A lesson I wasn't expecting...

Today I was quickly checking my emails and felt that 'all too familiar' pang of guilt. I could, after all, check my email when Isla has her nap. I turned around in my computer chair to go and 'actively' parent and stopped dead in my tracks. The two of them were quietly playing with lego, building towers together. I watched, transfixed by the loveliness of their play. "Here Isla, you can have this one." "Say please." "Peeeeeeeze". "Good girl". "OK, now say Thank You". (Isla signed thank you). They then got involved in their own things and played separately for a while. They were having such a productive time and didn't even notice I was there. It was like being a fly on the wall...an interesting perspective. I didn't want to move or make noise in case I interrupted their play. All too quickly, it was over and Isla came up to me with blankie and binky in hand, bang on 1 o'clock for her nap. Although I know, of course, not to sit and watch their little lives go by without getting involved, it was a good reminder for me that my kids can have their own space sometimes and, in fact, need it. Lx

A Beautiful Thing

While I was making lunch today, I paused and cocked my head to listen to a strange sound in my house. Silence. I cautiously peeked around bearing in mind my friend Lynne's sage advice: "beware a prolonged silence for you will surely find naughtiness."

Isla was on the sofa, "reading" a magazine and Max was sprawled on the kitchen floor playing Memory. The radio played quietly in the background and it was just a lovely, peaceful moment. I drew as much as I could from it as I knew it wouldn't last but it was a beautiful thing.

Procrastination

There are things I really want to do, that are completely within my reach, that I just haven't done yet. Why is that? I consider myself a 'grab the bull by the horns' kind of girl normally.

Example: I really want to learn how to sew. My neighbor is a seamstress, the cost of a sewing machine is within my reach and my Mum is only a Skype call away if I need help. I dream about making Isla little dresses and whipping up my own curtains...surely this is within my reach. Why don't I just do it?????

Example 2: Running. Since Dad died I have talked about running. I decided that I wanted to see what he loved about, perhaps feel connected to him in some way while training. I have gone out a few times and been really proud of myself BUT I'm not training properly. Why is that?

What is wrong with me? This is a serious case of life passing me by.

Gotta go live.

Lx

Home

Home. Where is home? Some say that it is where the heart is. I suppose this is true, in that you feel at home when surrounded by people who you love and who love you back. A better question might be, where do I belong? This is a much more complicated question for me to answer. I am sure the easy answer is home. I belong at home, we all belong at home. However, where do I think home is? Is home a house? Is home a country? Is home a state of mind?

Take my house. It is not my dream house but it holds my dreams in it, if that makes sense. My children are growing up here. My view keeps me dreaming of the next adventure. It is not too big and not too small but, is a house a home? Do I belong here, in this apartment, in this small village in Switzerland.

Take my country. I am a first generation Canadian. My parents chose to move to Canada for adventure and opportunity and decided to stay for the standard of living (and other political reasons that I will not go into at this time). So, am I Canadian? Am I Scottish? Am I a Scottish-Canadian? And just what is that exactly? I suppose since there is no real visual clue that I am of a different cultural background, it seems a point not worth bringing up. If I was able to be categorized by my visual appearance (pasty white skin aside:-) I think perhaps I would feel more comfortable with a hyphenated description of myself. Also, when coming from a country like Canada, there are so many people with so many different cultural backgrounds, I wonder if we need to label ourselves at all. Isn't it enough to just BE Canadian? Many people would kill to be born and brought up where I was. Canada is an amazing country yet I spent my whole life wishing that I lived somewhere else. Like so many people whose parents immigrated, the home country was stuff of legend, romantic songs and many a melancholy evening (just add a wee dram of whiskey and watch the eyes glaze over and wait for the poetry to begin). I grew up with a very romantic (probably inaccurate) image and yet it remains with me to this day. I wonder if I belong there. I wonder if I will live there one day and it will feel like going home.

Take my state of mind, if you dare;-) Is home wherever I want it to be? Can I belong where I choose to? Is it all in my mind, this FEELING of belonging...this longing?

My last thought for this post is of my own children. Will they be in this same position years from now? Will they feel at home here in Switzerland? Will they yearn for Canada as I do (rightly or wrongly) for Scotland? Will they truly be global nomads, citizens of the world or will they be ships without anchors?

Far Away

" I don't know if you can see
The changes that have come over me
In these last few days I've been afraid
That I might drift away
So I've been telling old stories, singing songs
That make me think about where I came from
And that's the reason why I seem
So far away today"

Above is the first verse of a beautiful song by Dougie MacLean called Caledonia.

It fills me up and leaves me empty, all at the same time.

I have been 'far away' lately and quite lost in thought. There seem to be two of me. I am at the same time happy and sad, hopeful and despairing, sure and unsure, faithful and faithless, focused and adrift.

Do other people live like this after losing someone special? I suppose I can never go back to my blissfully ignorant existence, virtually untouched by loss. Too bad. It was a happy place and I was a happy person. My conscious mind knew of death and it's inevitability for us all yet I never felt the agony of the physical loss of someone, nor seriously considered the tortuous questions of the afterlife. I thought I had it all figured out. One either requires a great deal of faith, or a particular gift for compartmentalizing the big questions and setting them aside, in order to keep going. Before my Dad's death I was so very sure of so many things. I am struggling now to be sure and long for the certainty I once felt. Gone is my innocent, child-like faith and I mourn that, almost as much as I mourn him.

BUT...

I am not hopeless. I anticipate clarity. I search for truth. I am in the valley looking at the mountains I must climb and they are not insurmountable, rather formidable. Courage. Just breathe. If I seek I will find.