For Better. For Worse.

When Ward and I married in 1997 at Parkdale United Church; we wrote our vows. While we didn’t include the traditional words of “honour and obey”, we agreed to honour and respect each others thoughts, feelings and unique traits during times that are easy, and those that are challenging.  

Creating the words, and then speaking them was the easy part of the journey.

Recently, our family shared the wonder of marriage at the wedding of Ward’s oldest son Fraser, to his long-time sweetheart Chelsea. They looked young, beautiful, and in love. They too, created their own vows. With strong and steady voices, each spoke of the gift of the other, the joy of spending their lives together, and the love they share with one another and their daughter Ava. I know they assume that the word “love” is enough of a promise. But love, or the fear of losing it, can create distance over time. It undermines its own greatness. Wedding vows are not about present love, but a mutual promise of future love. I heard their proclamation of love, but not their pledge to stick by each other through all kinds of circumstances, for better or worse. 

Why is this a sticking point for me? Because I have spent the majority of my life believing that love “should” be enough. I felt certain that love was the antidote for pain. I imagined that if you loved someone, relationships would be easy. I thought that joy was born in the arms of love. I’ve learned that love, unequivocally necessary for relationships to exist, is not the main ingredient. Risking vulnerability—showing up and being seen—regardless of the response you get, is the mortar that binds us together, and connection is the reason we risk being our authentic selves at all. 

No love is more vulnerable, more fear-full than the love of a parent for a child. The five children we’ve parented together, share only a last name, but together make up a unit, comprised of distinct and separate parts . Each one is MORE for having the other four. But even love and support in a family unit is no guarantee for happiness. Brené Brown, author of “Daring Greatly” writes, "Because true belonging only happens when we present our authentic, imperfect selves to the world, our sense of belonging can never be greater than our level of self-acceptance."

Faven joined our family five and a half years ago. She has not experienced a sense of belonging in our family, or community. We understand that there are valid reasons for this, however, we continue to be confused by her stalwart resistance. Nonetheless, we come alongside of her discontent, and listen for clues to figure out what she needs. Faven has regular triggers, and by regular, I mean normal activities like asking her to put a banana peel in the garbage, that will prompt an emotional reaction, the volume of which we have no control over once it has started. Despite extensive support, she does not yet have the skills needed to manage her big emotions, and her circuits easily get flooded. As soon as that happens, she fights or flees, and usually both. It is only recently that she has chosen to flee from our house. Having her in the house, angry and railing is no picnic, but having her out of the house brings a different kind of stress.

Thinking about wedding vows has me thinking about my commitment to my kids. Do I pledge to love and cherish my kids “for better or worse”?  Doing what is best, sometimes looks like walking away. Protecting the rest of the family, and myself feels like disengagement. Loving a child enough to allow them to make mistakes, and live in the mess of it…appears mean. Disappointment creates sadness. Ward and I are in the difficult position of parenting a child who does not want to be parented, loving a child who does not love herself. We cannot ignore that living has rules, and actions create outcomes, but this is really tough.

Over the last nine years, I have engaged in many parenting seminars, and attended a psychologist-facilitated book club. My desires for my kids come down to this one goal: I want to help my children grow into thoughtful, independent adults, capable of loving, and being loved. 

 But, what if that doesn’t happen? What if there are circumstances larger than any amount of loving support? When do I let go? Each of them has sparked in me a love that is so intense, and joyful, and painful—and when they are hurting, I am hurting too. When a child decides they do not want to be with us, how far do we follow them? How much do we interfere in their decision, knowing that they are immature, and inexperienced. Moreover, when a child has special needs, unique considerations, who do we involve to ensure their safety?

What are the sacrifices we are willing to make, the burdens we will carry…

for better, 

for worse?

The Five Flemons Children

It’s a matter of perspective

This morning I was joined in bed first by Lauren, and then by Yohannes.  As they chattered back and forth (without breath or thought), I bemoaned the fact that daylight was already here.

Lauren asked, “How did the polar bear get such a short tail?”

Yohannes raised his hand enthusiastically and said, “Oh, I know, I know”.

I mumbled, “The beaver bit it off!”

Both kids simultaneously said, “Maw-om”.

“Can I say?” Yohannes politely asked.

“Yes Yohannes, you can go ahead”, Lauren said, as crisply as any schoolteacher.

“Well, it was the fox,” he started.  “He led the polar bear to a hole in the ice and told him to stick his tail into the hole.  The polar bear did, and when he woke up in the morning, he got up, but his tail was frozen into the ice and broke off.”

“I still think the beaver bit it off,” I said.

“The beaver doesn’t even live in the Arctic” Lauren informed me.

“We-ell . . .  he was going to visit his grandmother and he accidentally got on the wrong bus.  Everyone knows that beavers can't read.  The next thing he knew, the bus stopped in the Arctic and the driver told everyone to get off.  The beaver, who by now had been on the bus a very long time, was very hungry.  He wandered off the bus and saw a sleeping polar bear – at the back end of the polar bear, there was a marshmallow sandwich.  The beaver went over and bit it off!  And that is how the polar bear lost its tail.”

Both kids fell back with laughter.

And then Yohannes asked, “But I’m right aren’t I?”

“Yes Yohannes, you are right,”  Lauren knowingly said. 

         

 Ahhh........ I wish my life was so simple.

Champ

Today, I am pleased to have a guest blogger, but first, let me give you some background.

We are a foster family for the Calgary Humane Society. In mid-December, I went to pick up a lone black kitten, for socialization and weight gain. Easy. Unfortunately, there was a paper mix up, and I stared at a picture of a black and white kitten, one that we had purposely NOT chosen because his write up said that he was shy and scared, and wouldn’t do well in a busy house. 

When I went to retrieve him, there were five black letters written on his cage: 

F - E - R - A - L. I did not know completely understand what this meant. At the back of the steel enclosure crouched the most miserable looking kitten I had ever seen. Fur was matted in balls around his neck like bobbles on a necklace, and his nose, covered in dirt looked as if he had been using it to dig his way out of prison. But the most remarkable thing about this kitty, was his eyes—as wide as a full moon on a dark night. I recognized the fear, and it shot into me like a surge of adrenalin. 

Unable to grab this fiery feline, I asked for assistance. Jenn, the Foster Program Coordinator, threw a blanket over him, scooped him, and pitched him into the carrier like an abductee. I watched in horror. I carried him to the van wondering what I had gotten us into.

The wretched kitten took f-o-r-e-v-e-r to warm up to us, well most of us. Laurèn immediately jumped in; she wore double magic gloves, and told the kitten that she knew he wanted to be loved, but that he was scared. Then, she scooped him in a fleece blanket, and cradled him in her arm like a baby. She rubbed behind his ear, and he immediately started to purr. His saucer-like eyes looked up at her with adoration. I stared at her, amazed by her lack of fear. Within days she had trained him to come when she snapped her fingers. Laurèn continued slowly and patiently with him. 

After two months, and an unbelievable transformation, I returned him to the shelter. Laurèn said goodbye to him, and loaded him into his carrier. She cried openly. When I bent down to pick up the carrier, he jumped and hissed, and struck out between the bars at me. It broke my heart; he had come so far, and in an instant, he snapped back to his feral state. I covered the carrier and took him to the van. 

Three days after his return, the Foster Coordinator contacted me to tell me that Champ (our foster) had gone into full attack mode, after recovering from his neuter surgery. She said that Animal Health staff were unable to handle him, and check his incision. She asked if I would be able to bring Laurèn in to see if Champ would relax. Champ was being considered for the Barn Cat program, and not for adoption. 

_____

I would like to introduce my guest storyteller. Laurèn will turn thirteen this week, she has always had an affinity for animals. She is one of my delightful daughters. 

We cautiously walked into the room filled with box size cat apartments. There was constant mews and meows that sounded like crying and wailing. Jenn, who is the foster program coordinator at the shelter, opened one of the cages and I could see a familiar, tiny black and white face peering out from underneath the blanket. Jenn carefully peeled back the blanket; she wore gloves that looked like they belonged to an eagle trainer (she had to use them because he had gone into full attack mode). The black and white kitten flew backwards and gave a spitting hiss at her before fleeing to an opening that led to his litter box.

He growled long and hard and I stepped in hoping he would remember who I was. I snapped my fingers and he immediately stopped growling and watched as I snapped again, his arched back lowered. I snapped a few more times and he started to mew. I reached through the opening and stroked his head and he pushed against my hand. Then he walked confidently out from where he was hiding, back to the main compartment, and fell right over and started to purr. 

A smile crossed my face as Jenn and the cleaners in the room stared at me with mouths that seemed to drop to the floor and eyes wide as baseballs. I picked up the kitten and cradled him in my arms. He purred louder and turned his head to look up at me with tired, pleading eyes. I whispered “I missed you Champ.” He gave a mew as if to say “I missed you too.”

After playing and cuddling Champ for awhile we said our goodbyes and put him back in his kennel. My heart melted when he started wailing for us to open the door and pet him again. It kind of reminded me of my favorite quote , “an animal reaches for your hand but touches your heart”. But Champ didn’t just touch my heart, he grabbed it and wore it around his collar. 

So the next week Champ came home with us—furrever—and he now comes in to my room every morning and wakes me up for school.

I Carried You

Yohannes and Wendy in Ethiopia, May '06.

***
"Mom", Yohannes yelled, "Come here!"

I hurried out of the bathroom, and came to the railway in the hall that overlooked the front door. Yohannes was standing there, vibrating with excitement. "What?" I asked.

"I got a letter from Grama. Look at what she sent me!"

"What?" I said.

"Just listen to this. One night I dreamed I was walking along the beach with the Lord. Many scenes from my life flashed across the sky. In each scene I noticed footprints in the sand. Sometimes there were two sets of footprints, other times there was one set of footprints. This bothered me because I noticed that during the low periods of my life, when I was suffering from anguish, sorrow or defeat, I could see only one set of footprints. So, I said to the Lord, "You promised me Lord, that if I followed you, you would walk with me always. But I have noticed that during the most trying periods of my life there have only been one set of footprints in the sand. Why, when I needed you most, have you not been there for me?" The Lord replied, "My precious child, the times when you have seen only one set of footprints, it was then that I carried you." Can you believe that Mom? The Lord carried him. That's so cool."

"It sure is."

Yohannes taped the poem to the wall near to the stairway leading upstairs. His eleven-year-old self was filled with wonder, and it was such a joy to see.

Thank you Mom.

Yohannes with Grama Linda, 2006

Lean in to discomfort

Sun setting at Ghost Lake - January 2015

The word “retreat” has a few different meanings.

-  to treat again, 

-  to withdraw,

- and, a place of refuge, seclusion or privacy. 

I am in the midst of all three. 

Each year I take a FULL+ week away from family to re-charge my batteries—usually with solar power. This is my fifth year in a row. I feel quite proud of that, because the years prior, I just suffered in silence…out loud. I didn’t tell anyone I was suffering, but everyone knew it anyway. January, the month of my birth, is my least favourite time of the year. The marriage between darkness and cold drags me down. In past years I went to Southern California, where I could walk on the beach, listen to the surf, shop at the outdoor market, read for lengthy hours with my feet in the sand, and write whenever I wanted to. 

This year, I started my time away at a Yoga Retreat…my first one. I learned that Yoga and Retreat should not be used in a sentence together. Yoga is physically demanding. The first day, I had to take a nap. By the second day, I had run out of food, and YES, I did take a whole cooler full! Yoga can be uncomfortable. Our fitness coach encouraged us to lean in to the discomfort, but NOT toward pain. I’m wired to avoid discomfort. Some people aren’t—like Iron Men and Women…and apparently Yogis. I did lean in, to the point of almost falling over. 

The weekend —as a whole—felt great. I had the pleasure of being around women all weekend, and kicking off a habit for 2015. 

Namaste. 

***

After the yoga, I returned home for a day; the school scheduled a PD day right in the middle of my time away. How inconsiderate! Truthfully, I didn’t need to go home, but the mother in me just couldn’t drive by. Moreover, I had to stop and change bags, and pick up my retreat companions: the dog, the cat, and my computer. We arrived at the cottage, at Ghost Lake—not the California coast line—but it was 12 degrees and no snow in sight!

As you know, my main job is as mother. Oddly, I do not know any other mom who takes scheduled breaks from their family. Not one. Why is that? Has everyone else got the balancing thing, the stress management thing, the battery re-charging thing figured out? If so, then please tell me. Truth is, I didn’t always need to take time away. Time away used to be with Ward, while my mom stepped in. I started solitary confinement five years ago, but I have parented for over seventeen. Right now, it is an essential piece of my stay healthy, happy, and out-of-jail plan. 

For the first few days I am away, an internal wrestling match goes on. Standing on one side of the ring is the Critical Judge, who says, “You are such a shitty mother for leaving your kids, and OH, your poor husband”, and on the other side is the Yogi, standing confidently in Warrior II, she says, “Breathe…in through your nose...out through your nose”. Of course, the Yogi triumphs over the Judge…only because the Yogi won’t engage, and the Judge eventually gives up. 

Yoga on the beach in 2009.

***

The weather has been amazing this week. Sunshine every day. On Monday I hiked, Tuesday I rollerbladed, I walked every day, and on Saturday I went cross-country skiing. Yup…only in this part of the world can we have all seasons in one week. I feel blessed. 

Just before leaving home, a friend stopped by with a “retreat” basket for me. As many of you know, I am doing a challenge this year, called “One Looney Idea”, whereby I will spend an average of a loonie a day for 365 days straight. Yup, crazy, I know. So, she stopped by with a basket of re-gifted items for my retreat: candles, tea, body butter, hummus, crackers, Brie, a bottle of wine, and eye make-up remover, to name a few. I love the fact that everything was re-gifted, it goes along with my idea that we can all live with less. Her less, is my more! Thank you CT. 

When I am in California on retreat, there is so much more “white space’” in my schedule and the days feel longer. I can’t figure out what is different here. I thought I would be amazed by my daily accomplishments. Instead, I realize that time is precious wherever you are. Once you use it up, it’s gone, whether you used it for good or not. I have been writing a lot this week. Writing is not like housecleaning or cooking; at the end of a great session, you can’t look around and see how tidy and finished everything is. Words simply beget more words, and more coffee.

***

Every retreat has some component of growth to it. And this one has been no different. 

On my birthday this year I got my nose pierced. George—the body piercing artist—told me to soak my nose in saline every day. I wasn’t sure how I was going to do that since my nose is attached to the middle of my face, so I stared at her, the same way my dog stares at me when she doesn't comprehend. George told me that some people use a Neti-Pot. I had heard of a Neti-Pot, being a long time nasal sufferer, but the thought of sticking something up my nose did not appeal to me. Instead, I tried a nasal “shower”:  spraying my nostril aggressively with a saline mist. Despite my exemplary efforts, my nostril has been swollen and irritated since it was lanced, two weeks ago. Some mornings I wake up and the piercing is embedded into the tissue of my nose. You can’t even see the bedazzled jewel (talk about leaning in to discomfort). I decided to try the Neti-Pot. 

If you are considering trying this natural remedy that allows liquid to flow through your nasal cavity, like magic—into one nostril and out the other—please read this first. It is not magic, even though the little pot looks like a genie’s lamp.  

I’m going to do a visualization with you. Close your eyes. Think back to a time when you were 11 or 12 years old. You are at a picnic with your favourite cousins. It is so much fun when you get together, they always make you laugh. It is hot. Help yourself to an ice cold pop from the cooler. Now, just as you tip the bottle back (they didn’t have cans when you were a kid), think of your cousin saying the funniest thing he has ever said. Yeah. As you catapult right into raucous laughter, the pop shoots straight out your nose. Remember that painful, fizzy feeling. 

That is what the Neti-pot is like. 

It’s like snorting salt water…from a pool…through a straw…while hanging upside-down. 

I'm not making this up. 

The thing is, I don’t even know how the water goes in one nostril and out the other, but I can tell you that there is a time delay, and I think it’s because the fluid is routing through your brain! 

You have a choice here…not like the time when your cousin made you shoot pop out your nose.  

Even though it has been around for centuries, and even though it originated with the Ayurvedic Yogis—which is not surprising given their ability to lean in to discomfort—I wouldn’t recommend it for anyone who doesn’t like discomfort, or mild pain, or feeling like your drowning at your own kitchen sink.  

I did a lot of reading on-line, and nowhere did I see Neti-pots as a treatment for embedded nasal piercings. I did learn on wikipedia however that “the practice is generally well-tolerated and reported to be beneficial with only minor side effects”. Generally well-tolerated?  I suppose the same could be said of nasal piercings. 

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