Of Poppies, Denise and Joy

April the 5th next month will mark the one year of my sister Denise’s passing. Much has happened since then, and although we’ve managed well through the various celebrations, all with much remembering, some tears and many smiles, there are still days that pull me into the grieving bubble.

I feel it’s a bubble because it encases me completely and for anywhere from a few seconds to a few hours, my thoughts and emotions are focused on Denise. It sometimes manifest itself because of someone or something that we shared is part of the moment.

Of late, a few strange things have been manifesting themselves, and to some, they could be called coincidences, to others, they could be call totally unconnected unrelated events, and to myself, and others, manifestations of Denise’s essence.

I believe they are manifestations and they bring me joy. They bring on tears but that’s part of the beauty of missing someone, tears of longing. They bring on deep thoughts, and challenge my belief system. They bring me ribbons of memories that are vivid and multisensed – the sound of her voice called me “kiddo”, the sight of her face, the sense of her presence.

Recently, I’ve been hearing lots of Neil Diamond songs, and this is expected as Neil Diamond is actually giving a concert tonight in our city. Denise loved Neil Diamond, and I shared this admiration for the singer. She and I saw many concerts of his and I cannot help but think of her when I hear him sing. Giving his concert, the local stations have played many of his hits, but it’s still strange that I seem to hear them each time I drove to work, and around town.

Denise loved poppies. I named last year’s Camino Journey “the Way of the Poppies” in honour of her. She always praised my poppy pictures from the Camino, and she used to tell me this would be the part of the Camino walk she would most like to experience – to see fields and fields of wild red poppies in real life. I’ve seen at least 5 sightings of Poppies in the last week alone.

Am I paying more importance to poppies as the date gets closer to April 5th? Perhaps. But, could it be something else inciting me to see these poppies?

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After all, I changed the dates of my Camino last year, after I spotted a picture of huge red poppy amongst the many pictures of Denise I was gathering for her memorial. That picture somehow mysteriously disappear from the group of pictures, and I just considered this a manifestation of Denise’s essence.

Late last week, My daughter Lisa told me about a series of painting workshops called Paint Nite. You buy a ticket for the evening, and an instructor walks you through painting a pre-chosen piece of art. I decided to select one, and I picked the week of early April. And wouldn’t you know, the chosen art piece for April 7th…

poppies paint

This brings me lots of Joy, and happy memories of Denise. I am sure that as I am painting these poppies thoughts of Denise will envelope my creativity. This will be a wonderful evening.

 

Keeping his spirit alive

Syls DadJanuary 21, 1970 – I don’t remember much about the actual day other than my brother Paul and I were in our big bed with my sister Monique who was asked to tell us about Dad’s passing. I can’t remember if Mom was in the house, or at the hospital but I remember the actual moment the three of us sat on the bed. My brother was 5, my sister 16 and I was 9.

This was 45 years ago today. Growing up with out a father was difficult and challenging. There is a special relationship that daughters have with the first man in their lives and the relationship I had with my Dad was far too short of time. Not one special occasion went by without my thinking of him and wondering how that event might have been with him there.

The more important events certainly made me miss him even more, but over the years the grief made room for remembrance. I still have moments where tears appear and the yearning to have just one more day with him, as unrealistic as this may be, becomes a dream.

I have a very strong belief that when we die our essence-spirit-core is still present, not in a human mortal way but in other less obvious ways. A gentle wind that brings on the faint smell of Old Spice, the feel of his crisp Air Force shirt on my cheek or the warmth of his big hugs. Memories, no doubt, that come on for no special reason but to remind me of him.

Today I was going through some quotes about grief, trying to find one that resonated with me. Pages and pages of quotes just didn’t seem to mean anything to me until I read this one:

“When those you love die, the best you can do is honor their spirit for as long as you live. You make a commitment that you’re going to take whatever lesson that person was trying to teach you, and you make it true in your own life… it’s a positive way to keep their spirit alive in the world, by keeping it alive in yourself.”  – Patrick Swayze

I couldn’t have said it better… My father has always been, and always will be alive in me, in my heart, and in my soul.

Dad Christmas time

A very special hat

DSC_0934It has been in my possession for decades. In itself, it speaks to someone’s career in the Royal Canadian Air Force. I imagine it was part of quite a career. It was retired along with its owner in 1966 and now, even though the fabric is somewhat fragile it is to me a symbol of a great man.

I often wonder what secrets it must hold, privy to endless amount of sensitive and secret information, strategic conversations and important decisions. It was part of daily rituals along with its ever-so-well-pressed uniform. The uniform is long gone but we have all its adornments including two medals.

Syls DadFor me, however, it’s a symbol of the man who was my father. The man who took the time to read the comics to me while I sat on his lap fresh out of the tub and in my pajamas. I was too young to read at the time but we would pretend I could as I made up words and sentences that I thought were appropriate for the pictures.

I remember one night when I spotted a centipede running across my bedroom floor. I screamed in horror and Dad ran up the stairs and asked what happened. When I told him about the bug, he looked under my bed, and asked for a crayon. I gave him one and he mumbled a few things, then popped up and said “There, I wrote “dead” on his back and he won’t bother you again” – an explanation that at my young age of 6 seemed logical to me.

When I did learn to read I became a voracious reader. My father used to tuck me in bed, and I was allowed 15 minutes of reading before sleep. He played our “reading” game with me. He would come up, kiss me goodnight and turn off my light. At which point, upon his departure I would take out my flashlight and read another 5 minutes. Knowing I was doing this, he would walk back up, take away my flashlight and kiss me goodnight again. I would then stand up on my bed, and for a few more minutes read by the glow of the street light. Once again he would come up, always with a smile on his face and finally take my book away, leaving me with one final kiss goodnight. This was our daily  “reading” ritual.

dad 3

Dad passed away at a young age; a mere 45 years of existence ended abruptly, leaving my mother and 5 children to cope with an incredible loss. I was only 9 years old when this happened. I miss growing up with him by my side, I miss living all the important days of my life with him by my side.

I feel his energy and soul has never left me, but I still long for his physical presence. His hat is physical reminder of who he was, and although I try not to be materialistic, this is one item that I cherish with all my heart.

He was a great man and I am blessed to have had the chance to know and love him, even though it was a very short time. He will forever live in my mind and in my heart.