Erin's Journals

Here we are, final day of April. The last few days have been filled with a familiar bit of dread in our house, as Rob has had the dining room table covered with bits and pieces of paper. Yes, the tax deadline is here.
 
The spread-out papers aren’t really familiar to me; Rob used to get all of this done while I was across the street in our radio studios from 5 am to 9 am. Money in, money out, you might say! But last year we found ourselves in a different province from the one in which we’d always filed taxes, a lower income bracket from the one we’d been in for so long, and facing all kinds of changes as we stepped from one life into this new one.
 
But we got the taxes done and they’re ready to efile today. (I say “we” as if I had anything more to do with the weekend’s efforts than simply keeping tea made and sitting quietly reading my Michelle McNamara true crime book about the Golden State Killer.)
 
Moving into this new life, we did two things on Saturday night that you might find interesting: I secured the URL MourningHasBroken.ca (as well as MorningHasBroken.ca, in case it’s misspelled, which is possible) and the Twitter account @mourninghasbroken, so that when the book comes out in February, there will be more ways, more platforms on which to reach potential readers.
 
It’s all very exciting and was sparked by a dinner Rob and I had on Friday night with a man you may well know: marketing and ad guru Terry O’Reilly, host of Under the Influence on CBC (and via podcast, a great travel companion when you’re in the mountains and can’t get any radio at all) and author of the fascinating best-sellers The Age of Persuasion and This I Know. Terry was in Victoria to speak to a group about marketing their message, which is exactly how we met him last year: I was emcee for three events for the Canadian Real Estate Association and Terry was one of the guest speakers.
 
When I was foundering a bit and missing the media business, we had conversations that sent my brain into sparking overload. A radio veteran and marketing legend, Terry had written books that had already been published, while I was in the midst of just getting my feet wet. He was generous in sharing his experience with me, just as he was with Rob and me on Friday night over dinner. 
 
He shared some ideas and tips (such as the websites and Twitter handle) that will hopefully help me to get the book out to more potential readers come next year, and he also offered some insider perspective on what I might expect from the publisher in terms of marketing. He offered encouragement too: while many authors would rather stay in the shadows once a book is out there, I’ll be the one who’s got my hand up, offering to join a lineup of speakers, or to sit for a book signing at a neighbourhood store. So, get out there and sign, speak and meet readers!
 
Rob and I have a lot of time, we love to travel this great country of ours and we have every intention of sharing the message of this book – and our lives – with anyone who’ll listen. If they happen to spend a few dollars on a ticket for a speech or on the book itself, so much the better, right? We’re so grateful to Terry for his enthusiasm and encouragement throughout this process; when you’re sticking your neck out and hoping for the best, it really does a soul good to hear that this is the right path. And by “this,” I mean keynote speaking.
 
So that’s where we are now: planning for what will be a busy 2019 and paving the way for the future. Even if that means more receipts and pieces of paper spread over the dining room table. I’ll just keep making tea. Appropriately, these days it’s the CBC Radio blend from Murchies. Cheers, Terry!
 
Have a gentle Monday and I’ll talk to you tomorrow.
 

 
Today, I’m going to end this week on the same note on which it began. On Monday, as word of what was happening in Toronto was beginning to sink in, Rob and I were taking Molly on a peaceful walk along what is known as Lochside Trail Park, which stretches beside the ocean not too far from our home. It’s what we overlook from our house and the temptation to get closer is sometimes too much, so we leash up the pup and head down for a walk along the water.
 

 
Our outing took us to one of my new favourite spots: a little park that is off the beaten path and away from the ocean just a bit and has a place for children to play on swings (although I never pass up a good adult-sized one, just for a few minutes) and for people to sit at picnic tables in the sun. 
 
Monday, though, it was just us and a fellow planting a tree near the pond’s edge. Oh, and there were ducks, too (as you’ll see in this short video, which is actually quite action-packed and includes a cameo by Miss Molly herself). Just click on the photo below.
 

 
Our friend Nancy brought me to this tiny park on a Molly walk last year and it’s held a special place in my heart ever since: it reminds me of Monet’s lovely gardens in Giverny, France, and when I go there, I am with Lauren. The ducks go about their day, the planes from nearby Victoria International ascend overhead and life is just peaceful and beautiful in this tiny corner of Sidney, BC, even more pastoral than in other parts of our lovely, tiny town.
 

 
I posted a little video on Instagram sending wishes for peace to my former home city the day we visited Iroquois Park. And yesterday I took my love of this spot one step further: I have made an inquiry with the town’s Parks department to see if I can have a bench placed somewhere near the pond, so people like Rob and me can sit quietly and just be with our thoughts and our loved ones.
 
In Ontario, there is a tree planted in Lauren’s name with a tiny plaque and a brick in a wall that remembers her with the words ‘Pure Joy’ but I am hoping there will soon be a spot where we can be with her and just sit. If they say no (and it has not escaped our attention that, in a town that is dotted with benches and their plaques everywhere, there is none in this particular spot) we’ll enjoy this place and its lovely pastoral feel just the same.
 

 
May your weekend be one of peace as well. And thank you for coming by to share some time here with me, too.
 

Oh, I’ve missed being in Toronto this week. I’ve missed being with you, feeling connected, listening to your thoughts and hearing your grief and stories of hope. I’ve missed seeing for myself in real time the outpouring of kindness and commemoration, of steely determination and softened sadness. Yes, of course, I’m online (probably too much) and can watch Toronto television from out here on the west coast. But it’s not the same. I am there with you, though. 
 
The city’s two faces – of sorrow and of celebration – were on full display last night as not one, not two, but three sporting events were cheered on from outside the ACC. The sounds of joyous celebrations echoed in the streets of Toronto – a city stilled by shock and disbelief this same week.
 
This dichotomy is one of the many things that you’re just not prepared for when sudden death hits; life goes on. I was talking with my new friend Lu, a newly bereaved mother in Brampton, about this very thing the other night. You walk into a store to choose a little boy’s outfit for a memorial and see young parents going about their business, chiding their children, sorting through racks, picking just the right onesie for a baby soon to arrive.
 
It all happens as though in slow motion; you’re the static display at the aquarium and they’re on the moving sidewalk. How does life go on when your whole world has come to a screeching halt? It simply does. And that’s the secret to it all: sooner or later those souls in mourning, who have been sidelined and stopped in their tracks, will find an opening in the passing stream and step in to join the flow again. 
 
There will be breaks in the sadness and silence until, eventually, the sounds of laughter will come. There will be moments when you wonder how you can laugh, but you do. And that’s a good thing: it means that the healing beneath that Band-Aid has begun. Just as last night in our city, the distraction of the games of grown men proved welcome once more.
 
Life – if we are lucky – is long and there will always be time for sorrow; it has a way of finding moments when you don’t expect it to visit and uninvited it comes to sit on your shoulder for a while. But we must grasp joy and laughter and celebration when we can, too: it is how we go on. As individuals and as a community. #TorontoStrong
 

Like you, I have a lot to try to sort through as we learn more about the motive and the madness that went into Monday’s devastation and horror. While we all try to do that, I’ll share with you a journal I had prepared to run yesterday. Like so much of the conversation surrounding Toronto’s horror, it is a reminder of connection and of the things that matter most in this life: love and kindness. E.
 
—–
 
Two blue suitcases.
 
They just sat there, zipped and locked tight by the front door, just as far as we’d had the energy to wheel them into the house after a long wait for an airport taxi we thought might never pick us up and take them home, in those wee, small hours of Tuesday last week.
 
For over two days – 57 hours to be precise – those year-old but already scarred hard-bodied suitcases sat there, a reminder of our fatigue and our journey, our loosened rules and heightened freedom.
 
When, at last on Thursday, we needed something that we hadn’t just thrown into our carry-on when we fled for a flight that turned out to be on time instead of two hours delayed, we rolled the two heavy suitcases into our bedroom and began to unpack. Birthday cards and gifts for Rob, including a framed photo that read “Grandpa & Me” from Colin. Chocolates and a clipboard, as well as a makeshift acoustic foam studio set-up that got us a voice job while we travelled. 
 
Silently we separated laundry from things to be put away or hung up, setting aside a neat stack of recycling made up of envelopes and shopping receipts. As we unpacked, putting away glue-on lashes and packages of contact lenses until next month, pantyhose until I absolutely have to wear them and hanging a dress I said a silent “thank you” to for letting me fit into it again, I could feel my heart starting to sink.
 
It plummeted when plans for a long walk in springtime fresh air evaporated as Rob reminded me that he had taxes to work on. Molly’s enthusiasm to go outside was dampened by a sick tummy she’d had since we’d gotten home (or perhaps before). As we walked our neighbourhood out of necessity instead of celebration of the beauty of the day, I found myself fighting and ultimately giving in to tears. 
 
I stopped to blow my nose on a paper towel that I’d tucked into my pocket in case Molly’s tummy necessitated a bit of extra cleanup. As I paused, I looked down to see a beautiful large hibiscus-like blossom on the curb. Nowhere around me could I see where this crimson flower might have grown, but there it was. I picked it up and carried it for the remainder of the silent walk, punctuated only by my quiet sniffles and the sounds of the end notes of “Strawberry Fields” coming from someone’s house as we passed by. 
 
I remembered seeing how Colin would begin to cry when his parents would leave, and it felt familiar: pursed lips, moist eyes and then just a few silent tears. And that’s when I realized that it wasn’t the unpacking that had made me sad, or the derailed plans for an enthusiastically enjoyed spring day.
 
It was that the trip had ended: the one we’d anticipated for months, the time with a little boy we’ll love forever, and the laughter and hugs that we’ve missed so much. Those twin monoliths at the front door served as reminders that it wasn’t over yet, but opening them up and emptying their contents most definitely signalled an end.
 
Oh yes, the bags will be put to use in May when Rob and I make the trek across to Kelowna for work and to see family. The studio will be unfolded and propped on a chair or bed. The miniature toiletries and carefully-counted-out vitamins and supplements will once again find their sandwich bags, and be tucked safely into freezer bags for travel. 
 
But there will be no trips, no visits ever that we look forward to with as much love, anticipation and full-on joy as those that end at an Ottawa address. Until next time, sweet boy.
 
~ Love, Grama and Granddad Banana.
 

Ever since that perfect late summer day of 2001 was shattered by a spate of evil like North America had never seen before, I have wondered. I wondered how Toronto would fare in the aftermath of an attack – domestic or foreign, terrorist or otherwise – and what we, whose job it was to talk with those who suffered in fear and sadness, would say. 
 
Time has taught me this: there are no words to ease the pain. I know this from years of living with it and from running over and over in my head just what words would bring comfort in the aftermath of such a senseless loss as we experienced yesterday on a flawless spring day. I say “we” because Toronto will always own a huge part of my heart and my life.
 
As I mentioned here yesterday, I know that most of the visitors to this journal are from southern Ontario. I felt the jolt of pain and shock, just as you did, with news of a van on a busy Yonge Street sidewalk taking out pedestrians and people just out doing their business, enjoying such long-awaited blue skies and warmer temperatures. A spring awakening that turned into a nightmare.
 
When I retweeted Steve Roberts from 680 News with the number of fatalities at nine and another 16 injured (at that time; sadly, the death toll reached 10 last night), a woman tweeted back: “I’m 54 and I’m not sure I want to live in a world like this anymore.” 
 
I responded quickly: “It has always been like this. And the human spirit prevails.”
 
She thanked me and said she needed to get off social media for a while. 
 
I understand how exhausting it can be: all of the details (not all of them true), the speculation, the useless finger-pointing, the rampant jumping to conclusion. Someone tweeted to me, “This doesn’t happen here.” But, oh, it does: in January of 2017, six people who were worshipping were gunned down in a Quebec City mosque. But we keep going. We don’t let hate win.
 
Like our sisters and brothers in Paris, London, Quebec City, Nice, New York City – anywhere that a terrifying incident (no matter in whose name) has struck – we keep living our lives. We stop to mourn, to learn the names and stories of those we have lost; we hear their families’ memories and the legacies that have been cut short. And then, as though pulling grace from the flowers sure to be laid to rest on city sidewalks, we strengthen our resolve to keep going. Unlike those bouquets, we will not wilt and blow away. Because the human spirit is indomitable and no amount of evil, no matter how close to home, will prevail. 
 
To you, to people of the city that was our home for so very long, and to those who suffer today and live in fear at the thought of such horror as that visited upon us yesterday by one man with darkness in his heart and utter destruction on his mind, I say this: the pain subsides. 
 
And you, too, will be all right. Toronto will not be the same again, but Toronto will always be strong – made that way by the many different and wonderful threads that we have so long and so carefully woven as one. Be good to one another. 
 
I’ll be back with you tomorrow.