I must continue to try to apply basic photo composition and editing skills to my life these days.

Some life activities I’ve had to crop out of my life by design (lack of bandwidth to cope) and others I’ve had my hand forced into dropping (due to a lack of focus, joy, or time). My frame is much smaller and much more narrow than it used to be. In fact, it’s currently set to tunnel vision, the micro focus end of the spectrum. I’m attempting to manage essential needs with very limited resources and trying not to let anything too important go off the rails. With such a narrow canvas I must choose content with surgical precision.

Weekdays come and work becomes the central subject, a fisheye lens, with all else blurring to the edges. Above all else I must keep earning a living to pay the bills and exorbitant exotic pet fees I keep racking up. Unfortunately my already overtaxed senses max out quickly during the workday, leaving zero emotional energy to manage other life necessities by midday or beyond.

Similarly, my thought processes are also under construction these days. If wake in the middle of the night, I am assaulted by bullets of uninvited, intrusive thoughts of fears and trauma. They echo my darkest fears, my deepest agony, my most hidden trauma. As soon as they hit there is that awful gut-clenching, breath-taking lightning bolt seizing of the body. I see them for what they are. I refuse to give them light, to reinforce those pathways. Drop the brightness, lower exposure. I breathe, untense, center, come to present moment. Change the slide. Again and again they come. Again and again – breathe, untense, center, present moment, and distract. Change the slide. The process is exhausting. It wears you down.

Where do these terrors come from? Are they locked in some mind vault, word for word, buried under trivial distractions during the day? Is this where my quivery in-breath comes from if I try to breathe deeply- am I trying to hold the torrents back in order to semi-function?

During the day, it’s a similar experience, but narrower in content and scope. It’s always triggered by the awareness of the magnitude of the loss. The bottomless chasm opens, the thunderbolt of infinite pain hits. Sharp intake of breath, sometimes doubling over, sometimes reaching out to steady oneself. I could not live in that state permanently. Breathe, intense, center, present moment… Change the slide.

I’m working on reframing other things in my life, too. A current crisis screams for me to resolve it quickly, but there is no easy resolution, no scientific dissection and diagnosis, no neat and tidy bow I can place on a perfectly wrapped package. My head always focuses on what isn’t, what should be, and wants to resolve, taking linear steps to make it right. My head longs for order and the righting of wrongs. My life these days is unfortunately nowhere near as tidy as this.

The antidote, I know, is continuing to work on accepting and focusing on being grateful for what is. Changing the reference points that bring meaning to the picture. Changing the focus. Choosing elements to brighten and the elements I need to de-emphasize and tone down.

Knowing this in the head, and applying it to your heart, however, are two very different things. It is especially hard when you feel you are tied to the railway tracks, but still trying to grasp moments of being. Sure, the train’s far out of the frame, but you can still feel the vibrations of the train headed toward you in the distance… How is it possible to remain impervious to threats- those known, or those unknown, for that matter? I’ll continue to struggle, fiddling with the editing tools.

A week later, after begging on our knees for mercy from the Very Separate House Insurance Department that looks after Mystery Discounts, we finally received signs of life via email. The wording was succinct: “I attached the updated policy document for you to review.”

A quick scan of the new policy document revealed a new monthly price, with no explanation on why or how it had changed.

In sum, and with exact numbers this time, the monthly rates over a three month period are below:

Dad and Mom’s rate was: $247.95 (August)

Mom and Estate of Dad’s rate was: $657.71 (September)

Mom and Estate of Dad’s updated rate, as of today, is: $204.27 (October)

We appear to have won this latest round or house insurance roulette, although we cannot tell you exactly how or why the rate dropped so dramatically again. One thing is certain- if I hadn’t mustered what little strength and determination I have left to advocate for Mom, the long-term outcome would likely have been far different.

Dad by Robert Frost’s “Mending Wall” – the mending wall referred to in poem, 1991, Robert Frost Farm, Derry, N.H.

As Robert Frost ponders in his poem “Mending Wall” (poem is included at end of post for reference), “Something there is that doesn’t love a wall”. In the swirling patterns of disorder and chaos characteristic of this summer, my parent’s fence began to buckle and fall over in the front. Dad’s heroic efforts over the years to keep it upright began to fail in August.

Weighted down with grief and newfound caretaker responsibilities for my childhood home, I consulted with the neighbour.

The neighbour, unlike Frost’s neighbour, was none to keen to assist with the challenge despite a collapse over winter seeming imminent. Time to implement Plan B.

Disclaimer: I am no handyman, with limited time, tools, and resources. But armed with fence post stabilizers from Amazon, a rubber mallet, and stubborn determination, I was ready to take on the challenge of time and decay.

Above, the fence in question, in imminent danger of collapse.

And so, with assistance to hold the fence upright, I set to work, hammering the steel post into the ground.

Bang. Why was the fence made so poorly. Bang. Dad did a beautiful job painting it a few years ago. Bang. Why did the neighbour put their wooden frame vegetable garden so close the fence can no longer be fully upright? Bang. Winter is coming. Bang. Ladybugs everywhere, this is disgusting. Bang. Why did he have to die. Bang. Why. Bang. He deserved so much better. Bang. We deserve better. Bang.

I channeled my fury at how my life has gone, rage at the health system, anger at… everything. Kneeling on the lawn on a Sunday morning, the morning of Thanksgiving, when there would be no get togethers for us. No coming in the door to the delicious smells of dinner on the stove, no laughter over Dad stealing the dill pickles as we tried to cut them for guests, no Dad asking Mom for a five minute warning for dinner to be served so he could properly dispense the wine he’d purchased. Just shadows and a fence, and me trying to prop up my life- our lives- trying to keep things moving forward and safe from a constant threat of chaos and despair.

Above, the fence and three posts, properly reinforced.

The middle post is unable to stand entirely straight due to the thoughtless neighbour’s raised garden built too close behind, but nevertheless the post is vertical again, and strong enough to withstand the winter’s bitter north winds. I hope I remain so, too.

***

Robert Frost’s poem, of course, has much depth and complexity to it. Like so many great pieces of art, as you approach the work at different stages of your life, different meanings refract back. At this stage in my life, for example, I was considering the walls I need to build up to endure attending work, and sorting out the estate, through my grief, as well political polarizations playing out on the broader international word stage.

This past February, 2024, Dad took a revisit into Frost’s work, recording favourite poems on a CD. https://tothineownselfbetrue.ca/2024/02/14/another-day-another-cd-project/. Some of Dad’s reflections during this February recording are below:

“Frost was actually the first major poet I encountered in any depth back in grade 11, fall of 1965: “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”, “After Apple Picking”, “Birches”, and “The Road Not Taken”. What appealed to me back then was his descriptions of Nature and he interwove delight and wisdom into each work; I grew up close to Nature in the Winnipeg outskirts so his speakers and situations were easy to identify with.

I returned to him and his work back in 1991 and 1993 on two fall literary wonder-tours of New England. My wife and I visited his Derry, N.H. farm, his Franconia, N.H. homestead, his grave in Bennington, Vt., and the hotel where he often stayed at in Amherst, Mass. when teaching or reading at Amherst College.

Reading his poems aloud at 74, I found many nuances I was not previously aware of. Looking back, he remains my favorite American poet.”

A link to Dad’s reading of Mending Wall (audio only) from February 2024 is here: https://youtu.be/uqxuzqdDrBo

***

Mending Wall

By Robert Frost

Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.

I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
‘Stay where you are until our backs are turned!’
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across

And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
‘Why do they make good neighbors? Isn’t it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I’d ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,
That wants it down.’ I could say ‘Elves’ to him,
But it’s not elves exactly, and I’d rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father’s saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, ‘Good fences make good neighbors.’

Two months since Dad’s celebration of life, and still one flower from the service’s floral arrangement clings to life. 🩵💜🩵 So too does the pain, the trauma flashbacks, and the beautiful memories.

Original arrangement, August 22, 2024:

We visited the cemetary today. The plaque and granite pillar was installed by the City, along with the beautiful, deeply engaging epitaph Dad had requested. We lovingly placed a few flowers, including a rose each, at Dad’s, Grandpa Reade’s, and Grandma Reade’s graves, and took time to remember – remembering and honouring their beautiful, giving lives, the beautiful hearts gave us so many reasons for thanks on so many past Thanksgivings. We remembered all the beautiful dinners we shared together, the deep conversations, the lighthearted laughter.

Last visit to South Haven we were almost wiped off this planet by a speeding car going through a dead red as we turned on a green turning arrow. Less than 2 seconds separated us from life and death, from travelling to the undiscovered country. Yet still I type, for another day. It was a sobering reminder of how tenuous and gossamer this life we lead truly is.

The sun is low in October, despite visiting at solar noon. We aren’t sure if we will be able to make the drive out during winter. Cold temperatures and snowy, icy roads tend to keep us close to home.

We made the best of the visit. The shadows cast long across the ground, and indeed, my heart.

Mom has been punished for having her husband pass away- her house insurance just went up from $247/month to $650/month.

We are still going to provide a few details about security, new roofing and furnace, and will be providing confirmation that there is no longer any outstanding mortgage.

We were advised that Dad had some kind of apparently super secret stealth discount (of course neither woman we spoke to have any information about this, they’re in some “other department”. He has provided consent long ago (possibly blood sample, too) and his score came back an “A”.

Mom has now officially provided her “consent”. They will take her name away to this other department (?in the back room of a casino?) where they will plug her name in and see what her “score” comes out to (I’m thinking roulette wheel spinning, or perhaps tossing her name down a flight of stairs and seeing which step it lands on), and what kind of discount this score warrants.

Obviously, an increase of $400 a month is unsustainable.

We await the news of this “discount”. The lady we spoke to will first “get word” (possibly carrier pigeon) from this Very Separate Department and then she will call us back.

To be continued…

For five decades, Dad has been a driving force in my life. I wanted to do him proud and bring him joy. So much of what I did and how I flourished was due his nurturing, his encouragement, and his loving enthusiasm. He caught me when I stumbled, rallied and cheering me on.

The turning wheel of the seasons and celebrations throughout the year provided anchors to come together, have fun, participate in rituals and jokes, and enjoy great food. One of the nights in ICU I walked Dad through the holidays with the greatest of love, talking about our special times, our jokes, our beautiful rituals, how he brought so much to everything, and how much I was looking forward to more good times ahead with him.

—-
Nights were the worst in ICU and the time when vitals would drop and alarms would clang and ring. I’d hear the panicked alarms of other patients struggling to breathe, hearts failing, IVs running out, so much struggling to live. I’d go home and my ears would be ringing, extreme tinnitus activated. When I would stand (unable to sit given set up) and talk next to him, holding his hand, Dad’s breathing would slow and the ventilator alarms would be less frequent. I talked for hours on end until hoarse… Until I had to run through the darkened hallways and collapse in the bathroom in a choking, coughing fit, also gasping to breathe.
—-

I don’t plan on celebrating anything this year for the first time in my life. Any attempt would feel like a cheap, empty imitation. Whatever happens after this year, it won’t look anything like my first five decades with Dad. I’m under no illusions.

It’s hard to imagine a path forward out of just surviving. Standing among the ashes I sometimes wonder what the rest of my life will be like. I recognize there is opportunity, hence the title of this site. But still I wonder if/how I will find meaning, and what will drive me on.

Recordings from the service are available here at the following address (please note the user name and password below):

https://thirring.org/celebration

User name is: private
Password is: private

Recordings available for viewing:

• front.mp4 is a view of the service facing the front of the chapel
• side.mp4 is a view of the service, with camera turned toward the speakers
• slideshow.mp4 is the slideshow played during the service, for optimal viewing.

We recommend for the slideshow part of the service that you watch the slideshow.mp4 video as view and resolution is much better!

A link to the beautiful, original piece “Blue Skies” played at the service by Dad’s friend Ken Klaus is here to enjoy again on TikTok: https://www.tiktok.com/@1kklause/video/7339742865058237702?_t=8qKH7x7py5d&_r=1

For anyone wishing to visit the incredible legacy blog Dad wrote for 12 years, please visit: tothineownselfbetrue.ca

A search on the right of the page enables you to search for key words if particular topics are of interest to you! The blog covers a lot of ground.

My book budget has been pretty lean this year, but a book I ordered after Dad’s Celebration of Life arrived today. It features the work of artist John Martin, whose art has featured previously on this blog. Martin’s apocalyptic landscape pieces have spoken to my mood as of late, as I wander the ashy wasteland of my own devastated life. I recently read that Martin had his own share of personal tragedy – in fact, he lost his father, mother, grandmother and young son in a single year. His painting of apocalyptic scenes of death and destruction continued after a period of mourning.

I had to chuckle as I unpacked the book from the package and the title really sunk in for the first time. Immediately I was taken back to Grade 11 at Strathcona Composite High School. I was fortunate to attend classes there, enjoying Dad’s company to and from school, as he worked there as an English teacher. He had orchestrated my taking an academic challenge English course that year. It was there we delved into motifs of dark and evil, goodness and light, and tracked the Renaissance-Enlightenment-Romantic periods through literature.

My world blew up when encountering some of the many romantic poets who spoke to my soul. Shelley, Wordsworth, Keats… I remember reading reading the romantic poem in front of the class – Percy Bysshe Shelley’s “To a Skylark” – while transcendent Mozart music played on a tape recorder behind. “Hail to thee, blithe spirit”… Pure bliss. My heart found its home, and I longed to reside in the passionate Romantic era forever.

The class took a deliciously dark turn, and we began exploring themes focused on the loss of innocence and evil, which spoke to my teenaged angsty desires. At one particularly dark moment, our teacher led the class to the shadows of the basement boiler room to read TS Eliot’s The Hollow Men and The Wasteland.

I was introduced to the movie A Room With A View. An early scene tracks a prim and proper, innocent and sheltered Lucy Honeychurch observing a suddenly violent and gory scene – a man’s stabbing and the frantic aftermath as villagers attempt unsuccessfully (and rather bloody) to revive his corpse in a fountain. Although not entirely sure why, I excused myself from the classroom and began walking to the washroom along the green-tiled corridor. Darkness on the periphery of my vision began spreading inward, until dark spots began appearing in the center of my view. I’d never passed out before, but that day I nearly lost consciousness. An instinctual reaction of horror. Previously sheltered from gore and violence, my personal experience witnessing that opening scene was every bit my loss of innocence as it was Lucy’s.

Midway through the term I found myself unexpectedly led into the deepest, darkest, most labyrinthine jungles of Africa with Charles Marlow in the novella Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad. Kurtz’s summative quote “the horror! the horror!” has haunted me through my years, continuing to resonate to this day (and on retrospect, it sums up July 2024 nicely, actually). Studying Heart of Darkness was a natural segue to Francis Ford Coppola’s Apocalypse Now, a movie loosely tracking the same plot. My delicate sensitivities were not able to watch the movie in its entirety, but I did remain in the classroom for its duration, turning away during the more difficult visual parts. (As an adult I remain acutely distressed at gory visuals, and have to choose my viewings carefully.)

After the classroom viewing, Dad introduced me to Eleanor Coppola’s: “Hearts of Darkness: A Filmmaker’s Apocalpyse”, a documentary chronicling the production problems and bad luck cloud that seemed to hover over filming Apocalypse Now. We enjoyed the dark humour of Ford’s filming experience, and would later joke about Francis Ford Coppola, and my dark angsty grade 11 year. The humour levelled up when when the Francis Ford Coppola winery brand was established in 2010. Dad would often delight in seeking out the Coppola wine, and it graced many a dinner table during family get togethers. A private, shared, dark humour. I still have the last Coppola wine he gifted me back around May – long since emptied, naturally – and deeply cherished.

Grade 11 was a pivotal, transitional year in many ways. Beautiful worlds of possibilities opened up as as I encountered the romantic poets (John Keats: O! for a life of sensations than of thoughts!) and composers, Shakespeare’s Macbeth, and artistic films such as Room With A View and Psycho (yes.) in the class Dad had facilitated.

And outside of class – in between blissful lunchhours escapes to Hawrelak and Emily Murphy parks – we had so many other treasured shared experiences. Dad and I would listen to Paul Simon’s Rhythm of the Saints, Johnny Clegg’s Cruel, Crazy, Beautiful World and Sting’s Soul Cages album as we rode to and from Strathcona in his little blue Toyota Corolla. We watched – no, experienced – Dad Field of Dreams, Dead Poets Society, and Kenneth Branagh’s Henry V in the theatre together. Dad introduced me to The Power of Myth, an exploration of mythology with Joseph Campbell hosted by Bill Moyers. “Follow your bliss” became my life mantra. There were so many transformative artistic works forever etched in my romantic yearning soul.

Grade 11 was also the year I encountered my first John Martin painting, titled “The Bard” (below) – considerably less apocalyptic than the paintings in the book that arrived on my doorstep today, but still fraught with great tension. At the time I instinctively loved it and intuitively identified with it. Looking back now, I think the painting spoke to the awakening and transformation of my own romantic soul that year, largely due to Dad’s myriad of influences. It was a year I began to take my own path separate from conventional society, as I began to understand my own individual identity and realize self autonomy and the deeper passions that lay within my heart.

Every year we gathered on Remembrance Day, enjoyed your beautiful, thoughtful display of the Grandparents and war remembrances on the fireplace (below), and solemnly watched the ceremony on TV. In May I planted some special Flanders Fields poppies in the front yard, looking forward to thrilling and delighting Dad with something new and special.

Today has been a particularly gut wrenching day for some reason. A bad sleep, tortured dreams (including a miraculous recovery by you, Dad, oh, if only), grey skies, and I’ve gone through the day with that lump in the throat ever present.

I hope in some way Dad you can somehow enjoy the flowers I planted for you with all my love- the ones that bloom so brightly today, under the grey skies. I miss you so much. Now they bloom in remembrance of you.