Erin's Journals

 
Welcome to a brand new week and let me start by saying I hope that you had a lovely Mother’s Day. If you were without a child or children, I was thinking of you; not for a moment in my writing last week did I forget that there are so many others who walk this path with me as a bereaved mom.
 
I also want to thank you for indulging me with the kindness that you did last week, expressed on Facebook, Twitter and in emails. I wrote from the heart and I know that sometimes that can probably be a bit exhausting to read and take in. But since this is a place where I can sort of let things spill, I am grateful to you for sharing the days that are light – and not so light. Fortunately, the latter are becoming less and less frequent and, in many ways, we have you to thank for that.
 
Today, we return to the light. In fact, even though it’s Monday, my gift to you is a true Friday feeling! Late last week, Rob and I hopped on the ferry (well, we actually drove on, but you get my meaning) and decided to embark on the longest way we could find to get to the Okanagan, where my family and a speaking engagement, later this week, await. To do that, we took a 32 km ferry trip to San Juan Island in Washington State. 
 

 
With a population of just under 3,000, the entire island is a lovely drive. We took in the sights near the harbor and then the three of us (yes, Molly came along) enjoyed a leisurely look around while we waited for our hotel check-in time at 4:00. 
 
I saw something unforgettable out in the wild and I’ll tell you about it here tomorrow. But today, I had to share something else with you.
 
You know I’m a believer in signs and I had hoped that maybe on Friday we’d see something so that we could know that Lauren was with us on the anniversary of her passing. I tried not to set my hopes too high, however, and vowed I wouldn’t look too hard. But she made sure they were right in front of our faces. In one case, literally.
 
I wore a fuchsia-coloured yoga top, as I wasn’t going to be in mourning-dark colours on Friday, I’d decided. Perhaps that was the attraction; perhaps it was something else.
 
But as I stood outside the car waiting for Rob, a hummingbird – not ruby-throated like the ones we see at our feeders near Victoria, but a stunning deep pink like my top – zipped over and hovered right in front of my nose. It was about a foot in front of my face for what I imagine was three seconds before it moved up and down and then flew away as quickly as it had shown up. I couldn’t believe what I saw: this symbol of joy came right up to me as if to say, “Good morning!”
 
I told Rob about the visit as we climbed into the car to take a drive up the side of the island that we hadn’t explored the day before. From this part of beautiful San Juan Island we could clearly see the part of the Saanich Peninsula that we call home. In fact, I had to tell Rob that his constant reminders of how close our house was were really taking the excitement out of a road trip; kind of like pitching a tent in your backyard as a kid and then continuing to look out to see what your folks are doing through the rec room curtains. You know? 
 
The skies were blue as we listened to the Beatles’ White Album on our quiet, drive. While “Martha My Dear” (about Paul’s sheepdog) played, we looked to the right of the roadside and couldn’t quite believe our eyes: there, about eight feet in length, sat a big, whimsical yellow submarine. (Our daughter was raised on Beatles and loved them as we do.) 
 
Don’t believe us? Here.
 

 
Maybe you still don’t believe in signs; maybe you do. But at the end of the day, as Rob and I were getting ready to call it a night, I leaned over and turned on the car radio one last time and we heard one more Beatles song. What made it remarkable to us was that neither of us – crazy fans that we are – had ever heard the song. Recorded on Rob’s ninth birthday, it’s called “I’ll Be on My Way.” The lyrics aren’t perfect, but they’re close enough:

The sun is fading away
That’s the end of the day
As the June light turns to moonlight
I’ll be on my way 

Just one kiss and I’ll go
Don’t hide the tears that don’t show
As the June light turns to moonlight
I’ll be on my way

And then later there’s another verse….

To where the winds don’t blow 
And golden rivers flow
This way I will go

Maybe it’s just a bit of delusion – the things we believe to give us hope along the way. But I sure don’t have a problem with that. A song, a bird of joy and a yellow submarine? Yes, please.
 
Tomorrow, a moment in nature that I can’t wait to share with you.
 

 
A Letter to Lauren ~
 
Our dear girl. It’s been three years today – an eternity and a moment – since you left us, slipping off in the early morning darkness to a place where your soul dances and you shine with a light that we cannot even fathom. There is not a day that passes that I don’t wonder why you had to leave us, but deep in my heart I am somehow certain that we agreed upon your leaving before you even joined us on that chilly spring morning of 1991.
 
You hurried through your life with your eye steady on a finish line that none of us could see, rushing to accomplish so much before you were through. And somehow you did: you were a wonderful and happy child and adolescent, a kind and giving adult who loved generously and was so loved in return; you were a kind wife and a devoted mother so focused on the wellness of your child that we believe it may have cost you your own life.
 
We will continue to spread the word of possible dangers to breastfeeding mothers of taking too-readily-written prescriptions to augment their milk supply (such as domperidone). We will not forget you, Lauren, and we will make your death as much of a message of caution as your life was an illustration of determination.
 
You and your husband Phil gave us a beautiful grandson, whose smile and curls and eyes and spirit remind us of you everytime we see and speak to him. Thank you for sharing such an astounding gift with us before you left and for helping to choose such a wonderful young woman to partner in guiding your boy through childhood. She’s doing a great job – she and Phil both – and we are so glad to have built a loving relationship with her. You’d be so proud of all of us. 
 
Okay…I know you are proud. But I still can’t help but miss you so completely; you know how we sigh for you and hold you close in our hearts all the time. I do love receiving your signs: last year on this day you brought us rainbows. We’ll be watching today. No pressure, though!
 
This past year, Loo, we have worked so hard on a book that we hope will help people to realize that there is life after a loss like the one that we’ve suffered, and we’ve felt guided by you through every page of every chapter. Your message of positivity, strength, laughter, compassion and generosity will be one that will be shared. The story of our love for you and your love for your family will be a gift that we hope your son will continue to unwrap for years to come.
 
Thank you for making me a mom – I know that I was never as good as I could have been, but you turned out so beautifully anyway – and for the closeness we were sharing and enjoying when you took on the role of Mother as well. Those seven months before you left were among the sweetest of my life, too, you know, as we had even more in common.
 
I only offered advice when you asked for it, as I know that’s how you wanted things to be. But I always told you to believe in yourself, just as I had when you were little. It’s a message we’ll make sure Colin gets every day of his life that we’re around to share it.
 
As we mark this day and Mother’s Day Sunday, your daddy and I promise to always dream a little dream of you, to hold you close in our hearts and instead of tending to the cracks that open on days like this, we’ll vow to focus instead on how full you’ve made our hearts of memories and love for you, for each other and for the family you had to leave. And we’ll always be grateful to you, our Lauren – our Pure Joy. 
 
Thank you for letting me share this with you today. I wish you a Happy Mother’s Day and I’ll be back with you on Monday.
 

Three years.
 
Three years ago today was our daughter’s last day on this earth and it’s one for which we will forever be grateful: a day spent celebrating her first Mother’s Day with her sweet little son and her kind and loving husband.
 
Of course, so very much has changed since that day and, as I stressed in yesterday’s journal, our challenge – our life’s work now – is to find the positive in every day that we are given. This week, our tiny part of the universe helped to make that task just a little easier. Such beautiful timing!
 
I told you a few weeks back about the serene pond and park that are but a few minutes’ drive from our home. We’ll often park along the oceanside, Rob and I, and walk Molly down towards the town of Sidney by the Sea and stop at Iroquois Park. It’s a little spot that features a memorial and is named for the S.S. Iroquois, a ferry that sank nearby in April 1911, taking with her 21 men, women and children. It is a place of beauty and a place of remembering tragedy.
 
Part of what I love about the area, with its little pond, waterfall, ducks and trees, is that it reminds me of a special day, a special spot in France. It’s a place maintained so beautifully in the style that its resident Claude Monet loved so well and shared with the world through his paintings. We took a picture in the spring of 2005 of that very spot in Giverny. How lucky we were that it turned out this well!
 

 
As I told you here, recently we reached out via a phone call to inquire as to whether we could purchase or sponsor a bench in that little park. (Seeing as there is none, I thought it might make sense.) We received word a short time later that it wasn’t going to be possible; there were other areas that were earmarked for benches in the Sidney area before Iroquois Park. 
 
I was disappointed, as you can imagine, but I didn’t give up. Knowing full well what a long shot this would be, I wrote back and explained why the area meant so much to Rob and to me, and gave them a little background as to the significance of a bench in our daughter’s memory. Of course, I noted, every bench is dedicated in the memory of someone who has passed and who meant a lot to those who sponsored it; we get that. But, still, I thought it was worth a try.
 
And guess what? I’ve received a follow-up email saying that the folks at the Parks department had taken a closer look at the Iroquois Pond site and believe there are some spots that would be desirable for a bench. They asked us to note where we might like one, and get back to them!
 
Today, we’ll be dropping off our application, our cheque and our preferred spots, although, to be quite truthful, any place there would be just lovely and we are grateful. We pondered what to put on the plaque. I could write paragraphs, to be honest, but that might be uncomfortable for people’s backs! So I’ll settle for a book to tell our story, and a plaque to say these words, if they’ll allow: 

 
The last line refers to the song that I play when I go there (or go to any park) just to be with Lauren; it’s the old song made popular by The Mamas and The Papas that she sang with her high school band. We also played it at her memorials. 
 
The song is special for another reason: I learned it to sing with our band Generations when we did our first gig on a cruise. I was nervous, standing there with my bare-stockinged feet planted about two feet apart on the stage while the small ship pitched and rolled on rough seas. As we began the song, I realized I had blanked out on the lyrics. I just looked down to the front row of the theatre and there was seven-year-old Lauren, mouthing the words to help me. 
 
I suppose that’s what she’s doing still. As we navigate the choppy waters, she’s still there willing us onward, giving me the words, helping where she can.
 
Enjoy this day.
 

I’m going to call today’s journal Wednesday Wisdom, although truthfully these words – not mine, mind you – are Monday Motivation, Tuesday Truth, Saturday Sanity – you name it. 
 
They come from the Dalai Lama. And although these words hit home when I first read them Monday, they hit even harder yesterday. I’d just come out of the studio after recording two-plus hours for a series of children’s books. To say it went well was an understatement and I am just so excited about this project.
 
Then, as I sat with my celebratory coffee, looking out at passing boats on the ocean below us, I scrolled through Twitter and found my mood plummeting. I read that the US had pulled out of the Iran nuclear deal, a move described by CNN’s Christiane Amanpour as “possibly the greatest deliberate act of self-harm and self-sabotage in geo-strategic politics in the modern era.” 
 
So there was that. 
 
Then – on a much lesser scale in world importance, but one that was sickening just the same – the news of Roberto Osuna facing a domestic assault charge. 
 
While the weight of these stories was sinking in, I reflected on these words from the Dalai Lama.
 

 
Sometimes it takes looking at the ocean or counting stars in a clear night sky to remind ourselves of how tiny we are, how small. I’ll walk past cemeteries – or through them, as I used to do when we lived near Mount Pleasant in Toronto – and remember just how fleeting this hour upon the stage, as Shakespeare put it, truly is. We all have our tragedies. We all face sadness and joy and, if we’re lucky, the latter outweighs the former. It’s just trying to remember moment to moment where to place the emphasis.
 
And in the end, 100 years – or even 20 years from now – will any of what we fixated upon or worried about today even matter? Of course, when we’re talking about nuclear armaments and escalated tension and danger, that’s something a little more than hurt feelings over what someone did or didn’t say or do to you. And if the orange dictator could get over what the president at the time said to hurt his feelings at a White House dinner all those years ago, we might not even be in this situation. But I digress. 
 
All that really matters is joy. Finding happiness in the moments you have with family and those you love – and who love you – as well as in nature. It’s spending time with whomever or whatever makes you smile.
 
It’s sharing and giving, and letting go of anger and grudges. 
 
Because, in the end, as the Dalai Lama says, life’s purpose is to be happy. It’s not in the having or acquiring or the buying or the hoarding. It’s in having an open heart, an open mind and a life that is open to joy. 
 
Here’s to finding happiness and holding onto it for dear life.
 
Talk to you here tomorrow.
 

We’re learning a new language these days, you and I, and I wonder if you’ve noticed it in the way you type your communications with people of another generation. We sure have. 
 
Let me try something out on you. Someone says, “Sorry, I made a mistake in that last email. I’ve corrected it and you should be okay to go ahead now with no more problems.”
 
You reply, “Thanks a lot.”
 
Now, how would you expect that person to read that response? Would it be, “Thanks for fixing it, bonehead – because of that mistake, I’ve been inconvenienced and I have to go back and try again?” 
 
Or would you read it as, “I appreciate you letting me know that it’s been fixed?”
 
The way you decipher that – what you read into the response – may be a generational thing. This isn’t scientific (although, if you can find me a government grant, I’ll happily do the research); it’s just a realization that I’ve had over the past few years while dealing with people of my own age, as well as of the next generation’s age (i.e. in their twenties).
 
The way I’d respond to someone in their twenties, for example, would be with an exclamation mark. Otherwise, they might infer that I was upset, as per the first response. I’ve had to school Rob gently in how to respond to producers – say, those of our daughter’s age – with whom we’re now doing freelance work. He’s been encouraged to add the occasional exclamation mark so that we can be read as being friendly and cooperative! And not surly and disgruntled.
 
There can only be one reason for this proliferation of cheery punctuation (and the need for it): social media. I remember a younger co-worker was posting on our radio station website and I (hopefully gently) reminded him that we didn’t need an exclamation mark after every sentence – we weren’t a comic book! (See, I added one there, so that I didn’t sound cranky, and I do hope I didn’t.)
 
But it’s everywhere now and this is the way we adapt or die in the darkness. At least, from where we sit. Because the last thing you want to do is be perceived (incorrectly, of course) as uncooperative or haughty. Unless somehow it was misspelled and they meant “hottie!” 
 
It’s all part of our ever-changing language. Not every change is for the best, but sometimes you just go with the flow and say things like…go with the flow. There’s something I hear all the time now and I mean ALL the time now, and it makes me a little crazy, but I’m trying to get over it. It’s the changing of the sound of the letter T. This happened long ago in England where “better” might sometimes sound more like “beh-ah” (try saying it aloud and you’ll get what I mean). But now the T is being dropped on this side of the pond and, darn it, it’s important. Not impor-ant, as we’re hearing more and more, but imporTant. 
 
A few weeks ago we were treated to a different broadcast team calling a Blue Jays game on Facebook. And the guy saying Russell Martin’s name was calling him Russell Mar-Inn. Again and again. When I tweeted about it, someone suggested he take that second T in ToronTOE that he was so determined to pronounce and put it back in Russell’s last name. I’m glad I’m not the only one.
 
Now, if I drop a T, you’ll understand why….
 

 
Have a great day and we’ll talk to you here tomorrow.