Letting Go Takes Love

The following poem found its way to me before 1998.  My kids were finishing high school and preparing to leave home for the first time.  They were heading to university, one after the other.  Somebody shared the poem with me, because I was playing the 'what if' game  and worrying myself sick at every turn.  At one point when one of my teenagers was staying out way too late, I was laying awake  every night worrying.  I would show up at work the next day bleary-eyed and frazzled, but was eventually brought up short by an older female co-worker.  I guess I had told her my tale of woe one too many times.  I had said how my child (almost adult) was no longer flying under the radar because now we had lifted the curfew after a long and painful negotiation.  After all, it was only a matter of weeks until the child would move away to a different city to go to school.  I as a parent was still in shock from no more curfew. Now, my imagination was running wild as I thought about what could happen in the cold, dark, and wee hours of the morning. 
 
My co-worker  clucked her tongue, shook her head and looked me right in the eye.  She asked me what good it was doing anybody for me to lose sleep like I was. I stared at her dumbfounded.  She asked as clear as a bell, "don't you have any faith?"  I remember being shocked by the question, because of course I believe in God.  For some reason though, I never made the connection that anyone was in charge of my behavior except me.  I was making one of those common mistakes that we humans make in believing we can control all things in our lives, but particularly those related to our children and families.
 
I learned a huge lesson that decade.  I learned to back off and let go where possible. (Of course, this remains a work in progress). I discovered our children and families have just as many brains as we have and they have to learn things on their own.  They can't possibly know what we know and what we have experienced, just the same as we can't expect to know everything about them.  Like us, they have to write their own stories in the sand based on their own experiences.  Our job is to be the vessels that house and protect their most important memories, their precious childhood experiences.  My newfound insight didn't happen overnight, but I have to say I grew up a whole lot after coming to terms with the concept.  No one wants to see their child make a mistake, especially when it involves a loss of money, or seeing them get hurt.  Okay, there are times where you really do have to step in, I admit it...safety always comes first.  Pick and choose those times though, because they may resent you for it in the end.  The rule of thumb is to get hold of yourself, bite your tongue....let go and let God.  One day after they leave home and grow up, they may start small by coming back to you to ask for your advice.  This is a test.  Try not to take over, because if you do, what are you teaching them?  Learned helplessness is never a good thing.  If you pass their first test, they may progress to actually asking for your help in some small way.  On those days, you have to be there, waiting and ready to help ....just don't overdo it.  
 
Don't lecture them, even if you want to.   How does one stop these bad habits?  There are ways around lecturing, like storytelling, but again too many stories is a dead giveaway and can get worse than lecturing....They know you inside out and backwards remember.  They know you can already do everything with your eyes closed.  Their eventual goal is to prove to you that they can too.  Remember, they have gone from total dependence on you as a baby, to budding independence, and then to total independence.  The independent stage hopefully doesn't last forever, because eventually everyone needs to develop a sense of collaboration with their loved ones.  So relax and wait, be ready for it because some day, if you play your cards right, they'll be back listening to your every word and learning about all your wise ways.
 
I love this poem, it makes me stop and think.  It was written by 'anonymous', so I don't know the context from which it arose, but it is one of the most powerful writings I know of.    If you've seen it before, I hope you can renew within yourself the ideas it so easily portrays.  Happy reading if this is your first time.
 
LETTING GO TAKES LOVE

To let go does not mean to stop caring,
it means I can't do it for someone else.
To let go is not to cut myself off,
it's the realization I can't control another.To let go is not to enable,
but allow learning from natural consequences.
To let go is to admit powerlessness, which means
the outcome is not in my hands.
To let go is not to try to change or blame another,
it's to make the most of myself.
To let go is not to care for,
but to care about.
To let go is not to fix,
but to be supportive.
To let go is not to judge,
but to allow another to be a human being.
To let go is not to be in the middle arranging all the outcomes,
but to allow others to affect their destinies.
To let go is not to be protective,
it's to permit another to face reality.
To let go is not to deny,
but to accept.
To let go is not to nag, scold or argue,
but instead to search out my own shortcomings and correct them.
To let go is not to adjust everything to my desires,
but to take each day as it comes and cherish myself in it.
To let go is not to criticize or regulate anybody,
but to try to become what I dream I can be.
To let go is not to regret the past,
but to grow and live for the future.To let go is to fear less and love more
andTo let go and to let God, is to find peace !Remember: The time to love is short ------ author unknown

I'se the b'y

I'se the b'y that  builds the boat and I'se the b'y that sails her,

I'se the b'y that catches fish and takes them home to Lizer.

Do you know this song?  I was in Halifax, Nova Scotia exactly a year ago during the first week of October, 2011.  It was my first visit there, ever.  By 11:00 p.m., I had settled into the hotel room at The Lord Nelson and  crawled under the covers.  The hotel was an historical, old building and for some reason the front desk people had upped my reservation from a regular room to a suite fit for royalty.  The rooms were large with wide hallway, cozy living room, kitchen, two bedrooms and a large bathroom.  The walls and trim were a dark wood, probably mahogany.  The art and other fixtures were expensive and ornate.  It was quite possibly the most lavish place I have ever stayed or likely ever will.  I realized the rooms were most likely inhabited by the queen at the very least, not to mention other members of royalty who had stayed there before me.  By some freak of nature, coincidence, or luck of the draw, (but definitely not by foresight), I had gotten to fill in the gap when no other dignitary was around.  Lucky me!  The same thing happened to a friend of mine at the Hotel Saskatchewan in Regina.  She got upgraded to the suites reserved for the Queen and her family when they plan a visit the Queen City.  I'm not sure, but the Saskatchewan Ghost Stories books say the Hotel Saskatchewan is haunted.  My friend swears her room was so who knows?

As I lay back in the king-sized bed languishing in my glory, I soon fell into that realm between sleep and wakefulness.  As my mind wound down,  I faintly detected  a melodic tune, buried somewhere deep within the recesses of my mind, surfacing ever so softly now and then, increasing my awareness of it  over time. Eventually, the sound became loud enough so as not to be ignored and I was jarred awake.  My eyes flipped open with the realization that it was a song I knew.  But what song was it?  I rehearsed the tune in my mind and then hummed it aloud, until suddenly the words sprang from my mouth.  It was I'se the b'ye that builds the boat.....

I burst out laughing right there in bed.  This was a song from my childhood that we associated with the Maritimes!  I understood.  The place was haunted by a friendly, but probably slightly inebriated ghost.    My flight had arrived around 9:00 p.m. and after a long taxi ride into the city,  I had taken in a late meal of beer and clam chowder in the restaurant/bar on the main floor.  So, either the building was haunted or the clam chowder was playing tricks on me.  I didn't feel afraid, but was just brought to my full attention, and remembered to thank out loud whomever it was that had welcomed me to the East Coast in such a rock-a-bye-baby way!

The next day, after listening to a full line-up of speakers at the conference, we were taken on a bus tour to Peggy's Cove.  The sky was dark and the ocean looked hard, angry, and very unforgiving.  The wind whipped all around us and the white light house with the red trim at the top stood it's post, watching and waiting for any chance to signal a ship in distress.   There was a moaning sound I will never forget which was present in my ears the entire time I stood on that rocky cliff.  At first I thought it was a whale or dolphin, because somebody claimed they had spotted something, but no, it wasn't that.   Next, I thought it was a ship somewhere out in the fog, but no, it wasn't that either.  Finally, I thought it had to be the wind.  There were alot of people there that day and nobody knew what the moaning sound was either because believe me, I asked everybody.  In fact, I was unsure if they even heard it based on the funny looks they gave me.

What I learned as the bus took us to a new place further down the road seemed to help explain it.  We stopped to pay our respects and to visit the site of the Swiss Air plane crash, another place on the banks of the ocean...There is a cairn there, erected in memory of the many people who lost their lives.  Again, standing there amongst the boulders and heather, and being whipped by the cold wind,  I decided I had a pretty good idea of what was causing the moaning.

That same evening, the two bus loads of us were taken to a large hall and fed.  If you can imagine, we were given two full lobsters each to eat! The most I have ever had in Saskatchewan was one solitary lobster tail dipped in melted butter. To say I savour lobster is a definite understatement. We danced and drank beer and listened to lively rock and roll music played by a band of guys who were in their fifties. (They were the Heinz variety, but truly, there are no other kinds.)

There is so much history in these places.  Halifax is the port where thousands of our ancestors arrived when they first came to Canada.  All the studying we did in school about the earliest newcomers comes alive here.  They all arrived by ship and docked at these coastal ports.  Some passed through town, others stayed and died on the sea, or even others made their way West.  We are their descendants..  It all makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.  I am so fascinated by this I know I will have to return one day to find out more.  The three hour wait on the tarmack because of the lightning storm before we could deplane was definitely worth it!

 

 

War Hero

My dad's sister, aunt Laura Busby, was married to uncle Henry Steve, who fought with Canadian troops during the second world war.  All the time I knew him, (between 1954 and into the first decade of the millenium...sometime before 2006), I found him to be a quiet, pleasant man who lived in the tiny village of Meskanaw, then the small city of Melfort, Saskatchewan, Canada.  He worked in Meskanaw's hardware store for many years, and aunt Laura caretook the large one-room school house.  The hardware store was owned by the Sinclair family, until it closed.  In an Ethelton community book (which includes Meskanaw) and was published in the 1970's,  they said she was the caretaker for 26 years.  I knew he drove their car in a very limited way, because they were forever having to get someone to drive them or missing far away functions altogether.  For instance, he would only drive if he could go slow on a short trip, or on a side road.  In fact, he would far sooner stay home than be the driver on a long trip, especially if faced with a major highway.  Everyone said the reason was "shell shock" from his time in the war.  The couple eventually moved into smaller, seniors' housing facility in Melfort  at the Pioneeer Lodge and later into the Legion facility.

He was a dedicated gardener and won an award for best garden at the Pioneer Lodge many years running...the "Golden Spade", I believe it was called.  She canned and pickled, did crafts and cooked. Throughout all those years, I found her very talkative, while he was quiet and generally more subdued.  He often told me of his life growing up in Warman, Saskatchewan.  The original house is still standing on that windy little road between Warman and Martensville.  He was proud of his association with his community, especially with the Seager Wheeler farm since they were neighbours.   Please see the website, www.seagerwheelerfarm.org

Neices and nephews always played an important role in aunt Laura and uncle Henry's lives because they had no children of their own.  Unfortunately, first our aunt passed away unexpectedly in the early part of the 2000 decade, (sometime before 2004).  She had physically cared for him for a number of years prior because his health was failing miserably. I guess her body gave out.  After her death, he was admitted to a nursing home where I was a manager and got to know him even further.  However, within a year or two, (before 2006), he passed away himself, gone to be with her. 

This weekend, my daughter and I drove back to Melfort for a visit.  What we learned as we reminisced is that uncle Henry was born in the United States and received his Naturalization papers when he became a Canadian citizen.  Another official document shows his release from the armed forces.  On that document, I was stunned to learn that he was a member of the elite "Black Watch" regiment of the Canadian Armed Forces during World War II.  Others in his family, like neices and nephews may have known this forever, but not me.  Remember, my dad came from a family of eight brothers and sisters and today their offspring are scattered all over the country.  My own mother is the last one of that generation left.

From the website for the Black Watch,

http://www.blackwatchcanada.com/en/heritage-and-history/a-brief-history

"During World War II, the Canadian Regiment joined with battalions of the Black Watch from all parts of the Commonwealth in the struggle to defeat the Axis Powers. The Regiment first saw action at Dieppe, where its "C" Company and Mortar Platoon were key components of the assault force. Landing in Normandy shortly after D-Day, the Black Watch participated in some thirty battle actions throughout France, Belgium, the Netherlands, and Germany. Members of the Regiment won 211 honours and awards for the campaign."

From the Black Watch War Time Memories Project Website,

http://www.wartimememoriesproject.com/ww2/allied/blackwatch1.php

"The Black Watch was formed as part of the Childers Reforms in 1881 when the Royal Highland Regiment (The Black Watch) was amalgamated with the 73rd (Perthshire) Foot to form two battalions of the newly named Black Watch (Royal Highlanders). During World War I the 25 battalions of Black Watch fought in France and Flanders, Mesopotamia and Palestine and the Balkans. In World War II, battalions of the Black Watch fought in almost every major action of the British, from Palestine to Dunkirk to Normandy and as Chindits (42 and 73 columns) in Burma.
The 1st Battalion was despatched to France in May 1940 and forced, under the assault of the German blitzkrieg, to withdraw to Dunkirk. Along with most of the 51st Highland Division, it was ordered to surrender at St Valery. In August 1942 the re-formed 1st Battalion along with the 5th and 7th Battalions arrived in North Africa as part of 51st Highland Division in time to take part in the battle of El Alamein, the turning point in the war. This was followed by pursuit across North Africa with hard-fought victories at Mareth and Wadi Akarit, and the entry into Tripoli. Still under the 51st Highland Division, the 1st Battalion Black Watch was part of the invasion of Sicily. After heavy fighting by the 1st Battalion at Gerbini and by all at Sferro, Sicily was conquered. The 1st, 5th and 7th Battalions, still in the 51st Highland Division, were all landed in Normandy on or shortly after D Day, 6 June 1944. All three battalions were employed in the operations to stem the last German offensive into the Ardennes in January 1945. It then fought in the battles of the Reichswald Forest on the Dutch-German? border, with the 1st Battalion being the first Allied troops on German territory. "

Once aunt Laura passed away, and uncle Henry was hospitalized and put into long term care, it was like he couldn't stop talking.  Several of us visited him often and what I discovered was that he spoke almost continuously, hardly stopping to take a breath.  He had alot to talk about.  He wanted to talk about the war and it was in a way that seemed like he was viewing it from the inside out.  When I look back, it was almost like a cathartic session for him, either that or like he was verbally writing his memoirs.  He seemed to know that his time on Earth was almost over, because he had an urgency about him to get it all out.  He spoke of tactics and operations, just like they were yesterday.   His eyes would come alive, his mannerisms would match with arms  waving and legs jumping.  He would vividly be right there in the moment  and be pulling you into the memory right alongside him. Indeed, you had to listen hard to keep up, knowing you would do everything in your power to support this incredible animated story of his.  I wish I had recorded those visits.

Many of the men and women who returned from the war and who had experienced raw, emotional events were reluctant to dwell on their memories to others.  That had been uncle Henry to my knowledge.  My whole life, I had heard him talk only minimally about his life during war time.  We saw his medals, because aunt Laura proudly showed them to us..I knew he was honoured for several somethings, just not what.   The many other neices and nephews had a different relationship with him and may know much more than me, but I can only speak for myself.  In the past, he had never drawn attention to himself in any way, more than any other person.  To my knowledge he was just another man, my uncle.  I know he participated in Remembrance Day services because he was a veteran.  I saw him in his uniform and saw pictures of him in his uniform.  He did not say he was a hero, he did not even hint at being one, or breathe a thought that he was a hero.  I didn't know he was a hero.  But now I do...  By process of elimination, if he was a member of the Black Watch and holds several medals, that constitutes heroism in my books.

As the days wore on in the nursing home, his congestive heart failure worsened and his voice became affected.  That did not stop him from trying to get his story out.  Every time I went near him, his words poured out from the heart and all in a rush.  He had been shot in the fleshy part of his leg.  "Some little nipper got him", is what he told my brother. 

What I also remember is that the Canadian veteran's association was after him every so often to make application for the benefits and monies  they assured him were his due.  I remember him dismissing the whole idea over and over...but never with bitterness.  He just humbly thanked them.  We all encouraged him to take them up on it because in our eyes, all veterans are in our debt.  In fact, no amount of money can make it up to them.  Some things money just can't buy.  Close to the end, I believe he might have started entertaining the idea, but maybe just to appease us. Amazing.

There are others in my dad's family who went to war, but their stories belong to their own children to tell.  These men and women have returned from the war praising God that it was over, but not wanting to colour the lives of those around them with the strife and sadness they witnessed.  They slipped back into civilian life and made every attempt to live it with dignity.  They had to have experienced many days and months of terror and sadness at watching their friends and comrades fall all around them.  They were lucky we think...able to return home to their loved ones.  Yet, they are changed forever and carrying a burden of guilt at having survived and a far heavier grief load at their losses.  At all costs, they have sacrificed everything to keep us safe and free.  They are the proudest Canadians I have ever known.





 

A spiritual and cultural Victoria

Victoria, B.C. Harbour

Over one million seagulls live with the people of Victoria...this is a professional window washer washing the windows on the top of the hotel pool.

This is no easy feat as the hotel is several stories high....my friend was in a room on the 8th floor...Hmm...our tour guide told us no building in Victoria is over four stories because of the Juan de Fuca plate and other surrounding faults and plate lines and ridges....which means there is a prediction that Victoria is overdue for an earthquake.

 

These beautiful boquets adorned the conference tables and were provided from the garden of the one of the ladies who helped organize the conference. 

 

At one time, these totems were located at the entrance of every village and sent a message to those who wanted to enter or who were passing by.  The message said who lived there and if the visitor was welcome or not. 

 

An aboriginal long house near the parliament buildings and is owned by a family who gave our conference hosts permission to visit. 

 

A typical Long House

 

Open areas in the roof allow for blazing camp fire.  Our master of ceremonies explained that the bottom creature on the totem is a grizzly bear and the top is a type of bird that eats people.  He says no one has those birds any more.  In between was where the drummers sat and drummed on what looked like the bottom of a canoe.

 

 

The feast we were served included bannock, elk stew, sweet potatoes, and bison to name a few of the delightful dishes.  Of all the choices, I had pineapple upside down cake for dessert. 

 

Dancers included little children 

 

and even a baby

Walking back to our hotel....inside that tower is nothing but a winding staircase in the middle of the street....maybe just for enjoying the view of the harbour? 

 

Parliament Buildings

 

The Empress Hotel  

 

Harbour craft  - this is where the cruise lines dock.  I guess the cruise season is over because the late night shopping downtown has been scaled way back this month. 

 

 

 

Back to the hotel

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Victoria, B.C.

Victoria, British Columbia, Canada

Inner Harbour  from the window of the Delta Victoria Ocean Pointe Resort and Spa

At Night                                                                     

 

Add caption

Harbour in the morning sun

In the Morning

 

The Empress Hotel  

 

 

 

Butchart Sunken Garden

 





Victoria shares it's heritage with native Canadians and their well known totem poles



 

Sorry folks, I don't know how to get this picture smaller.....it has a mind of it's own!

 

 



 

Now don't for one minute think I know all the flower varieties  

          

 MY FAVORITE OF ALL Honey bees hard at work

Flowers too numerous too mention

 

 

 

 

 

 

These are begonias

 A fabulous walkway

A unique way to showcase all types of ivy

 A type of hydrangea

 

Found in the Italian Garden

The little Tugboat

 Then my iPhone ran out of batteries....