The Campaign Trail

It's election night here and I am so afraid. I have cast my vote, but the polls are still open and I won't know what the results are until morning. I hate not knowing where I will wake up. Where will I raise my children? In a country of narrowminded fundamentalism? A swanky country club, where our leaders (the old boys) pat each other on the back and casually exchange millions of dollars of MY money? But I can't buy a membership there. Is it possible that I can raise my children in a place that is broadminded and progressive enough to fight the real fights? Education and healthcare? Brave enough to advocate for all of our members? Gay? Immigrant? Disabled? Compassionate enough to care for those who need care? The elderly, the young, the ill, the displaced, the lost? Honest enough to amend old wrongs? To sit at the table with the people of this place and to negotiate with respect and gratitude? Can we be open enough, kind enough, wise enough, free enough, loving enough, vulnerable enough and ultimately strong enough to be who we are? Can we go into this new era with hope and faith, unjaded and unhindered by the misguidance that landed us here...In limbo?

I'm afraid, of a rightwing world. Hopeful, that kindness and integrity will prevail. Determined to do what I have to do to raise my children in a place that gives them everything they deserve.I want that place to be my country, but it starts here in my home. So I brought them with me to vote tonight, and I kissed them goodnight, and tomorrow I will make them breakfast and drive them to school, and I will pick them up and ask about their day. I will listen. After supper maybe we'll play Candyland. I'll kiss them and tell them I love them 352 times before sunset and, please God, in this way, the country that they grow up in and ultimately lead will be the very place I have wished for them.

Goodnight. Godbless.

Murphy's Law

Its Sunday and stormy.
Such a waste of bad weather.

Tomorrow as I shovel my way out I'll curse today and all the ways I wasted it. Why is it that, stormbound on a Wednesday, I can find umpteen million wonderful ways to spend the day, stretching the hours till the lot of us are worn out and ready to go back to work/school for a break. But here on this stormy Sunday all I can think to do is curse the off shore winds for prematurely blowing their... blizzard.

Palm to palm

I remember in Hants’ Harbour when we first met, the man who is now my husband spoke about my hands. He said they were a woman’s hands, and how he loved that, and although I was not a mother at the time; he said they were a mother’s hands, graceful but worn. Perhaps a little weary. I think of that moment occasionally and it reminds me to be grateful for my age. There is beauty in getting older and its more rugged than the beauty of youth. I would like to extend the time I live now; not go back to a time that was. Now is so precious and fleeting, my children squeal and race past me and when I turn the corner after them I find they are a year older and I instantly regret not cherishing them enough.
On Saturday mornings my son and I cross country ski. I plod along proudly behind him as he politely endures the lessons I signed him up for and as soon as the instructors release him, Remy is off for the one big hill where a few older children have built a series of jumps. I bite my tongue and talk myself down from panic as he races into each jump at full throttle; his four year old body navigating the treacherous landscape with surprising skill. I am terrified and oh so proud… my “mothers” hands clenched in prayer.