Lesson from the Trees!

When we lived on the farm, we had two large trees growing almost as one near the house.  One was a spruce tree and the other a poplar.  Both were probably 100 years old or maybe even more.  They were big trees and had grown there for so long the two were almost one, although being of a different species they were still distinct.

One night during a terrible storm, we heard an explosion that rocked our home.  The windows reverberated from the force.  We were far from mines in the area that occasionally set off blasts: we couldn’t figure out any other source for such a loud noise. By morning the storm had passed, and we ventured out where we found the cause that rocked our home.  Lightening had hit the poplar tree, stripping it of its bark which was strewn across the yard and breaking the mammoth tree in half.  The inside of the remains was still smoldering despite the rain that had soaked it all night.

The spruce tree was unharmed save for the strips of poplar bark that hung from its limbs as if its companion had clung as a final farewell to its long time neighbour and friend.  One was taken, the other left.

While travelling, I came across another scene where it appeared something similar had happened.  The remaining tree on the right prospered, its limbs large and overseeing its domain while sheltering of furry and feathered creatures in its strong limbs.  Rooted at its base were the hollowed remains of its companion, their roots intertwined having shared the same soil for perhaps longer than a century, maybe even two or three before the one came to its demise.

I marveled at the sight, curious as to how the one had come to such tragedy while the other seemingly remained untouched.  I noticed a sign not far from their location which informed the curious that Hurricane Katrina was responsible for this and so many other tragedies when it swept through the area.  One taken, the other left.

Scripture tells us there will come a time when some people will be taken, and others left. The only way to remain is to trust in the one who created us, loves us and wants the very best for us.  He gave His all to make it so.

Winter’s Not Done with Me!

I love Canada. I’ve always been thankful to have been born there and experienced the four seasons in all their glory.  I’ll even confess that winter was once my favourite time of year. The harvest was over and safely stored.  The woodshed was filled.  With the labour of summer over, it was time to relax and enjoy what Canadian winters had to offer.

As such, I’ve skated on neighbourhood ponds, rinks and even the Rideau Canal in Canada’s capital.  I played hockey on a travelling team and drank enough hot chocolate to keep Ecuadorians employed.  With season tickets to my local Junior A team’s games, I hardly missed a match.

Weekends were made for strapping on skis, racing downhill on fresh powder, gliding through forests glistening with snow tipped trees, tubing (sometimes recklessly), tobogganing or strapping on snowshoes to get to a favourite fishing hole.  Or perhaps, snowmobiling through the winter wonderland of bush and trails, zooming across a snow-covered lake, or stopping to watch the moose nesting close to the trails.

But not now.  I’ve hung up my skates, given away my skies, and sold the snowmobile.  Winter is no longer my friend.  These old, arthritic bones seek warmth and comfort. I want sunshine to warm my face, not a balaclava.

Oh, I still like watching the snow, but preferably near a fireplace while drinking a mug of hot chocolate (still love the hot chocolate!).   I guess I could watch hockey on the TV, but it’s just not the same as actually being there, is it?

No, now I seek a new way of living.  No more long johns, toques, or -30-degree rated jackets for me.  No sir!  Give me sunscreen, floppy hats, and sandals.

Thus, thinking to achieve my heart’s desire, I headed to our neighbour of the south to escape the chilling hands of winter and embrace the arms of another season’s fare.

Did it work?  Well…maybe.  I’d travelled over a thousand kilometers to enjoy a haven from winter’s blast.  It was great!  The initial days were warm and wonderful.  Twenty-five Celsius!  Shirt shelves and shorts weather.  Hallelujah!

Then…a cold front enveloped the whole area.  Temperatures dipped below freezing and were forecast to say there for the foreseeable future.  Winds picked up and the white stuff started falling.  How cruel!  Winter wasn’t done with me yet.  Guess I’d better go buy some hot chocolate.  And maybe a balaclava.



First Camping Trip is a Bust!

From the time I began planning my trip, I looked forward to spending a week or two at Turkey Foot Recreational Area in the Daniel Boone National Forest.  I had downloaded the route to take to get because I didn’t think my gps would give me those instructions.  I was right and glad I had the paper instructions.  Once off the main road I came to a junction marked, believe it or not, Pilgrims Rest.

I thought this was quite fortuitous and marked the beginning of a great camping adventure.  I was looking forward to watching stars overhead and listening to the brook run its course.  And of course, a small campfire and roasted hot dogs.

Along this road were several churches, all Baptist, as well as some nice homes.  The churches were small and not yet ready for the morning services so I though I might return to one once I set up camp, especially at the one marked Pilgrims Rest Church. Alas, it was not to be!

From there the road became so narrow two vehicles would have difficulty passing one another.  There were no lane markings and the road was winding as well as hilly.  After a few kilometers I came to a sign that said the road to the area was closed.

A posted map indicated an alternate road that was longer, so I turned around carefully in a small opening and began taking the alternate road.  If the main road was narrow this one was even less so.  No vehicles could possibly pass as there were no shoulders on the road.  Once the road side ended it dropped into roadside greenery of a depth I dare not contemplate.

The road gave way to a lane that might have been passable in a 4-wheel Jeep or an ATV.  The overhead canopy was so low an ordinary car would have had branches touching the car roofs.  In addition, this lane was a mix of muddy clay and overgrown vegetation with a few stones thrown in.  After the previous two days of continuous rain it was a soupy mire.

I walked it a bit to check it out in case this was only a small segment of the road.  It wasn’t.  My shoes were covered in yellow clay when I got back to the van.  Fortunately I didn’t slip in it. So, as much as I wanted to spend time in the forest, it was not to be.  Men plan; God winks.  Turning around took several careful maneuvers during which my front end and back wheels hovered over the edge of the lane.

Once back on a more secure road I traveled through the back hills of Kentucky, which were pained in the most majestic colours of Fall.  Along the way, shacks and old trailer-homes were planted haphazardly on the roadside as well as solid brick homes that almost seemed out of place.  Even the poorest of homes had a vehicle parked nearby.

Since it was still early Sunday morning, I decided to head to Knoxville and Temple Baptist Church on Woodrow Drive.  I followed their pastor on YouTube and looked forward to meeting him.  When I crossed the State line into Tennessee, the Welcome Center looked inviting, so I stopped in.  What a treat!  The center was a mini-museum with crowds from all over.  The Lion’s Club were handing our free coffee and tea as a fund raiser, and the park was decorated beautifully.  The washrooms were spotless as have been all the washrooms in every rest area I stopped at.  Parking was available for 18 wheelers, large RVs as well as cars.  There was even handicap parking for RVs.  Some one really thought out the needs of the travelling public.

After enjoying the sunshine and atmosphere, from there I went to Knoxville and found the church.  Since I had two hours to wait for the evening service, I explored a little and found my place to park for the night.  One Walmart said it was OK to park there but the neighbourhood was not good.  The attendant suggested the other Walmart in a better area, so I asked and received permission to park at the better location.  That secured I went back to the church to wait for the service to begin.

Before I physically got into the building, I was embraced by fellow believers and introduced to many more. One introduced me to Pastor Charles Larson and his wife, Linda.  The pastor was not preaching that night, but the fellow who was gave a fantastic sermon like I haven’t heard in a church for 16 years.  The gospel was plain and powerful.  Two takeaways from it:  either you are a missionary for Jesus, or you are a mission field; and, you have a choice to either have your sins blotted out by the blood of Jesus now or find you name blotted out of the book of life at the Great White Throne Judgment.

With that strong, encouraging message on my mind and heart, I headed “home” for the night’s sweet rest.

Pioneers in the 20th Century

pioneers_in_the_20th_cover_for_kindle-1Pioneers in the 20th Century is the true story of how I raised six children without running water or electricity and very little money.  We lived in a one room house I built with my own hands while pregnant with my fourth child.  Learn how we survived and thrived far form neighbours and modern amenities.  With nothing more than a can-do attitude, our family met and overcame challenges unheard of in modern life.  It will inspire you to persevere against all odds and meet life’s obstacles with faith and good old fashioned hard work.

From the book:

“I didn’t intentionally start out to live the pioneer life.  My husband, Walter, who was from Barbados, was even less inclined.  He came to Canada in the late 60’s under the impression that Canadian streets were paved with gold and opportunities were limitless.  He found out the streets were as dusty and dirty as most city streets – only covered with snow in the winter.”

“One of my few requirements before agreeing to marriage was that we would raise our children in the country.  My prospective husband heartily agreed at the time, my wedded husband much less so.”

“Any mention of country living met with my husband’s outright refusal to consider our prenuptial verbal agreement as anything more than a silly whim not worthy his contemplation.  However, as fate would have it, my husband’s employment came to an end and he “reconsidered” a move.”

Thus began a series of events that led to our living in the wilderness with little more than a chainsaw and the need to survive winters that often had weeks of -40 degree weather.  Our one room home, housing eight of us in just over 300 square feet, had neither electricity or a well for drawing water.  With roving bears, moose, foxes, skunks and beavers as our neighbours, we were blessed with a life that built our resilience, and gave us insight into what really matters.

Available at Amazon.com and Amazon.ca



I’m addicted

I admit it: I’m addicted. I never thought my habit would consume my every waking moment and haunt my dreams. But it does. I’ve tried to walk away, be strong, resist the urge, but it’s no use, I’m weak. Talking about it only makes it worse. Counseling only feeds it. The more I talk, the more I am filled with the compulsion that refuses to be silenced or denied. The need to escape, to be alone, to quench the thirst of my insatiable habit, summons my emanate return to its singular parlor. A sunset, a sunrise, every landscape, every flower, every gentle brush of wind sends me deeper into the clutch of its iron fisted tentacles.

My blinking phone display acknowledges family and friends have called. With no returned calls they wonder if I still exist in the land of the living. Green fuzzy and forgotten growth inhabits my near empty refrigerator shelves. Shopping for fresh nutritional replacements only results in a nightmare of whirling notions that beckon me to return home, to cloister myself once again, to give expression to the insistent hungered cry of my persistent addiction.

Should you fall into the steely grip of its hand, beware; your life will never be the same. Look at me and learn the truth. Take the step not lightly. Only if you are prepared to have your life consumed, your powers of perception quickened, your desires transformed on the altar of its allure, should you enter its hallowed gates, and then, and only then to rise above the ordinary, to become, to be, an addict, a writer.

I admit it: I’m addicted. Writing has become my compulsion, my life, and my task master. While I struggle to seek out the precise phrase, the most definitive adjective, the most powerful verb, the dusty cobwebs throughout my house hang undisturbed. Giving silent witness and undisrupted testimony of my compulsion, their noiseless slumber liberates dust-scrapes to reach their full potential.
For Christmas and birthdays I beg not for needless gifts of soap and shampoo, but for stamps and envelopes, and paper and pens. My friend, Slow Cooker, bubbles on throughout the day unless our comrade, Microwave, offers stale, nuked left-over treats. I can’t afford take out: I’m a writer. I have exchanged all the missed televised soaps, all the missed parades of misguided human fragility for the solace of giving life to tiny dots of ink on the landscape of blank white paper. And, in this giving of life, found my own.

I admit it: I’m addicted; I’m a writer.

Pleasantville Choices and Exchange Rates

The impact of what I am planning really hit home this weekend. I am exchanging friends and family for strangers: known for unknown; English speaking familiar and sure for Spanish speaking confusion; a market where prices are stated, goods are standardized and legislated to be exactly as advertised for a market where haggling and negotiation is normal and uninspected goods are sold on street sidewalks and open air stalls. I am exchanging the purchase of government appraised meat for the flesh of guinea pigs slaughtered, skinned, and roasted on reused poles in open air road side fires: where a bowl of chicken soup may contain the chicken’s foot and who knows what else.

In exchange for a system where pedestrians have rights and drivers generally obey traffic lights I will have one in which I am told less than diligent pedestrians are targets and drivers behave like lunatics. The sidewalks I now trod are relatively smooth and flat and have handicapped curbs cut for ease of travel. In exchange I contemplate the cobbled stoned and tiled pathways of my future along with the declining function of my decaying knees. Instead of the relative freedom I presently enjoy walking alone at any time of day on public streets, I am warned my new habitat houses pickpockets and thieves ready to assist me in divesting myself of any of my remaining worldly goods – even in broad day light.

I am leaving my son’s grave site where the memory of picking glass out of his beautiful hair as he lay dead on the hospital gurney is as fresh as if it was today. I am leaving my grandchildren to grow into adults without having known them or they me in any substantial, nurturing way. I am selling all, or nearly all, my worldly goods to go to a country in which I know no one and no one knows me. Is this insanity? A dream world? …Or is it wakefulness?

Although I have a superior academic education, I have paltry little beyond the normal, acceptable and accepting living skills. I lack significant negotiation skill beyond those necessary to deal with clamouring children, a disgruntled spouse or a disinterested clerk at the returns desk of the local department store. My computer came equipped with a virus detector which eliminates threats and automatically scans for oddities while I peacefully sleep. My doctor schedules in my annual physical and my dentist timetables the regular inspection and cleaning of my teeth. I have spent my life accepting government regulated standards for education, shopping, health and safety without questioning those standards. I have lived in Pleasantville.

Spring Weather Has Finally Arrived!

Spring weather has finally arrived! Time to put away the winter coat, boots, scarves, toques and gloves. Awe, spring! My favourite time of year. Like the butterfly budding from its cocoon, letting go of the constrictions of winter garb is a ritual heralding freedom, flight and new horizons.

Although my journey to new lands is months away I feel like I am personally awakening from a winter’s season of life to the portals of spring. As I move forward in divesting myself of the shell of my constricting “normal, comfortable” life, I feel the pull of adventure. At a time when many would think of me as entering the Golden Years, I feel alive to new possibilities and exploration, not the prospect of rocking chairs, Medicare and coffins.

Every day has an opportunity to cast off my old life and experience the new. My “stuff” is slowly finding new homes. Saying goodbye has not been as hard as I once thought. There is still a lot to be done, but little by little I am moving closer to my dream.

Getting Ready to Sell my Stuff

In preparation for moving to Ecuador, I started to take pictures of my “stuff” in order to sell it off. It is not easy. I have limited space in my small mobile home to keep the potential possessions available for a buyer. I dislike messiness and it looks like I will be living in it until everything is sold which could take up to (or even over) six months. I am starting with things I haven’t used for a while and even then I think in the back of my head: Would I use this (need this) again before I move?

It is funny how I have become attached to things – stuff that could be destroyed in an instant, yet keeps me tied to this spot like a caged animal. I try picturing my things acting as anvils chained around my neck or attached to my leg. They drag me down, tug at my life force, and hinder a new life and new adventures. This exercise in mental imagery helps a little, but old ways die hard. I paid good money for this “stuff” which ties me and in some (sad) ways defines who I am and what I enjoy.

It is both a physical and emotional effort to release myself from these physical possessions. Yet, I know the surgery of letting go is necessary if I am to make the biggest move of my life. One might think putting up my home would be the hardest, but that is not what I am finding as I begin this process. It is the smaller, more intimate items: things that the children have given me over the years that will be the hardest to part with

My children have feelings about my move that range from horrified to completely supportive. The former set loving, well-meant, guilt traps on my heart while the latter verbally strengthen my wings and encourage flight. Just as they grew up, moved on and started new lives, whatever their concerns, in the end, they will have to let me grow and move on too.

Information from a Recent Visit to the Ecuadorian Consulate

After a trip to the consulate I learned that it will cost around a thousand dollars to get all the paperwork and visas needed to move to and retire in Ecuador. That is without the help of a lawyer! My birth certificate, marriage certificate, my husband’s death certificate and a statement of pension income all have to be translated into Spanish then notarized before I can make the real application.

The woman at the consulate told me to get an extension on my visa while in Canada, then gave me the form to complete. Doing so would give me 6 months of living in Ecuador before either getting my retirement visa or being kicked out. Perhaps you could apply for another extension, but that would be another cost and I hope not to have to think about that. In addition to the paperwork I need to show a return airline ticket to get this extension. I was also told to bring a Spanish-speaking translator to the consulate when I apply for the extension so they can be sure I understand everything I sign. Once in Ecuador I can apply for the retirement visa: it cannot be done from here in Canada. Hopefully I will have all the necessary paperwork already completed and will not need a lawyer.

Questions and Quandaries

Shakespeare’s Hamlet said: To be or not to be, that is the question. My question is similar: Do I sell everything and move or stay put in my tight, but comfortable, nest? I think it would be a terrible thing to come to life’s end and say, “I wish I would have.” I’ve read that people come to regret what they did not do much more than what they did do.

Without a lot of money to spend visiting Ecuador before moving there is not an option I can afford. It’s all or nothing, and doing nothing is not so appealing. Not that I am complaining about my life. Canada is a wonderful country! I have a pension after years of work that lets me eat every day; afford a movie on occasion or a small dinner out with friends. Health care is excellent and I feel safe in my neighbourhood. My nest feels tight, but padded and comfortable.

Yet… Yet, there is that little niggle that tells me there is, and should be, more to life than mere comfortable existence. The times in my life that have been the most memorable have been experienced outside that zone of comfort that presently envelops me. Those times that I value most were initially shrouded in trepidation. Stepping off the gang-plank into waters unknown took courage (or an external push), but I was (almost) always the better person for having made the plunge. It was sink or swim.

To date I have swam, perhaps clumsily; but I made it to shore. I have gulped down the sea waters of experience, become breathless from exhaustion, but emerged with a renewed joy of having lived and grown through it all. I’ve had some cuts and bruises. I’ve made some mistakes, paid the price and still went on breathing.

So… what is it now? Fear? Definitely fear, but what’s new about that? Age? It could be, but time will only increase that as an excuse, and I recognize it as an excuse. Health? So far, not a huge concern. It could be in the future, but then again if I had a crystal ball what fun would life be?

What will my family think? That’s a big one. I value their opinions and advice. Unlike the character in Simon and Garfunkel’s song: I am not an island; I do feel pain. My children and family are important to me. However, they certainly do not ask my permission to live their lives, and I would not expect them to. So, should I care what my family may or may not think? Perhaps. They do know me quite well and may be able to point out what I cannot see. They could also be blinded by their own wishes and expectations about me and for me.

In the end only I know only I can live my life, which leads me back to my question: should I pack up and move overseas or stay put? My heart is saying, YES, move on to new life, new adventure. My head counters with all the negatives, which I suppose is its job. My heart says forget all that and LIVE. The battle will rage on until I decide to choose: will it be, should it be, Sensible Head or Sensitive Heart?

What would you do?

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