carrots to these three animals as they poke their heads inside the window of his room is a big hint, too.

What the World Needs Now

First published in The Oxford Journal on Wednesday, June 18, 2014 by Sara Jewell Mattinson.

Take a moment to be thankful we do not live in Kenya or Iraq or Syria or Ukraine. Or any other country where you pause when leaving your house in the morning to briefly wonder if this is the day you may not return.

Those three RCMP officers who were gunned down in Moncton on June 4 may not have consciously paused when they were called out because what happened to them is rare in Canada. 

We don’t know how lucky we are. But is our luck running out?

Something unimaginable happens that pulls us together in communal shock and grief and tenderness, into a “new normal”, but after a while we drift back to the old normal. 

According to Albert Einstein, this is definition of insanity: “Doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.”

It shouldn’t take a horrific and tragic event to make us behave better, to be nicer to each other, to pause in our bullying in school, at work and online. Communities become united by their pain for a few weeks, months if it’s the community where the event took place, but do we stay profoundly changed? Does that consideration for other human beings become the new normal?

If you’re watching or listening to the news these days, you’re thinking the answer is No.

The same tragic events keep happening so it’s time for a revolution: Change something. Just one thing. 

The easiest thing to change and the one thing each of us has absolute control over is our attitude so let’s start with our thoughts and the words coming out of our mouths.

If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all. 

Complain less (even about the weather), say fewer negative things about one’s self (“I’m so stupid”), about others (“What a loser”), and about life (“Nothing ever turns out the way I want it to”). 

Too nice for you? That’s the problem. We’ve bought into the idea that it isn’t cool to be nice all the time. We like being sarcastic and ironic.

How’s that working for us? 

As communities, we need to stop focusing on our differences and begin celebrating what we share as human beings. As communities, we need to Gandhi-up and be the change we want to see in the world. We need to support each other all the time, not just in times of crisis. Then maybe those children, those parents, those adults who don’t have the right tools in their toolbox will find the support they need from the rest of us, their neighbours and friends, colleagues and employers. 

This means a revolutionary change from judgement to support. 

If we treated everyone all time the way we treat each other during a crisis, with concern and compassion and gentleness, every person, every child, every family would be stronger. Every community would be stronger. Everyone would be safer.

At the very least, certain problems might not escalate if we recognize them early, talk about them and provide help for the person who is in trouble.

Much more effective than declaring after the fact with great authority, “I always knew there was something wrong with that kid.”

If you do the same thing over and over again and nothing changes, do something different. Hate and fear and anger is getting us nowhere so why not try a little love (a.k.a. compassion, support, acceptance, non-judgement) for a truly new normal?

There’s a song that has been running through my head since I started thinking about this column so this ear worm is my gift to you and to the world:            

What the world needs now

Is love, sweet love,

It’s the only thing

There’s just too little of

It’s hard to insult someone when you’re humming that song. 

Let the revolution begin.

What Was She Thinking?

When the dog shows up at the door with a face looking like this, you know some investigation is in order.

She keeps busy burying and digging up and re-burying her bone so we figured this is what she was up to. Since it had been raining for four days, the ground would be soft.
And muddy.
"Where's your hole, Abby?" I asked. "Go find your hole."
I learned ten years ago, with Stella, that there is no point in getting annoyed with most projects dogs set themselves upon. What's the point? Stella would come racing up the lane with a dead seagull in her month. If I hollered at her, she'd run away (yes, I learned this by doing) so to get the dead seagull -- or whatever -- out of her mouth, I asked her to show me her treasure. I just had to act as excited as she was about whatever it was hanging out of her mouth and she'd bring it to me.
Learning to be a cheerleader was the hardest lesson of my life.
"Show me your hole, Abby."

"Is your bone in there?"

No bone.
I have no idea why she chose to dig this particular hole in this particular spot but my working theory is that she is giving "Papa" another hole to fill. She helped him plant linden trees a few weeks ago so I guess this is where she'd like to plant a tree.
Likely a dogwood.

You and Me

There's a verse written on the side of a wide candle holder in our home that says the best part of the day is the end when we get to be together.
When we get to be you and me.
All day, we go our separate ways, work and errands, phone calls and interviews, blog updates and doctor's appointments. Rushing around, being busy, doing all the things that need to be done for us to feel like we have this life, this property, this relationship under control.
So last Tuesday when I arrived home from work, I said to my husband, "Let's go for a bike drive."
As soon as I get on that back seat and wrap my arms around his chest, as soon as I feel the vibration of the bike and hear the (unfortunate) roar of the engine, I feel like I am home.
Everything else is put aside -- worry, lists, plans -- and we head into the woods where we belong. Connected to each other, connected to the world. This world, natural, wild, free.
I am me again.
We are you and me again.

Wondering

How can we complain about the weather? It is so INTERESTING. How can we not get excited about a sky like this? So much is going on and we can't control a single bit of it. We must stand in awe of that kind of power over us egotistical humans.
The weather makes us wonder -- Is it going to rain? When will the sun shine again? What do those clouds mean?
My mother's friend Margaret died in December 2011. The summer of 2010, Margaret visited us here and apparently she loved clouds. Knew their names and what their shapes and colours meant. So now whenever my mother sees clouds, she says it's Margaret at work. Sometimes Margaret is very busy, sometimes she is relaxed and not working too hard.
Me, I'm partial to her active days.