Racconto YEG

I am scolded for letting three years lapse between visits. A thousand days of secret trauma lurking behind all that I saw. And now, frightening words like Glaucoma, possible blindness, surgery, incurable. Overdramatic, and true. It is one more damn thing on this plate, heaped with worry.

It is an honour to join Greta Thunberg in her climate strike. It is a drop in an ocean of uncaring and fear. Still, walking forward counts for something.

I buy skeins of lovely potential. I dont know what to do with it but I feel like it cant be that hard to figure out, After all, craftiness is within me, right? I untwist the pinkness, a flush of pleasure at the choice of femininity and delicateness, nut it immediately lapses. Too quickly, losing its structure and falling into a heap of yarn, incapable of turning into anything except this tangled mess laying before me. I cry out and push against it, a hand and a foot, catching the roundness of the turn. But it is too late, the tangle is within it now and unravelling is a chore for another day. Another person, perhaps. I am defeated by my pride. A metaphor.

We came to the mountains every year, in my childhood. I don't know anything more than that.  Childhood holidays were fraught affairs of rushing from place to place and wondering what we were "supposed" to do next. Each moment was accounted for and options were chosen for us. So the recapture, then, of childhood feelings of wonder, of slow curiosities, of picking up rocks and throwing them into streams for the pure pleasure of watching them soar up, crash down. These are the moments I have now as I try to reparent my own childhood. 

5 Things to Touch The hardness of the rock upon which I sit The coldness that permeates through my jacket The coziness of my toque on my head The sharpness of the snow melting in my hand The flush of my cheeks, burning 4 Things to Hear The lap of the clear mountain water as it hits the rocks The cries of delight from the surrounding tourists The whistling freshness of the wild mountain wind in my ears The choked cry that strangles in my throat 3 Things to See The crystal clearness of the lake The snow-capped mountains, white. The steadiness of the green trees ringing the shores. 2 Things to Taste The warm pizza bun The soft saltiness of tears 1 Thing to Smell Nature, in all her glory, on this Thanksgiving weekend.

The firetable was a delight, of course. The notion of sitting outside on the deck in the midst of wintery wind was made possible by this, the warding off of the cold. But, while the others crowded round the striped cushions and sat mesmerized by the flicker, I stood, aloof. What held me there? Why couldnt the flames warm the coldness in my soul? I see the flames create a dragon, a reprimand to me, THIS is what is inside you! YOU are this fierce creature who does not cower at adversity!  But, I walk back into the chalet, unconvinced.

When someone was discussing the idea of incarcerated readers, it struck me that being in-patient at the Grey Nuns existed in similar ways in that there was a relative monitoring system that happened--sometimes checked on every hour, sometimes every 15 minutes, sometimes round the clock surveillance. Books were available but donated ones which were surely censored (no Thirteen Reasons Why, unsurprisingly) and then, additionally, there was a library cart that circulated twice a week, manned by a volunteer, The anxieties, then, of having someone observing your choices, your returns, the “reading trails” that sometimes happened through annotated messages in the books or wearing of covers, dogearing, etc. compounded by the eyes of nurses, aides, doctors and other patients. But those people seemed part of the general agreement of being in a mental psych ward. Coming out of my room to discover a student manning that cart was startling and unsettling. As much as he was covered by a non-disclos

The air has a crispness right now that reminds me the year is running short. I consider what this means to the leaf which has fallen, a reminder of the mortality of nature, and yet so resplendent before dying--the final bow, as it were, Would I go down in a blaze of glory? No, I dont think I would. But I dont know what stops me.