Thankful. Hopeful.

One afternoon close to Christmas I was standing on the home plate of a baseball diamond at my elementary school. I was alone. The kids in my grade, some of whom had been my friend a week earlier, weren't talking to me. Instead, they were standing in a circle a few hundred feet from me, talking amongst themselves, looking over at me, occasionally laughing.

One girl broke from the group and started running over to me. She held something in her hand. She was smiling. I turned to face her. She had been my best friend. I thought she was reaching out. Once she got to me, she handed me something in a white envelope. She told me it was a Christmas card from all the kids. Smiling, I opened it. Inside it said, "Merry Christmas!" then "From all the kids that hate you,." It was signed by a dozen kids or so. The girl who delivered the card turned and ran back to the group, laughing.

Years earlier I had another difficult experience. It was my first day at a new school. I had to take the school bus. I was scared and feeling alone. Kids stayed away from me as we stood waiting for the bus to come. I kicked at the dirt to pass the time, too shy and afraid to look up and say hello.

After what felt like an eternity, but was likely only five minutes, the bus came. The kids got on. I waited to get on last. I stepped on and up the stairs. I looked up to scan for a seat. As I began slowly walking down the aisle of the bus, all of the kids who were alone in their seats (each bench sat two children) moved to the spot closest to the aisle so that I couldn't sit beside them without having to climb over their laps. Inside, I started to panic.

Then one girl looked up at me from her window spot. Instead of quickly moving over to the aisle as the others had done, she said to me, "You can sit with me. You can have the window seat. It's the best spot." Her freckled cheeks, warm brown eyes, and beautiful smile are still etched in my memory. I was seven at the time. We became good friends until she moved away. We still keep in touch. She is one of three people who sent me a card of condolence when my dad passed away. She wrote a beautiful letter remembering my dad.

What I learned from these hard early experiences is that people in groups can be cruel, but I can choose not to be. In honour of Thanksgiving, after spending a lovely day with my boys, I'm thankful to the little girl who gave me her seat that day. I've thought of her often as I've tried my best to follow her example these past forty years.

Casting

I had never seen him fish. Before he headed out into the steady flow of the river he had stepped into his waders with their wide suspenders and chosen his gear, including a tiny lure carefully selected from a very full tackle box. With cautious yet purposeful fingers, he attached the wee lure to the end of the line of a very long rod. His attention to detail was intriguing to me. It was clear he was unaware of anything other than the task at hand. Perhaps he casually thought about the fish he might catch. I don't know. We didn't speak.

I was 25 years old at the time. Doug had been my friend for four years. But, watching him fish that day created a shift in my heart and mind. I remember the sun lit his soft blond hair and seemed to warm his fair skin. He stood in the current of the river so naturally, solid and comfortable with his place. His shoulders stood broad as he pulled one arm back, holding a length of line in the opposite hand.  He skillfully aimed and arced the barely visible lure up and over the water, landing it on the water's surface a distance away for a short dance before drawing it back again for another flight and another dance in another carefully chosen location. The rhythm of his casting was mesmerizing. He was fly fishing. Another first for me. Clearly not something new to him. Although I had brought a book with me to read, I don't believe I picked it up at all that day. I was content to study him and this new sport.

It would be some time before I saw him fish again. It would be in a river on the opposite coast of Canada after I had driven 4192 kilometers to visit with him. That's where I would meet this little guy, the Crazy Crawler, and watch him swim wildly across surface of the water, his wings catching and throwing the sun with every stroke. It's where I would hear my first stories of Doug fishing as a boy, and learn that this large, brightly painted, wonderfully awkward lure was once his grandfather's. If you look closely, you can see where the teeth of biting fish have left their marks. Doug doesn't use this lure to fish any longer. He used it as a boy. He doesn't want to lose it now. But it was a joy and a wonder to see it swim a few lengths that day -- one of our first days together as more than just friends.

After visiting a little less than a week with Doug on this occasion, I drove back across the country to finish my studies while he pursued his. We wrote each other regularly for about a year. Letters in the mail. Many pages. Many feelings shared. Then, one afternoon, there was a knock on my apartment door. I opened the door. There stood Doug. One week later, after selling or giving away anything in my apartment that wouldn't fit into my small car, I made one last journey back across the country.  This was my fifth time making this drive.  The third time with Doug in mind.  It was the first time with Doug at my side. 

Awaiting Metamorphosis

I had known the story for many years before I saw the proof of it. That is, until one day a couple of years ago, when my mom quietly put this letter in my hand. Sentimentality isn't always something that springs from happy memories. It has its roots in our history, and history doesn't care about our feelings.

My mom found this letter written by her mother to her husband (mom's dad) in a small pile of her mother's belongings stored at my Great Aunt Beatty's home. Beatty was my grandmother's sister and my mom's favourite aunt. Apparently, when my grandmother passed away, most of my grandmother's belongings were either quickly sold or thrown out by my grandfather who wasn't particularly sentimental himself (or, so I've deduced from the many stories I've been told over the years).

Among the items my great aunt had saved, was this letter. It was written in 1925. My mom was born in 1926. The letter speaks of a pregnancy, and, sadly, about failed attempts to end that pregnancy. This letter is about my mom before my mom was born. And, her mom before she became a mom. It bears harsh witness to a scared woman who had lost a sister in childbirth, confessing her dark secrets to a man who declared near the end of her life that he had never loved her. My mom had kept this letter, hidden, for over sixty years, bringing it with her from place to place in the same way I carry my own treasures. She handed it to me in a whisper, her anxious fingers passing it to me like it was a confidential document holding secrets that held the potential to bring down an empire.

I carry a story of my own, somewhat parallel to this one of my mom's. My mom didn't learn that she was pregnant with me until she was nearly six months along. She was 44 years of age, not in the best of health, and had two teenaged boys. She wasn't married and wasn't sure she wanted to be tied to the father of this child, my dad, because of this pregnancy. She had suffered fibroid tumors very badly for years and was told by more than one doctor that it was not possible for her to get pregnant. Realizing her body was changing, however, my mom made multiple appointments with her doctor, who steadfastly insisted she was not pregnant. Until, near the six-month mark, they did a test that confirmed I was in there, growing. She told me that she would not have gone through with the pregnancy had she known about me earlier, although she said that when she saw me thought I was beautiful and must have been given to her for a reason. I can't even put into words how I felt hearing that I wasn't wanted. I was young the first time I heard that story. As an adult, I understand and sympathize with where my mom was coming from. I'm not sure I needed to know that truth though.

But, I do. And, it's a piece in the puzzle of who I've been, who I've become, and who I'm becoming. A small piece. I'm glad I can't hold proof of that part of my own story in my hands. I'm ready to let go of the power that story holds over my sense of self-worth. I will not be carrying this letter, in this form, with me for the rest of my life. At some point in the not too distant future, I will incorporate it into a piece of art. Something meaningful, hopefully, that will not need to be a whisper or a secret but will sing boldly of the resilience of the human spirit.

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.