Lucky

In 2013 Doug and three of his colleagues were awarded the Science and Technology Academy Award for their work on Wavelet Turbulence.  It is a method for producing the effect of greater detail in fluids without the huge computation and time involved in actually simulating all of the physics of that greater detail.  That's my layman's understanding of their work.  It was a contribution that had been getting a fair amount of use in the CG effects for fluids in movies such as Avatar, Monsters Vs Aliens, Hugo, Transformers and others. 

Doug invited Ethan and me to attend the ceremony with him in Beverly Hills.  It was pretty exciting. As far as I could tell, Ethan was the only person his age in attendance. He looked so handsome in his rented tux. He was most excited about the meal, walking the red carpet, and seeing his dad accept his award. When Doug, also pretty dang handsome in his tux, went up on stage, Ethan proudly looked over his shoulder at me sitting beside him, smiled and softly said "There's dad."  His eyes sparkled. When, in his acceptance speech, Doug thanked me for my support over the years, Ethan looked over at me again with that same look in his eyes.  

Supporting Doug in his work was not something that came naturally for me early on.  I worked at. When we first got together, I was incredibly self-absorbed.  To be fair to myself, Doug didn't really understand what I was doing either. Through our friendship, we grew together. We learned about things outside our own experiences by accepting each other's very different interests and motivations for creating.  Doug wanted to understand the world around him.  I wanted to understand the world inside myself and others. Yet, in accepting each other's differences, we came to realize how similar we actually were. That, for me at least, was pretty exciting. And enlightening.

After the award ceremony, Doug, Ethan and I headed up to Santa Barbara to visit with Doug's former student and the first author on the Wavelet Turbulence paper, Ted Kim. While there, we took advantage of exploring the beautiful coastline - the soft sand beaches and all of the offerings that washed up on shore. Doug was captivated by certain rocks he found that had perfect holes through them. We spent that first day together exploring the water's edge and a bit of Santa Barbara itself. For the following two days, Doug gave a talk at UC Santa Barbara, and had meetings and meals with people in his community. 

Ethan and I returned to the beach each day. Ethan loves beaches. He loves sand - running and jumping in it, kicking it up like a cartoon trail of smoke generated from his speedy movement, punching it, building mountains and villages, then running and jumping on them like a meteor from the sky. While he was doing all of these things, I was combing the beach for treasures. It occurred to me that Doug had not saved one of the stones he had found so interesting the day we had explored together.  So, I decided to find a couple for him. As I searched the ground, I reflected on how deeply grateful I was to have him for my partner in life.  I felt, and feel every single day, so blessed to have him for my friend, for the father of my son, and for the love of my life. I found two stones. This was one.

Once Doug returned to our hotel that night I eagerly showed him the stones I had found for him. He smiled and thanked me as he rolled them around in the palm of his hand. We both wondered aloud what had made those holes. Later, I learned from a friend on Facebook that these stones with their perfect holes are considered lucky. And, that just seemed so wonderfully suiting to me.  

Old Friends

These are my shoes from when I was a baby.  I have two other pairs just like them.  Well, almost like them.  They are a bit bigger than this pair.  And, one of the pairs is missing one of their laces.  Those other two pairs of shoes were my brothers' from 17 and 14 years before I was born.  I keep them all together at the bottom of my sock bin.

I don't remember wearing these shoes.  I was too young.  They may have been my first pair.  I'm not sure.  But, look at those laces tied back together.  Look at those creases in the leather.  Look at the way they seem to say "Phew.  I'm tired.  We've taken many steps together."  We were buddies once too. Even if I don't remember. It's obvious.

I love how little they are.  I feel like can almost hear them padding across a floor.  I love that they live now with my brothers' old shoes hidden together under my jumble of mismatched socks.  They're a symbol of how close I feel to my brothers despite our distance in age and geography and lifestyle.  We didn't spend time together as youngsters, but we have traveled together in this form for many years.  Their shoes look just as worn as mine from the service they so dutifully provided their feet when they were a similar age.  

My mom always told me a good pair of shoes were important. She didn't tell me why she thought they were important, but the way in which she stressed this left me with the impression she really meant it. A good pair of shoes are important. They carry us a long way, over many paths, on many journeys, big and small. They are the silent witnesses to our proud steps and our clumsy blunders.  They are our old friends. 

An Ordinary Tool

This was my mom's first hammer.  That's really all I know about the history of this piece as it relates to my mom. I rarely saw her use it. I don't think it was her favourite hammer. Just her first. And, like all things in my parents home, they were kept as long as they were still useful. Waste not, want not.

For me, growing up at my parents, it was my favourite hammer.  It was always the hammer I looked for when I was working on my many projects, building doll houses or other scrap wood creations.  I liked the size of it, and how it fit into my hand. I liked the wood of the handle and the shape of the head.  I don't remember when that green duct tape was added.  I do remember I split the wood a long time ago hammering something too vigorously.  My dad first used black electrical tape to hold the wood together.  Never have my parents been ones to throw things away simply because they had broken.  If they could be repaired, they would be.  No matter how crudely.  

When I moved out on my own, my dad gave it to me with a handful of other tools he felt would come in handy.  I was thrilled to see it in there. Even still today, regardless of the fact that we now have four hammers, one of which Ethan picked out for himself one day when we were at the hardware store together, I will do a search of the house for this particular hammer when I need a personal job like hanging a piece of art on our walls.  I bring it with me when I need to hang my own work around town.

If someone was to ask me about it, I would likely only say it was my mom's first hammer. That alone means a lot to me for reasons I can't seem to put into words.  But it also feels like there is a ghost of memory, no longer wholly tangible, of every swing I ever took with this simple tool.  I feel like the hammer and I have gotten to know each other over our decades together.  I know the best place to hold it.  I know exactly how it will balance in my hand, and the way it will swing to make it's impact.  To me, it's simply beautiful in an honest, ordinary kind of way.  Not unlike some of the people I paint. Hmm.  I've never thought of that before.  

Facts and Superstitions

I looked down at the beach full of rocks and driftwood and saw something different from everything else.  It rested among the large stones made round from their glacial travels many thousands of years earlier.  I was returning from a visit with family.  My dad had been in the hospital having open heart surgery.  He looked like he was going to be okay when I left - sitting up, laughing, telling jokes.  Still, I was worried. 

I'm a bit superstitious.  Not in the typical way.  I'm not religious.  I don't care about black cats or ladders or birds in the house either.  I make my own superstitions.  Always have.  When I was a young girl afraid of the dark, I used to count to ten with my eyes closed, imagining a protective shield coming up from my feet as I counted.  If I counted too fast or opened my eyes before I had finished counting, the shield would break, and I would have to start all over.  Once I got to ten though, I was invulnerable to monster attacks.

Later, I used to watch for robins as I walked outdoors.  If I saw one not moving, I gave myself until it moved to make a wish.  If it moved before the wish was finished, then the wish would not come true.  If it didn't move I would smile or skip, believing I had just made some magic happen.  I never did keep track of the wishes to see which ones came true.  It was really just a game.  Yet, it was enormously comforting to me.  Gave me an illusion of control. 

So, while I walked along the water's edge thinking about my dad, hoping he was going to be okay, and I happened upon this spearhead or knife tip resting in the open on the rocks, I told myself it was a sign that he was going to be fine.  My heart skipped a beat when I saw it.  I felt like I stepped back in time for a fraction of a second.  Like I had glimpsed into yesterday.  Then, in the space between thoughts, I was transported back.  I picked it up and felt the smoothness in my hand.  I admired it's intentional shape.  I thought about where it had come from, who had used it, how, and for what.  It was a real treasure.  I felt strangely honoured to have been the one to find it.  Like it had been placed there especially for me.

For the remainder of the drive home, I thought about my dad and my mom.  I thought about how good it was going to feel to be home.  I thought about my recent find resting in the side pocket of my pants. And, somehow, for that period of time, even with the difficulty of my dad's health crisis, I felt richer.

Ready to be Polished

This is my silver spoon.  I do not have any memories attached to this item beyond my mom handing it to me one day with a small bundle of my baby things, saying "Here. This was yours."  I found it again looking for something else in an ornate box made out of scraps of picture frame.  Something I made when I worked as a picture framer over a decade ago. 

I called my mom to ask her about the spoon but she doesn't remember.  She said that was a long time ago.  She's right.  She's 88 now.  I'm 44 now.  She has lived a full life. Thinking hard she said she believes it was likely given to me by my Uncle Doug and Aunt Ann at my christening.  My godparents. Wonderful people.  Many happy memories with them.  My mom said she fed me with it when I was a baby.  She remembers that.

I don't recall being fed with it.  It is not an item I keep out in the open to track like a shepherd dog.  I did look up the saying "born with a silver spoon" and found some pretty interesting history and cultural references.  It was fun to think about how those references could be turned into a painting.  I thought of using the references to tell an ironic tale.  But the nature of this project is not for me to reflect on what I don't have or what I didn't have when I was a child.  I've done that long enough.  I want to reflect on abundance.  Simple, honest, from-the-heart, overflowing abundance. 

I've never polished the spoon.  I think I'll make that my own first connection.  I'll take my time, looking at every angle.  Every detail.  Then I'll have some soup with it.  Homemade.  Chicken soup. Like my mom use to make.  Maybe Ethan will want to use it too.  I imagine he will.  He loves using unique cutlery.

If I'm going to carry something around with me for the rest of my life, I want it not to be because I think I should.  I want it to be because it holds some real meaning for me.  A positive story.  A story that I can share with the next hand I place it in.  A humble thread of history that holds the potential to aid in weaving a rich tapestry of interconnected hearts and minds.

The Un-Jaded Award

It was in the early years of Doug's career, but the latter years of his graduate studies that he received this humble award.  Award?  Yup.  Probably the most from-the-heart one he ever earned.  

He was at an ACM conference in Silicon Valley, leading a demonstration of his latest research results. On a computer screen were virtual objects that were deformable, employing algorithms that Doug had written into code. Using a Phantom device attached to the computer, one could interact with a few of these simulated deformable objects.  Back then, it was a pretty new and exciting thing to use a force feedback device to feel and interact with an object that didn't really exist - an object that was entirely made of mathematics.   

Doug had the haptic device hooked up to a computer on a small table, and a poster on a wall close by. He had carried the pricey device, the full desktop computer and the poster on the plane with him through US/Canada customs.  It was a cumbersome and a nerve-wracking trek.  But once in place, it was a humble set up.  He demoed to anyone who was interested.  School children, teachers, industry people, and other researches came to give Doug's work a try.

Doug said an older hippy tech guy came to chat with him toward the end of the event. Apparently, the gentleman asked Doug about his purpose for coming to the conference.  Doug explained that he simply came to share his recent work.  I'm sure Doug's passion and enthusiasm were strong.  The gentleman seemed surprised by Doug's lack of interest in monetizing his research. But, back then, Doug was a young and eager researcher, always keen to share what he was learning and finding, not concerned with getting rich off of his ideas, only that they might become useful to someone, somewhere, someday.  He's still that way.  I've always loved that about him.  I've shared the same philosophy, but, the true generosity Doug knows...Well, I hope I've learned something about that from him over the years.  He's simply the most generous person I know.

Anyway, apparently, after listening to Doug talk for a short time, the gentleman pulled something from his front pants pocket.  He told Doug he had been carrying it around with him for quite some time, for good luck.  He said he had found it on a beach.  It had been a constant source of comfort, and a personal treasure to him.  It was this piece of jade, made smoother by the his hand's constant contact with it.  He handed it over to Doug, and, if I remember correctly from Doug's retelling of the conversation upon returning home, the gentleman said something like "You should have this.  You deserve it.  It's the Un-Jaded Award." 

When Doug came home from the conference, it was one of the first things he showed me.  Since that time, I've kept it safe.  It's another item I keep in the open, so I can keep track of it.  It rests in a wooden bowl with the stones and wood and shells from other experiences.  For me it represents a moment when Doug touched someone's heart and that person returned the favour.  To me it's a symbol of sharing.

Sweet Company

When Ethan nursed, he use to tuck one hand into the neck of my shirt, and, with the hand that was underneath him, he would pinch the soft skin under my arm.  As he grew, the pinching began to hurt.  I tried gently removing his hand, but it would always return.  Not wanting to get annoyed, I knew I needed to find a substitute.  

This little guy did the trick.  Ethan adored him.  "Nurse?" Ethan would say, causing us to both commence our scan of the room for Duckie.  Ethan named him that.  It was pronounced with the "ie" ending high, almost like a question, but not quite.  He would eagerly scoop up the velvety little toy that fit perfectly in his small chubby, soft hand.  Then he would run over and jump up into my cross-legged lap.  After naturally sinking into a comfy position, Ethan would smile up at me, eyes bright, before losing himself in our nurturing snuggle.  Sometimes I would sing.  Sometimes he would hum.  Nearly always I would rock or bounce, depending on the chair.  

Duckie was present for lot of loving moments between Ethan and I.  Those are sweet memories for me. And simple.  So I think I'll leave the story there. 

Weaving in the Ends

My grandmother on my dad's side was the only grandparent I had some interaction with.  My mom's parents passed away well before I was born.  My dad's dad wasn't apart of our lives.  I met him once before he died.  It wasn't a happy exchange.

My grandmother was a French Canadian Catholic who, even at the age of 97, could tell us the details of nearly every garment she ever sewed in the early days when she worked in a garment factory in Montreal.  At least, that's what my aunt, who took care of her, told me.  I had very few conversations with my grandmother myself.  Apparently though, her mind was sharp until the end.  I do know from having visited her close to the end of her life that she went blind and was confined to a wheelchair.  I remember she smiled upon hearing my dad's voice when we came into her room.  And, I remember, she held my hand.  It was warm, thin, and soft to the touch.

I don't remember a lot about my interactions with her from when I was child.  I didn't have many.  We used to go to Quebec once every couple of years to visit with her and my dad's family, who were all primarily french speaking people.  My mom and I only spoke English.  My aunt would translate for us. I do remember that my grandmother used to hide her statue of the Virgin Mary under her bed when she was angry with her for not answering her prayers. Although I didn't know my grandmother well, I had heard many stories over the years.  She wasn't a saint herself, which made this retaliation of hers seem comical to me, even at that early age. 

Remarkably, she lived her entire 99 years having never learned to read or write.  She did, however, sign her name to every card my Aunt Barbara picked out for her to send to me, which were few and far between, but still happily received.  She had six children, four of whom she sadly outlived. As far as I have found through my own research online, she was one of five children herself.

None of these details relate directly back to this finishing needle.  However, it seems to me, most items of sentiment are a tangled mix of memories.

One summer she came and stayed with us for about a week.  I was around ten years old.  It was the first and only time she visited us. She didn't enjoy herself.  She very much missed her own home.  She wasn't a traveler.  She wasn't even willing to leave our house for the duration of her stay.  To keep herself busy, she crocheted slippers.  In that week that she stayed with us, she crocheted at least four pairs.  Two pairs were for me.  I remember sliding through the kitchen on mine.  They were snug, brightly coloured, and sweat inducing.  I loved them.  I didn't wear them often, but I loved that she had made them for me.

     

Quite a few years later, when I was an adult, my parents and I visited my dad's family in Joliette, Quebec.  I think it was the last time I saw my grandmother.  My Aunt Barbara, my dad's sister, the aunt who looked after my grandmother, asked me to put out my hand.  In my palm she placed this needle.  She simply told me that my grandmother wanted me to have it.  It's not made of any special material.  It is clearly well used.  Still, and perhaps because of these truths, it was and is a treasure to me.  

It's a hard thing to keep track of.  I use it myself, on the rare occasion I knit or crochet.  I don't want to lose it. I'm not good at remembering where I put things, so I keep it out in the open.  Right now, it has a home above the fireplace in our living room.  I've placed it to one side of the mantle, tucked near a piece of art, not under it so it won't be hidden, yet safe from being accidentally knocked off. There's a method to my madness.  Often a story behind it too.

Eggs on an Alien Shore

Doug and I knew the ocean was close.  We could hear it.  We could feel it on our skins.  We could probably taste it too, but I don't remember that.  We couldn't see it though...Until we stepped over the crest of a soft hill and found ourselves looking over a landscape neither of us had ever seen before.  We were camping in the Olympic Peninsula.  I don't remember exactly where any more.  What I do remember is coming upon a beach littered with eggs of all sizes.  Well, not really eggs.  But egg shaped rocks, made smooth and elliptical by their constant tumbling in the ever advancing and receding waves of the ocean. 

Most of the rocks were light in colour, many of them white, giving the feeling of a bleached landscape on an alien shore.  Both Doug and I had paused, then gasped quietly when we first stepped into our positions overlooking this new environment.  One of us might have muttered "Oh, wow."  We began to walk atop the rocks. I bent down and picked up the first of three rocks I was to carry home.  It was white and unbelievably smooth in my hand.  The next was more grey, but equally velvety to the touch.  I wanted a third.  Something different from the other two.  The one I finally found was rougher to the touch, but still remarkably round; darker, but still muted; larger, but not so large as to not fit into my pocket.    

I brought these three rocks back to our campsite, and placed them on our picnic table, not too close to the black bear warning sign stapled prominently in the center.  As we ate our hot dogs cooked over a campfire, I played with them, placing them in different configurations.  I tried to imagine how long it had taken every rock on that beach to become so similar in shape, despite their varying size and constitutions.  I wondered where they came from originally, and how they landed on this stretch of beach.  I wondered how long it might take them all to turn to sand, or if they ever would.  Many of these questions were answered the following day at the visitor center,  but for that evening, I relished in the mystery and the newness of the experience. 

Holey, Washed Up Wood

When Doug and I first started exploring the west coast of British Columbia together, everything was new and wondrous to us both. The big things and the little things. The mountains. The forests. The ocean. The tiny rock crabs under barnacle covered rocks. The colour of the arbutus tree under pealing bark. And, nearly anything that washed up on the beaches. 

I found this piece of wood one quiet afternoon, walking with Doug along a beach near Tofino, BC. We were walking silently together, in harmony with each other, but not holding hands, immersed in the sounds around us and the rhythm of our stroll. I picked up this holey wonder, dusted it off and handed it to Doug. I'm sure he said something like "Wow. Cool." But, not loud, and very naturally. I carried it in my hand back to the car.  Then, back to the hotel. I placed it in a safe place in my suitcase. Once home, I gave it a prominent place on one of the shelves in one of our apartments in Vancouver, BC. 

It still has a home on a shelf, but now it's surrounded by many other finds that have been added one by one, experience by experience. That was more than fifteen years ago. It still has a bit of sand clinging to it from the day I found it.