It is early morning. The sun has not yet risen.The dog and I walk past slumbering houses along empty streets. The only sounds are my footsteps on pavement and the panting of the dog as she trots ahead of me.
This is our time. Setting out before the world awakens is deliberate. It is the hour when the wonders and mysteries of a darkened universe reveal themselves before they are eclipsed by the brilliance of the sun.
We don’t have long to wait. A pair of coyotes emerges from a back lane just metres from us. The dog tenses. I murmur to her. There is no danger. They are eager to get to the safety of their den before the world goes bright.
Continue reading “Shooting Star”
Editor’s Note: I wrote this piece when David was eight years old. I read it at his funeral after he was killed by a distracted driver in a crosswalk at the age of 27. Today is his 33rd birthday. He will always be my little boy. I ache at his absence.
Stepping into my son David’s room is a little like falling into the middle of a huge natural disaster. Dog-eared books, greying socks and bits of cracker crumbs drift across his bedroom floor like so much flotsam left in the wake of a tropical storm. The top of his desk is hopelessly buried under an avalanche of pencil shavings, drawing paper, felt markers and glue bottles. A flurry of shredded fabric, all that remains from a recent craft project, blankets the bedcovers like volcanic ash.
Continue reading “David’s Room”
My border collie Gracie picks her way
delicately through the flowers in Nicole’s garden. For a dog known to
hurdle headlong into tree trunks in manic pursuit of balls, she is
showing considerable restraint as she weaves among the ornamental
grasses and tiger lillies. She stops for a moment to sniff a gnarled
log, barely visible beneath a blanket of moss and swaying pansies.
Then she all but disappears under the low-hanging branches of a
Nanking cherry bush.
Gracie is banned from the other gardens
in my yard, but she and I have reached an undersanding on this one.
As long as she doesn’t dig out the flowers or drag the log from its
resting place under the bird bath, she is free to wind her way among
the plants or lie in the Nanking’s cool shade.
Continue reading “Nicole’s Garden”
“I’m making music, Mom,” you say. “I wish I could hear it,” I reply. “Just listen,” you say. And I do.
As I walk through the darkness of a pre-dawn morning, I open myself to the music of the Universe. A light rain taps a soft military tattoo at my feet. In the distance, I hear the steel-drum boom of shunting rail cars, and a motorcycle roars by, its gears whining upwards like a Fender guitar in heat.
“Where are you my boy?” I whisper. The reply is instant.
“Right here beside you, Mom.”
Continue reading “Music of the Universe”
Let me tell you about the way of life.
The weekend after my 27-year-old son
David was killed crossing a street near his home, the police came to
the door with his black backpack. Inside were his laptop, his
glasses, and a small, white paperback, titled, The Way of Life.
I ran my fingers over the cover. The
last thing my son had been reading before he died was a book called
The Way of Life. Now, his life was over and I had to find a
way to live without him.
David and I shared an enormous love of books. He started university late, at 25, after years of working low-paid jobs to support his real love, creating music with his band. He’d been skeptical of higher learning, believing everything he needed to know was in the books he read. And he read a lot. But, university opened new worlds, and he was delighted to fully immerse himself in what fed his soul: literature and music, and a new passion, philosophy.
Continue reading “The Way of Life”
I wrote this essay in 2016. It was my first attempt at writing since the death of my son, two years earlier.
The house is silent. CNN has been
muted. The kitchen radio and my phone are off. It’s just me and the
computer. The cursor flashes expectantly.
Don’t await greatness today, computer.
We’re in hostile territory here. Because, now, the thoughts I have so
carefully muffled behind a wall of noise are free and they want to be
I was a freelance writer until January
27, 2014. That’s the day my 27-year-old son, David, died.
And here I am, two years later, in my
office, at my desk, attempting to trick my mind into thinking I’m
working on a piece for publication.
It was my therapist’s idea. She thought
doing something that I once found satisfying might give my fractured
life some structure. So I look upon this as a homework assignment
which I will hand in to my teacher next week. I’m prepared to spend
an hour here, even if it’s just to watch the impatient pulsing of the
Continue reading “The Sounds of Silence”
I see him, this young man, moving
aimlessly through the crowded living room.
The dining table is laden with food:
cold cuts, salads, desserts. Every now and then someone picks a grape
or strawberry from an edible display, one of those decorative
arrangements that uses fruit instead of flowers.
Still, there is no shortage of flowers.
The air is thick with their scent. Birds of Paradise swan gracefully
from a crystal vase. Orchids, roses, daisies, jostle for space on any
available surface.They seem so out of place in the dark, waning days
Every few minutes the doorbell rings
with another delivery. The dog has given up barking and hunkers down
under the dining table looking miserable.
Continue reading “Ripples”
Dad and I are at home. The front door opens. You walk in. We stare in disbelief. Our hands fly to our mouths. Our breath comes out ragged.
You look at us quizzically.
“Mom? Dad?” you say, stopping uncertainly in the middle of the room.
“What happened to you? You look so…” your eyes scan our faces in disbelief. “So. Old.”
Continue reading “David comes back”
I dance around the word like a moth circling a bright flame. From a distance, I see its beauty. But if I fly too close it will burn me.
I try to live my life with kindness. I follow as best I can the Buddhist principle of Ahimsa, the practice of doing no harm to any living thing, including yourself.
Sometimes I succeed, sometimes I don’t.
I am human. It is not always easy to be kind. It is not always easy to forgive.
Continue reading “Forgiveness”
A blast of arctic air pushes past me into the yoga studio. The sun has not yet risen, leaving those brave enough to venture out at the mercy of the ice fog and biting winds. It is January in Edmonton. The dead of winter is alive and well.
I hang up my parka, stuffing my mitts and toque into one sleeve. The snow is melting from my boots even before I pull them off. I begin to relax. This is my community. Here I can forget for just a little while what awaits me beyond these walls.
I have been coming to this space four or five times a week since January 2014. It is my refuge, my sanctuary. Here, I find peace from the ever-present reality that my son, David, is dead.
Continue reading “Yoga Breaths”