Sole Comfort

I stood staring, open-mouthed, at the wall of shoes. Footwear of all colors, from geek green to swarthy black. What was I doing here? Staring. Drooling. Yearning.

Years ago, I had to search store after store for my favorite shoes; the ones that would fit my wide bridge, and cushion my flat instep. Now, here they were mocking me from the top shelf, bathed in fluorescent lights, as if…well, as if they were superstars, and I a lowly schlep. Surrounded suddenly by a fog of swirling memory, I stepped forward and reached out. I plucked the shoe from its perfect perch—a cool and unassuming black number with a strip of hot pink femininity. I rolled it across my palm, feeling it, as if I couldn’t quite believe that we had found each other again, after all these years.

A tall and eager salesman came and asked my size. I looked up and replied, “Eight”, forgetting the arthritis in my big toes that would prevent me from fully utilizing a shoe like this. He brought me two boxes. I sat down and removed my brown weathered hiking boot; I eagerly slipped my foot into the Saucony Grid Hybrid. I heard the sigh as my toes leaned into the slipper-comfort and my heel rested against the army-boot support of this made-for-me runner.

The Saucony Grid is known for its ability to withstand many miles; it absorbs impact, evens out shock, and lets your foot perform to its full potential, from heel to toe. Perhaps I could fit my whole self, my whole life inside . . . shock absorption . . . YES! As I slipped one shoe, and then the other onto quivering feet, I—like Cinderella—was transformed. But, unlike Cinderella, I had been here before; I had been a runner—not a great one, not a prize-winning racer who could garner the attention of a prince—but a runner amongst runners.

I pranced like a giddy toddler, showing off my graceful limbs to an audience of sport balls, workout wear, and standoffish socks. I fleetingly forgot about the chronic disc issue at L4/5, and began to run. Admittedly it did not feel natural (or even good), and my body—aging and stiff—looked more like a newborn foal learning to walk than a thoroughbred in full stride. But, lifted by a ghost from my past, I slowly became limber and long. I felt—not young—but, lithe. I became aware of the distance between here and there. I could sense the outer edges of the track, and the space between them was full of possibility.

I ran past the free weights, through the golf “green”, and around the winter apparel. The store was filled with holiday shoppers, no doubt admiring my even gait and crisp cantor, if not the weightless freedom that came from running.

I stopped to catch my breath; I leaned over throbbing thighs; I glimpsed the Grid upon my feet, and swooned. They were magnificent. Why had I put these shoes on, knowing that I would not choose to take up jogging again? The longing to run coursed through my veins. The runners momentarily released me from the mud of despair, the wind of worry, and the pain of heartache. I pined for the solid beat of a sole against the pavement, as if my life depended on it.

I walked to the bench to retrieve my belongings. I sat heavily. I took off the shoes and placed them back in the box, toe to heel. I held the box at eye level, and waited for it to answer a question that I hadn’t even known I’d asked. The answer was . . . yes . . . of course.

I tucked the box under my arm and walked to the front of the store.

Run, run away.

Wax on, wax off

In 1984, “The Karate Kid” hit the theatres. I was a year older than Daniel, the main character, and was just finishing final exams at SAIT. When I saw the movie, I fell in love—not with Daniel, the slender dark-haired boy-next-door, but with Miyagi, the Japanese WWII veteran, who lived a quiet life as a janitor.

Miyagi was humble and small, an unlikely hero.

Daniel was feisty and opinionated, an improbable champion.

A few Saturdays ago, Laurèn, Yohannes and I retreated to our cottage.

It was a much-needed reprieve from a battle that we were not equipped to fight. Faven had suddenly become a cursing Tasmanian devil—leaving a splay of debris, and shattered relationships, in her wake. For reasons that I could not understand I had become Bugs Bunny to her, and she could not be in my presence without spinning out of control. I thought it best to stay out of her way. Moreover, it was impossible to remain calm in the face of her chaotic attacks.

On arrival at the cottage it was cold and snowy, but the bright sun tempted us outside. We brought the skis up from the basement, and I gave Laurèn and Yohannes a quick lesson on waxing. One set of skis had already been waxed, so Yohannes first had to scrape the old wax off, whereas the skis that Laurèn was preparing had never been used.

Daniel and Miyagi were drawn together because of unjust battle, but would become connected through shared experience.

Daniel had grown up in Newark, New Jersey, a racially diverse city that had been home to racial unrest since the riots in the late 1960’s. This, together with loss of industry, political corruption, and mass exodus of the white middle class, contributed to poverty. The move to Reseda, California marked a new beginning for Daniel and his mother, after the death of his father.

Reseda was one of the first suburbs in the San Fernando Valley and took years to establish. Near the end of World War II, realtors swooped into the valley, and large ranches were subdivided just as veterans returned from war. Miyagi, a decorated war hero from the 442^nd Regimental Combat Team, returned home to find out that his wife and baby boy had died in the Manzanar internment camp. Heartbroken, he settled in the lush California valley and quietly began a new life.

In “The Karate Kid”, Miyagi agrees to train Daniel to compete in the All-Valley Karate Tournament. It is the only way that Daniel is able to stand up for himself against a ruthless and unscrupulous bully. Miyagi walks over to Daniel, who is admiring a yellow 1948 Ford Super DeLuxe convertible.

            “You ready?” Miyagi asks.

            “Yeah, I guess so,” Daniel replies.

Miyagi shakes his head, disbelief flashing across his austere face.

“Daniel-son”, he says, and pauses, waiting. “Walk on road. Walk right side—safe, walk left side—safe, walk middle—sooner or later . . . kweeksh, get the squish, just like grape. Here, karate same thing. Either you karate do yes or karate do no. You karate do que-so . . . kweeksh, just like grape.” […] “You ready?”

“Yeah, I’m ready.”

Late in the summer of 2006, just months after we had adopted Yohannes from Ethiopia, we were deep in discernment. In Ethiopia, we had found out that Yohannes had been separated from his older sister Faven. Should we . . . could we, adopt her? My husband Ward would not proceed until he knew what Faven thought. Since she was 12,000 kilometres away, and the adoption was not guaranteed, it was difficult to find out.

We were able to recruit our mentor and guide from our recent adoption trip. He told Faven that her brother was in Canada, with the family that she had briefly met in the spring. He might have pulled out a map and shown her where Yohannes was, across two continents divided by the Atlantic Ocean, a distance that she could not have fathomed in her seven-year-old mind. He asked her if she would like to live with her brother. She answered in quiet Amharic, “I would do anything to be with my brother.”

Imagining and living is not the same thing.

Neither Faven nor Daniel could navigate the road alone; neither was ready for the change that was thrust upon them. Each was determined to prove something. Daniel was able to subdue his emotions and impatience to learn to walk on the right or left side of the road. Faven, on the other hand, was triggered—instead of guided—by the wisdom of another, and she zigzagged down the road, confused and searching, risking everything.

On the day that Faven “ran away” with a friend a few weeks ago, it was -15 degrees C; the wind was howling. I knew that it only took minutes plus scant seconds to freeze to death in this cruel weather. I also knew that Faven did not know it, could not know it.

We filed a missing persons report with the police.

We have developed a certain emotional perceptiveness when it comes to Faven; we are almost always able to predict when she is about to “go madly off”. Unfortunately, we have not yet found any successful blocks for her outbursts, and just have to avoid sparring to the best of our ability until she exhausts herself. It is painful and stressful to witness.

Faven running away was a new and unfamiliar posture.  We were perplexed; just three days earlier she was settled—happy even. What had happened in those intervening days to set her against us, and onto a trail of self-destruction?

There is a form of karate called knockdown. It is a type of fighting with no protective gear . . . bare knuckles. Unless there is a knockdown or sweep, the match is continuous. It was not Faven’s sudden decision to leave our home that I struggled with, it was the wrath of her anger against me, the incessant verbal attacks, and her attempt to engage me in battle, that crushed me, without fully knocking me down. I packed up two of the kids and left for the cottage to re-fuel.

 As Yohannes, Laurèn and I slipped out of the cottage, and clipped into newly waxed skis, we set into the untouched snow. Both kids used the same wax and were shown the same technique, yet one slipped and fell, unable to get a grip, and the other couldn’t move because the snow simply stuck to the bottom of the skis. How could the same care create such vastly different results?

One of the most moving scenes in “The Karate Kid” comes after Daniel has spent a couple of days “in training”; he has waxed the car, cleaned the deck, and painted the fence at the request of Miyagi. This is supposed to be karate training, and Daniel isn’t impressed; he doesn’t think he has learned a thing. He accuses Miyagi of using him as a “goddamn slave”. He loses his patience, feels sorry for himself, and tells Miyagi that he is leaving. Miyagi calls him back, and says, “Not everything is as seems”.

The feisty Daniel would have given up, if not for the care and patience of an older, wiser guide. With quiet control, Miyagi asked Daniel, “Show me…sand the floor”, “Show me…wax on, wax off”, “Show me…paint the fence”. Through the interaction, Daniel shifts from petulant child to awakened apprentice. Like a flower unfolding at dawn, he gradually opens his mind and heart to the lesson. We are rooting for Daniel. Then Miyagi catches Daniel off-guard as he throws punches and releases kicks; he simultaneously cues Daniel: “sand the floor”, “wax on/wax off”, and so on. Daniel is able to follow, and protect himself, perhaps for the first time. *

Now, we are rooting for Faven. We have been quietly cheering for eight years, and actively supporting for five.

 In the initial days that Faven ricocheted away from us, and we pulled her back, I wore a suit of armor. Her explosive, colorful language bounced off, and yet insidiously penetrated. I was stoic to a degree that troubled me. What had happened to my compassion? Faven did not want to be at home, could not be at home. Ward was able to find her safety—at a friend’s house—and we could all slowly decompress.

When Faven vanished on the vast streets of northwest Calgary, we were stunned. We knew Faven didn’t have “street smarts”, and we knew her naivety would disarm any instinct she might have to protect herself. She yearns and she trusts, so she follows.

Without warning, on the fifth day of this “excursion into hell”, my armor melted away, exposing a visceral layer of pain. The creative and imaginative part of my brain took over, producing nightmare after nightmare. Faven’s treatment and rejection of me ruptured holes in my heart that I had long ago patched up. The last five years of effort, love, and relationship-building vanished; in its place appeared doubt: doubt with such depth that I wasn’t sure I would ever climb out; doubt that questioned my ability to participate as Faven’s mother with such vigor, ever again.

There is nothing like nature to pull me out of myself. As Laurèn and Yohannes and I finally made our way across the spotless snow, I looked back to see tracks shifting to the left, and then to the right; the crooked tread came right to where we stood catching our breath. Laurèn leaned on her pole, and pitched sideways into the snow. I looked down at her, held hostage for a moment by seemingly pliable crystals. I looked ahead and saw . . . emptiness: a story not yet written, a palate of possibility, unchartered terrain.

*Watch this scene: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bg21M2zwG9Q

Small Kids, Small Problems

My husband Ward was at a medical dinner with colleagues and wives, several years ago, when his first batch of children was pre-school aged. Many of the adults commiserated about the toils and troubles of raising small and active children. It was exhausting, they may have said; mine was up all night with a cold--he couldn't breathe--might have been another complaint; and mine “melted down” right in the canned goods aisle at the grocery store. A wizened parent, who was farther along the journey, sat quietly and listened as the complaints and stories abounded. And then, he said the following words, “Small kids, small problems.”

When I joined the lives of Kristin and Fraser, they were five and seven. My main concern was to try and get them to feel comfortable around me, and to get to know one another. They were either in such shock from the break up of their parents that they didn’t give me any grief, or they were genuinely accepting and loving kids. Fraser was a handful. He did not take disappointment well; he was often loud and tantrum-prone if he didn’t get that coveted bag of chips, or chocolate bar. But, he—eventually—out-grew that. Kristin was a delight from the start.

When Laurèn was a newborn, my mother-in-law called me every day to see if my new baby had slept through the night. It seemed unrealistic to expect that a day-old, week-old, month-old baby would sleep through the night, but still, she called. Sadly, her calls stopped before Laurèn ever slept fully through the night, because months after Laurèn was born, she was diagnosed with bladder cancer, and she died when Laurèn was only 7 and-a-half months old.

When Yohannes joined our family, he was almost three. But he came from a country rife with parasitic activity, and our daily dump was all about poop. How much, how often, what color, and so on. It consumed much of my time for the better part of the first year. Even language was less of an issue.

When Laurèn started pre-school, separation anxiety set in. And I devoured library books on the subject—much the same way I had when learning about separation anxiety in our yellow lab, years earlier. It seems odd to me now that I worked so hard to get my child to separate from me. Now, I have to text her—from my bedroom to hers—to get her attention!

With Yohannes, it was the opposite problem. Since he was used to being raised in a village, or was simply unclear on what a family “unit” was, he was constantly wandering off with others. It drove us crazy, and we were always on edge when we went out to large events, especially those without walls to contain him, as he would often be enjoying a picnic on someone else’s blanket, or playing with another family’s dog. He enjoyed people, and it is certainly one of his greatest strengths.

Never did one of these children harm me physically, except perhaps in exuberant and joy-filled play.

Small children, small problems:

I did not hear my small child say, “I hate you.”

My two-year-old, diaper clad child did not say she was going out for fresh air, and then stand in our driveway smoking.

“Self-harm” was not a part of our children’s lexicon, let alone part of their lives.

None of these small children filled their sippy cups with liquor from our liquor cabinet, drank to excess and then spewed vodka, and raspberry juice all over the carpet in their bedroom. (Although, I do have to admit that I did that as a teenager. Karma.)

None, pretended to take the bus to school, and then went somewhere else instead.

Not one of these children told me to go f**k myself. Although, I did make Fraser mad enough one time that he punched a hole in the wall.

None of these children ran away from home. When Laurèn was six, she did pack her bag and ask me if I could call Grama to come and pick her up because she was running away. I told her that Grama was not available until tomorrow; so she said she would stay until then.

None of these children required crisis intervention, or police officers to be standing at our front door, or in our kitchen.

Our small kids did not come home from school-or soccer-or a sleepover-and tell us that they wanted to die.

None of these children railed, and spit, and swore at us. None were able to use the word: f**k as a noun, a verb, an adjective, and an adverb, and sometimes all in the same sentence.

None of these children went missing on a night when the temperature had fallen to minus 15 degrees, and the wind dropped it down another 8.

Never have we had to file a missing person’s report—not even after we couldn’t find our “best” hider, in a game of hide-and-seek.

You get the point.

If there were a Richter Magnitude Scale for stress, our lives have just gone perilously off the end. There are no articulable words to convey what we are going through—in our home—the place that we have made “safe” for our kids to come back to time and time again. We are no longer wholly safe.

It is excruciating to bear witness to the suffering and pain that Faven cycles through. I think everyone can nod their heads and say, “Yes, that would be hard.” Some of you may have even had this kind of experience in your lives. But when safety becomes something that is threatened by someone who you love, who lives within your midst, the game plan changes.

How does one live (and love) under these circumstances? If you are logical, like my husband, you will say—it will ease up over time, and we will go back to our form of normal. But, what about the next time? What about the damage that has been done? What if we—people of intellect who are capable of many things—can no longer provide what she needs? What if her needs surpass our capacity? What then? What if…?

Small kids, small problems.

When can I give up? Is it okay to quit when my stomach will no longer accept food, and my bowels just send everything straight through? Or when I feel crazy for lack of sleep? When my hands start shaking, and I can no longer remember how I drove the car from point A to point B, would it be okay then to give up? Or, do I wait until something preventable happens; would it be okay then? 

Small kids, small problems.