Above, a delightful Alice in Wonderfland teacup set, previously gifted by Dad, complete with text from the story spiralling downward in the cup.
A strange chain of events “down the rabbit hole” sort of moment unfolded yesterday, the day before my birthday, and I feel compelled to share it. I haven’t had much chance to write lately, though I carry more thoughts than I have energy to express. Caregiving has left me emotionally spent, but meaningful moments continue to surface.
Recently, there have been moments that felt especially charged with meaning, such as being drawn to a particular page in a book I haven’t finished, or finding a tiny grey feather perfectly placed in my mom’s driveway while helping her with something Dad once handled. Again and again, when I follow my intuition, I’m led to coincidences that feel almost impossible to dismiss.
(Below, the latest feather, from this past Saturday, still drying out from laying in melting snow)
Two hundred fifty-four days ago I downloaded the Finch app to thoughtfully include brief pauses in my caregiver-heavy days to breathe. It encourages positive self-care habits by offering simple rewards to dress your finch or decorate his home. My tasks range from mindfully relaxing my jaw twice a day to saying one kind thing to myself, the way a friend would. One of my daily tasks is simply “literally survive the day.” It sounds like a free square on a bingo card, but it isn’t trivial. Each night when I check that box, I exhale in relief and quiet amazement that I made it through again. Every month offers a new theme, sometimes with a story that unfolds day by day. As February began, the theme was “Queen of Hearts,” inspired by Alice in Wonderland. In the eight months I’ve used the app, this was the first theme rooted in literature. Most months feature lighter concepts like enchanted libraries, pool house parties, or café houses.
On the morning of February 9th, I opened the app briefly to record completed goals, and my thoughts immediately drifted to a birthday present Mom had passed along last year from Dad. Ever the planner, Dad set aside special treasures labeled with Post-it notes for future occasions. Inside were two older books, Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass. I knew they were meant to carry meaning, even though Dad hadn’t had the chance to include his usual explanatory note.
Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass were the first lengthy literary works Dad introduced to me when my reading skills were just beginning to take off. I read them in grade two, not fully understanding what I held, but captivated all the same. I remember Dad proudly telling his fellow writer Glenn Kirkland and his teacher friends that I had finished such a complex book at that age.
Seeing those older copies last year, complete with the tell-tale Post-it note and notation “H from D”, was too much for my raw heart. I set the books aside with other dear artefacts of Dad, alongside my growing collection of feathers.
Yesterday my heart pulled me back to them. I went upstairs, dusted them off, and sat down on the couch, wanting quiet time to absorb Dad’s gift. A brief caregiving interruption followed, but I returned determined to take the moment. I settled in and studied the two matching, well-worn hardcovers. I set aside the book with the Post-it note and held Alice in Wonderland in my hand. The title appeared only on the spine, with no title on the front, which felt unusual.
I opened the book and turned to the publication page, searching for clues about why Dad chose this edition. 1946. The books were republished long before Dad was born. Curious, I searched online for what made this version special. I learned it was a notable 1946 release featuring John Tenniel’s iconic illustrations, originally carved on woodblocks, a style Dad loved, and colored by Fritz Kredel. It is considered the definitive color edition and is prized by collectors. The slipcover explained the missing front title. Dad clearly wanted me to rediscover this story through a new visual lens.
I returned to the story and turned the page, only to find a poem laid out in stanzas. I didn’t remember the book beginning this way. I began to read.
All in the golden afternoon
Full leisurely we glide;
For both our oars, with little skill,
By little hands are plied,
While little hands make vain pretence
Our wanderings to guide.
I sat with those words, letting them settle, and felt invited to continue.
Ah, cruel Three! In such an hour,
Beneath such dreamy weather,
To beg a tale of breath too weak
To stir the tiniest…
My breath caught.
feather.
I closed the book. I knew the search was over. Dad had led me to what I was meant to find, the day before my birthday, in a book he set aside for me in the spring of 2024. Thank you Dad, for your gift…
(The feather motif has been a meaningful topic of many previous blog entries (and some as yet unwrit.) For context please search feather in previous posts).