Loss and Belonging
It’s getting colder. Preparing for winter is hard work; even the darkness is draining. But there are still many leaves on the trees and even flowers, still alive.
Spent a day writing an op-ed for the Star about the value of bicycles, our cretinous premier tearing out bike lanes in favour of cars — trying not to be outraged, which I am, but to use humour and common sense to point out how stupid and retro that is, that other great cities are doing the opposite. The Star, once again, is not interested. That’s three they’ve ignored, without even acknowledging receipt. Why do I bother? Phooey.
How fast things can change: I think I told you my upstairs tenant Carol had a catastrophic fall during a visit to her niece, had to have an elbow replaced, was in hospital and is now in rehab but will be back here Tuesday. I’ve spent a few days getting ready — three new handrails on her steep narrow staircase and one in the shower. Got her broken microwave repaired, then mine broke, then my dishwasher also broke. I went for a hearing test yesterday: mild hearing impairment, especially the left ear, trouble with high frequencies and consonants. We, Carol and I and our appliances, are disintegrating!
When the dishwasher repairman asked how old the machine was, I said, it’s only three or four years old. But when I looked it up, it was installed nearly nine years ago. That’s my sense of time these days.
Have been watching more of the Taylor Swift film while I cook and do not believe her energy and stamina; she never stops except for a few brief moments during which she changes costumes. She sings, dances, chats continuously for – all I’ve watched so far – an hour and a half, and the concert is three hours long! The elaborate sets, lighting, costumes — mesmerizing. The music is pretty meh, for me, but the audience is madly singing along. A phenomenon.
Just finished rereading a marvellous memoir, Belonging: home away from home, by my friend Isabel Huggan. She’s a beautiful writer, fluid and profound, exploring what it is to live far from the familiar, which for her is southern Ontario, as she travels with her family to Kenya, the Philippines, France. One of my favourite lines, when her French neighbour brings “a big of girolles, wild yellow mushrooms that taste like the very first time you heard Chopin.” Like the play Big Stuff, she writes powerfully about the mementoes we keep and need and cherish. Reading about the death of her cat Ballou, I wept, and sent her my recent Substack about the end of a cat of mine.
https://substack.com/home/post/p-151779097
Yesterday, another reminder of the power and comfort of community: my Y class found out one of our favourite participants, Lolita King, had died. Lolita was my age, a small brown woman and fierce exerciser who brought her own healthy drinks, like green sludge, to class. She hadn’t been to the Y for months; I emailed several times to ask how she was, and she wrote back she’d be with us soon, God willing. She was very religious; I invited her to So True, my reading event, but when she found out it was held above a pub, she refused. We loved her determination, focus, and humour, and were all shattered, with tears and hugs, to hear she’d gone.
Her death made us all aware that no matter how hard we try to delay the inevitable – by exercising and healthy food and healthy living – it will come, sooner for some than others. Ah well. For now, here we are. Here I am, dancing with Taylor Swift while making dinner for dear friends Toronto Lynn and her husband Nick, who are coming tonight.
You are missed, Lolita.
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