on Bowman Island

Finn's name
on the shore of Lake Superior and the Nipigon River
19 July 2014

watching things grow

I'll admit, I had no real appreciation for Hawthorn trees before now. I've never examined one up close before.
A row of three Hawthorns grow along our north fence. They're a bit of a mess, in desperate need of a pruning, which I'll do a little of in the autumn, and maybe some more come spring. It will take a few years to prune them without harm.
Their flowers come out a pale pink nearly white and slowly turn a delicate deep pink. The glossy emerald leaves fill in all around - they're gorgeous.

Beneath the Hawthorns is another mystery garden bed. I don't remember much that was in it from viewing the house last year - other than noting that I was going to be filling in a lot of gaps. For now I'm just watching things grow, documenting who takes up how much space. I don't think I'm going to move anything, certainly not remove anything - it's all beautiful. It's mostly filled with lilies - nearly blooming, which will tell me a lot more..., and some irises.

irises under the Hawthorns
backyard adopted garden
4 July 2014

Peeking between the irises and lilies are sweet baby pink marguerites (at least I think that's what to call them). I adore daisy flowers, and these little pink babies made my day. They're tangled in a few weeds, but I'm less tempted to do a clean sweep on the beds - these have to stay.

Watching things grow, watching things wilt in nursery containers because I have no energy to plant anything...that seems to be the theme of planting season this year. Its amazing how as women we so easily forget the challenges of pregnancy (and morning sickness, and labour...). I knew I'd feel lousy, I forgot how tired I'd be. 

The few plants I have to plant get shuffled around - pregnancy brain has also wiped out my ability to clearly think about my plan - if there ever was a plan.. Unlike the detailed and well thought out plans I provide for others, my own garden is a little more, uh, haphazardly planned.., I sort of know what I want to see, and there are certain plants that I know belong - where exactly, I'm not sure. 

The beds are so big that even in planting in threes is still seems so sparse, and I'm trying to imagine large members who haven't even been bought yet - I'm still looking for at least two more Hansa roses, a Therese Bugnet rose for beside the front door, a yellow peony..., so I'm drawing circles in the sand and trying to imagine five years from now, and what size everyone will be then.

If I was working at full capacity this would be a breeze, but I'm exhausted nauseated and more mentally distracted than I had anticipated. The emotional toll of being pregnant in the midst of the saddest grief is hard to manage. It's not uncommon for pregnant women to have vivid dreams, but this pregnancy has also made my day dreams more vivid - my flashbacks and visions of Finn, it's all so close now.  

I've seen baby twice on screen, heard the heartbeat three times, and still I'm having a hard time believing. I think I'll feel a lot better when I start to feel baby moving around in there. I'm 11 weeks pregnant now, and baby is measuring right on track. There's no reason not to believe this baby will be with us forever. It just seems like forever waiting to have this baby in my arms. 

From the moment I found out about this little one I've felt the need to document everything. The apps on my phone already track weekly photos, and I've been subtly public about it from the beginning. I can't disguise my emotional roller coaster, and if there was ever a time I need my friends' support it's now. This baby is so loved and wanted, people around the world are praying and wishing, cheering on every milestone. It all means so much to my broken heart, and helps with the believing.    

The weekend Rohan and I ran away to Lutsen ...

on our way to dinner

I had no idea how important it would be, there was no plan - we had decided the night before, after weeks of tension and sadness, and booked our room on a whim. I've never even been down the road to the Lutsen Resort, I've only ever gone up the road to the ski hills. When we arrived I was certain I was in paradise.

The beginning of May is always going to be difficult, it will always remind me of loss. Every May from now until forever I am going to run away to this place, because what I found there was more healing than I could have ever imagined.

where the Poplar River
meets Lake Superior
and the Lutsen Resort beach

Back in our room Rohan slept.., he slept when we arrived, was early to bed, late to rise..., slept most of the next day after our hike; it was probably the first time since we lost Finn that he really slept. At home he's too busy distracting himself, fighting the sadness, and nearly killing himself in the process. He's worn out, skinny, and consumed by a very private grief. I hate seeing what it's doing to him. I didn't realise until we were there in paradise that maybe he needed this even more than I did.

If there was ever a time we needed help, a little hope, anything ... this was it. We're beat. Grief for our child is so much more powerful than us.

Our one full day away was reserved for a river walk along the Cascade River. Of all the trails in the area we could have chose, we found the one with protected White Pines, and for the first time in years I felt my father. Some might think that sounds ridiculous, but I don't.. I truly believe the people we lose stay with us. I used to sense my father around Hannah's crib - nowhere else, just at the foot of her crib. I can't explain the feeling, it's peaceful, and just ..there.. I felt him that day in the forest. As if he read my post from the week before missing our walks along the Current River counting the White Pines along the way. For the first time since we lost Finn I felt peaceful...the churning stopped - briefly, but it stopped. I didn't feel as weighted and the tightness in my chest released..., just enough.

While Rohan carefully chose subjects for his photos, I ran around the forest like a kid in a candy store grabbing shots of every step along the way. I tried a few times to get a full circle perspective of my camera on the ground, waterfall before me, and trees towering over, but it didn't really work. The sun kept hiding behind clouds and no matter how long I held my breath and waited it still screwed up the exposure - and of course my panos were wonky because I haven't mastered that down/up thing yet.
I have mastered the foot selfie. I'm not a selfie headshot kind of person. I prefer my face behind the lens, but my feet - they show where I'm standing, and to me that's all that matters.

although I didn't know it at the time
this is the first foot and "belly shot"
of my pregnancy
with Hannah and Finn's
new baby brother or sister

I photographed my feet in the forest, in Lake Superior, on the wood floors of the resort, and in the best bathtub I've ever floated in. I watched the moon rise and listened to the waves slosh up against the shore below our cabin. I felt calm, and I think Rohan did too (all the sleeping helped..) ..and maybe that's what was needed for a miracle. I was already pregnant - just, ...this baby started growing in peace among the giant pines and on the shore. This baby was with me when I wrote Finn's name with rocks.

We have a long way to go together, but with all this powerful energy brought to me on this trip I have faith in a way I'm sure wouldn't be had we not run away. With new visualisations for meditation, and the memories of this beautiful place now charged with new meaning it will always be a very special paradise.

Thanks Dad.

hope

The tulips under the oak tree bloomed yellow, 

"the colour of hope" a good friend said of them. 

I'll take that.

delicate blue stars shining

As shrubs are one by one removed from Finn's garden, making way for planting for him, we have appearing below his window a small cluster of Chionodoxa 'Snow Glories' or 'Glories of the Snow'. These little blue stars were already among the bulbs I've ordered, and will always be the first blooms each spring.

eight months without you

On our way home from Lutsen, 

on the shore of Lake Superior 

I wrote his name in lake stones. 

My love and grief are so powerful

and so entwined around my heart

it takes my breath away.

I can wish for things to be different all I want, plead for this to not be our reality, for him to be returned to us..., but it will never happen. I took all his rocks home with me, not knowing exactly what I'll do with them yet..., but it's things like this that keep him close. It's all I have - create for him, grasp on to it, bring him with us wherever we go.

dear garden diary,

sunrise
10 May 2014

sunset
10 May 2014

From under our oak tree, the tree I see when I close my eyes, I've been creeping around watching things grow. Tulips are appearing, maybe some Lili of the Valley too..., not entirely sure who else. In the back - in the garden bed we're removing entirely to make way for dogs and two wind-breaking, privacy giving blue spruce - I'm finding hostas, daylilies, and maybe iris(?) but it's soon soon and cold for them to identify themselves. They'll all be relocated somewhere along the south border.

From under the oak I also find a great view of the harbour, the park, and our Wild Thing trees. As I began writing this post I was staring out the window, watching a man walk with a skip in his step across the park and as he passed the Wild Thing he tapped one tree then backtracked a bit to tap the other. Saying hello? 

Who else loves those trees as much as I do?

This is the May of April showers. The few nice days we've had have turned out backyard and shack into a garden in progress. Plants and pots everywhere, bags of planting mixes heaped on the back wall, tools leaning. It's beginning to look less like someone else's boring shrub garden and more like Amy's natural disaster. GRIN

Saturday was a good day in the midst of misery. An enormous number of plants followed us home from lunch, and I can't even be entirely blamed (Rohan is as bad as I am so long as he can eat it).

The evening that followed found me laughing hysterically with Cathy and Lori as the sun set, then sitting fireside with my best friend and best love until midnight. Warm enough to stay in flip-flops, cool enough to want to add leg-warmers to my ensemble.

What all this time outdoors has taught me is that wind may be a bigger problem than I had anticipated. It can be wild. When it dies down the air here is fresh, it has never felt settled - there are just too many places for it to swirl around, over and through. I'll have to make sure everybody has a buddy, a plant to lean on, you know. 

I spent today planting in a cold wind and a bit of drizzle a few feet from the fire pit:

russian sage 'peek-a-boo blue'

virginia bluebells

scabiosa 'butterfly blue

carpet phlox 'sapphire blue'

aster 'wonder of staffa' (blue)

clematis 'sea breeze (blue)

liatris 'purple blazing star'

lilac 'beauty of moscow'

echinacea 'emotion bright orange' and 'marmalade'

agapanthus 'blue globe'

achillea millefollium - yarrow 'red beauty'

anchusa azurea 'dropmore'

anemone hupehensis 'praecox'

lilium 'strawberry vanilla'

The pot of enormous size that lives in the corner of the patio was there when we bought the house, and I'm undecided about leaving it there. For now, for lack of a better idea it will stay (and because it's too damn heavy for anyone to move..). I've seeded a bunch of gourds and miniature pumpkins that should be strong enough to climb from the pot over the obelisk, and maybe strong enough to withstand the wind. We shall see.... 

moving on mondays

Tim Tamashiro began tonight's Tonic show with talk of a dragonfly flying and this song, 

Steve Allee Trio - Dragonfly

Last week was miserable. I've been trying all day to say it's behind me, but really it's not, ...the weight of it is still here. Acupuncture for breakfast, grief counselling for lunch, a visit to the greenhouse for rejuvenation, ...totally exhausting.

I feel like I have a split personality - one completely consumed in grief, the other caught up in the season of gardening. Before gardening it was needlefelting, before that just fog... ..after Finn.
From not giving much thought to my new garden to finding myself more in-tune than ever is a little confusing, but I'm going with it - whatever it give me..., minute to minute, hour to hour, day to week to who knows. I'll never predict anything..

I'm going to ride this gardening wave. In my own garden I've never been more organised. Our new garden, our forever garden, has Excel worksheets with lists of all the new additions, and will include all that will be moved from Pearl, or added by friends. This time there's going to be a record from the start - better than this blog. 

(This blog would work better for what I wanted it to if a) I finished my thoughts and b) I tagged things properly so I could search it. I'm trying to be better at this.)

my pencil notes remain,
Excel worksheets are just an addition

There have been so many changes already, huge changes but hardly noticeable.. that's what happens when you take away boring. 

Damn I shouldn't say that. I've had serious heartache over the cutting down of the ash tree. Maybe it was my bad week. Maybe it's just my messed up emotions and attachment to everything. I just feel really bad for cutting down a (doomed but otherwise) healthy tree. My promise is to make up for is with a incredible edible annuals. And maybe blueberries.

I've also been planning other gardens, for other people. That along with being BMN in the social media world have allowed me to sort of step outside myself, outside the grief, and just be the gardener, think about the plants and be creative. It's what I've always done best, enjoyed the most..., I get to play with photography, share a little gardening knowledge, laugh a lot with Cathy. Who wouldn't want to do that? 

All of it together keeps me distracted in all the right ways. My garden plans are changing in my head all the time, new things come up, ideas..., more meaning to it all. Every step of this grief finds its way into my plans, creating a map within my garden that will grow and change along the way. 

Plants are arriving... I've ordered some specifics, some for names, some for colour, some to replace things we've had. On our dining room table is a little 'Beauty of Moscow' Lilac which will live near the house in place of one of these boring shrubs. It arrived today along with plugs and bulbs - phlox, asters, virginia bluebells...

The shack is full of plants, I have the kitchen table covered, an upright hot-house in the living room, seedlings growing, morning glories tendriling. The ash is gone, so is the cedar by the front door, stumps soon to be ground out. Shrubs will be adopted, soon it will be my blank slate, ready for our garden.

a river to drown in, a forest for faith

I'm an atheist. Science has always made more sense. Religion just has better stories.

My father showed me heaven when we would walk through the woods along the Current River to Wishart in the morning. He and I watched a lot of sunrises through our living room window, which reminds me a lot of the living room window I watch the sunrise through now. Then, it would rise over the hill on the other side of the river which ran though the valley below. We would admire the white pines' silhouettes on the crest of the hill..., until developers on the other side crossed the property line and one by one the white pines disappeared.

That was probably the beginning of my interest in urban forestry, 

forestry, 

and what it means to destroy 

something that can't be replaced.

I loved those trees, my Dad loved those trees. He grew up in Utrecht, Netherlands during World War II; he starved, he watched his family starve, he witnessed death daily and destruction like none of us could ever really imagine. When he moved to Canada and could afford a home of his own he only wanted space, with trees and nature at every horizon. I really understand this need now.

Wishart Conservation Forest, which was adjacent to my parents' property along the Current River, was my playground. I used to count the white pines on the other side of the river on my way home like beacons. I was young, fearless and free; I could never get lost; the road was always in one direction, the river ran parallel, with Wishart on one end (with a crossing road), and North Branch Road on the other. Acres of trees, a rushing river (in those days), and all the forest animals were all I knew.

It would be a scene out of Snow White, if I believed in fairy tales. 

I tried to talk to a porcupine once who ran up a tree (in fear I realise now) 

but at the time 

I was just curious and friendly, 

like our dog, Zelda, who regularly came home with a mouthful of quills.

If there is heaven on earth, I think it's in a forest. The 30x30Challenge has been good for me, for this healing process..., especially now - in May when triggers find me too easily, 

they're so many and I'm just me. 

I do believe it's possible to still find half an hour of nature
 - even if it's only in my head.
Today I'm on the floor of Wishart surrounded by the smell of pines and moss.

It's no secret yesterday was hard. It was bad. My birthday reminds me of my mother, and her death last year, and how she would make some mention every year on my birthday about the great sense of loss felt this time of year. It made her feel bad.
Last year on my birthday the only nurse I didn't like insisted on singing happy birthday to me over her bed. I cried the whole time, wishing her to stop, seeing a look in my mother's eyes I still recognised. She didn't want to die on my birthday; she knew I'm sure..., I wonder how hard she fought to not die on that day.
My mother died two days later, on May 8th at sunrise.

I've wondered since the day after my fourteenth birthday - the day my mother's mother died, how my mom felt, how she went on with my day without letting on a thing, ....just learning of her mother's death. Helpless, confused, so so sad.... ?
She told me on the 6th, in the morning in the dark sitting on the edge of my bed. She had been crying, but stayed composed talking to me, letting me know.

My father died unexpectedly (but prepared for) two weeks to the day after my twenty-fifth birthday. A proud new Opa and ready to leap into the world of retirement and world travel, death took him before he even had a chance to breathe it in. From that day on the smell of spring has made me think of losing something huge - the irony, the Dutch in me, the tulips that bloom, the ones I'm about to plant..., yet spring still smells like death.

I wonder..., what will Finn's death to to my love of autumn? Will the coloured leaves always remind me of losing him? Or, will they remind me that he lived through my few favourite days in the year of all, the best - I've said it for years - September 30th is the best day of the year. The weeks before and after are great, peaking always around the 30th. I hope Finn keeps that fire alive in those weeks, when I'll look for him in leaves and find him in the painted foliage.

I received a lot of beautiful and thoughtful messages yesterday (some I still have to respond to); people who remember my mother's death, what the day last year meant, and what it obviously means now. Surprisingly, others had no idea what to say or do.
Heavily on my mind was (is) my mother. We went through a lot last year, fighting for a dignified death in a system of errors and swayed judgement. Keeping me going was Finn moving around inside me. I didn't have to worry about him because from the moment he could he let me know he was with me - always.

That's the difference. It's the difference between me and Rohan, me and anyone else who knows and loves Finn. I'm the only one who shared blood with Finn; he was inside only me - in more ways than physical. Last year at this time, while I said good bye to my mom for the last time, Finn was moving regularly letting me know he was there, bringing me peace.

Triggers, they're everywhere. In every tree from here to Duluth, from Family Day weekend to the day we drove home with the Outback with a back "big enough for three dogs and a stroller," every bit of it reminds me of being pregnant last year, the growth spurt he went through in May, my daily protruding belly, holding him and my mother's hand s she died that morning, being along with him on the balcony in Duluth a few weeks later as H and R slept in our hotel on Lake Superior.
A couple moths later we drove back and forth again, ...every time stopping at our favourite pizza place in Grand Marais.

I guess that was the plan for Sunday - drive to the border, get what R needs to pick up from Ryden's, go on to Grand Marais, enjoy the ride, take some photos, have lunch, drive home...

I subtly tried to talk them out of the pizza place the night before by noting that Hannah has never actually eaten at Sven and Ole's (not my favourite pizza place in Grand Marais, but obviously worth a visit). 

I'm not sure what happened, but the closer we got to Grand Marais, the more anxiety I felt. Finn and my mother are there in so many ways. Lunches with my mother and an infant Hannah, Shakespeare festivals with my mother and a toddler Hannah. Finn's dragonflies, the shops downtown where I bought some of his first things the first weekend we were "openly pregnant."

It was awful, my chest caved in. I didn't want to get out of the car. Again I had to resort to concentrating on breathing, like Sarah and Robin teach me to, go somewhere else..., I can't breathe. It's so hard to breathe.

Without lunch or leaving the car we headed home quickly and silently. 

Nobody knows what to do with me; not even my own family. Hannah, always optimistic, always compassionate, always finds a way to peace. It hovers over her. It's why I believe in her, and know she's going to be okay. I've never known anyone stronger. She's a rational thinker with artistic dreams, and I know she's going to be a change maker.
I try to stay out of her way - and Rohan's - when I feel as low as I do now. It's pretty clear I'm on my own in this. I'd rather have Hannah enjoy memories of hockey games with Rohan than watching me cry alone in a bathroom.

When she tries to become a mother herself, will she be excited, or will she be scared? Her brightness tells me (hopes) she'll use that forever optimistic sweet girl and be excited. ...But, she'll feel the grief. It's probably going to hit her hard. That's why I have to be here for her.
But, what if I'm not? What if Rohan isn't? The what ifs are a part of every thought swirling through my head every day. What if only.., what if I just did this..., what if he only did that..., What if the universe decides to throw another hard-ball at me?
Could I keep standing?

Cinco de Mayo, Day of the Dead...., that was the day I was born. For me it's not a day of margaritas and tacos (um, Canadaian Cinco de Mayo), but a day that reminds me of who's not here. I don't want a party, I just want a hug. There's a feeling of doom, like something bad is going to happen. I want to hold everyone close, but instead I have to let them go because that's what they want to do, need to do... .

I want to disappear to heaven, to a forest, where I can find the people who've left me and stop being afraid for the people who are still here. I want to walk with my Dad again in the morning along the river. I want to not wish for the day to end when I see a sunrise.

Struggling, treading water alone, drowning in tears.

i hear my tears

My tears fall with loud plops and splats. I can hear them now whether they land on the scarf around my neck or on the ground by my feet, ...I hear them. They're the biggest tears I've ever seen. Once, on our way into Hugh's office, I heard one land on the floor and looked down to see the puddle it created, somewhat amazed at my new superpower: super tears.

Most of me is miserable. I still see beauty in nature, enjoy sunrises and sets, love a pretty flower..., but I'm sad. Sometimes I think I'm the saddest person on earth. I'm pretty sure though that every other grieving parent feels the same.

I'm forty-one today. On my fourteenth birthday my mother's mother died. Last year, three days after my birthday, my mother died. Sixteen years ago my father died exactly two weeks after my birthday.

It's not a good day. It hasn't been for a long time. To me, it's the funeral season. The smell of the air, the sight of things trying to green up..., it all reminds me of loss. People have no idea what sort of anxiety this creates, and what it means to the fear of losing more.

Add the overwhelming grief for my little boy, who should be nearly eight months old right now..., it makes me physically ache.

I can imagine his baby laugh, and him crawling in the grass as I plan our garden. I can see his face clear as if he were here - aged perfectly to this time. I'd like to think of it as him still being with me in some way, but what it really does is emphasize the fact that he's not.

sweet dreams my angel Finn

Good Friday

Yesterday's slushy snow storm turned to ice over nice; it was like a layer of fondant over an earth cake this morning as I left for yoga. I love it when the sky is bright blue like this - there's always a window of time in the morning and again in the afternoon when the sky is like this, best when there are some clouds I can slowly capture swirling around in it. This morning it looked as if the blue was reflecting all around, off the shimmering layer of frozen snow, and Finn's bedroom window.

my shadow
and the Wild Thing tree shadow
on the April 18 snow

It's been seven months since he was born. He'd be crawling, getting licked by dogs, sharing toys with the dogs, ...I'd have him in little knit hats found on Etsy - bunny ones I had looked at but not bought yet. I probably would have him dressed like a carrot at some point. Photographed and over-shared.

Yoga was probably never better timed; in spite of the beautiful morning I needed some extra inner peace today, maybe a little extra inner strength. Robin's understanding of anatomy and recovery is making such a difference in the on-going healing from the infection of 2009 that played havoc on my nervous system, but she's also finding and fixing areas troubled by scar tissue - related even further back to the rough recovery from surgery after my c-section with Hannah's birth. She gives me hope that I could be looking at feeling, physically, a lot better - for the rest of my life. ...Which is so important - now more than ever.

There is a huge part of me that is forever broken, 
always in need of healing, therapy, help. 
I believe I will be fragile forever, 
so I have to work a little harder at being strong, 
and control what I can. 

Yoga makes me feel in control of a body that is wanting to fall apart. As I'm gently moving my breaths around, muscles stretching and contracting according to my mind's motions, I'm able to let go ...weep, but still breathe. Being able to feel both relaxed and strong at once in a posture is the perfect balance.

at the top of the Bay Street stairs
slush, snow, ice melting
in morning sun

The other day I said to Erinn, "Sometimes I think he gave me wings." I look at photos of Finn, utterly amazed at what I grew, who I made, how brave he was... Some people live a hundred years and do very little, he lived ten days and changed the world in so many ways - for so many people. I wish he was here, but he's not..., somehow I have to learn how to be grateful for the time I had, ...look for him in the sky, and feel him in the air around me. He's there.

one of my favourite books on yoga:

Yoga Anatomy

Leslie Kaminoff

ISBN-10: 0736062785

ISBN-13: 978-0736062787

Little Magical One ~ Finn's Garden

I hadn't thought about the garden bed in front of the house, I don't even remember looking at it much until now..., didn't even notice how pitiful it was.
It came to me in an instant as I walked up the path to the front door the other morning on my way home from yoga feeling good and clear for the first time in days. It's going to be Finn's garden ~ below his bedroom window overlooking the Lake.

As it is now a nearly dead, over sheared cedar stands nearest to the front door, anchoring that corner of the house. It just has to go, ...sorry, to the compost. Two leggy, confused mugo pines are also headed for the compost, with whatever mystery spindles are left. There's some sort of lime-leafed spirea in the middle that I'm not sure what to do with - let it stay? Find a new garden for it? I'm not sure yet.
The rest is just empty, full of rocks... .

Finn's garden will be filled with soothing scents, healing plants, blues, whites, yellows, and crimsons, with meaningful names, and messages in flowers. The plants I'm sure will change over time, but as our grief grows so will this garden.

I've kept the one mugo pine that seems to be in good health in the plan, but I've replaced the cedar with a Picea glauca 'Pendula'..which Cathy is kindly sourcing for me. Heather has a beautiful one growing in her front yard, which I've swooned over for years. Though they originate in France, I think they look like neat versions of trees in Group of Seven paintings. 'Droopy Spruce' is what I've called them for fun..., but seeing as a giant black spruce or white pine are a bit too big for the space (a lot too big), the 'Pendula' is a good substitute. 

Baby Millar's Lady's Mantle is going to be taken from Pearl soon, divided and planted all over our new gardens. It will grow and spread, be divided again, given to friends, growing on and on. It was given to us from Chops and Patti, who wanted to buy us a plant to remember our first loss, after that devastating miscarriage ~ which was such a sweet gesture. Chops couldn't believe what I chose, as I carried the unassuming three leafed perennial around the nursery (Bill Martin's ~ before I worked there)... Perennials often don't look like much in their nursery containers, and at the time I think Chops worried it was an insignificant gift. 

I'll never forget the look on his face two years later when they were over for a barbecue, when he saw how the little plant had grown.

Alchemilla mollis has been a favourite garden plant for as long as I can remember. I love how the dew pools on the leaves, and the lemon-lime flower sprays are perfect for cut flower bouquets - like baby's breath... gorgeous.  

Little Magical One (from 2 March 2008) Alchemilla has long been associated with healing and alchemists. From an Arabic word, alchemelych, meaning alchemy; the plant is named so for its "magical healing powers," with folklore suggesting that even dew collected from alchemilla leaves has healing properties.

Also for tea, chamomile (I like the little pointy daisy-like heads of the German chamomile Matricaria recutita), and two of the David Austin roses Winchester Cathedral (to have a little of my mother and father in Finn's garden) and Heathcliff, lemon balm, echinacea, feverfew, and lemon thyme.

For blue, I'll plant a cranesbill geranium ('Johnson's Blue' is the usual go-to around here, but newer varieties have come along that just as blue, longer flowering, and less floppy...like, 'Rozanne' and another I can't remember by name right now..) and the purple leafed Geranium pratense 'Midnight Blue'..., also bluebells and forget-me-nots seeded beneath everything. 

The back border of the bed, with the chamomile and echinacea I'd like to plant so asters - so long as they don't get too crazy back there. Blue wood asters (A. cordifolius) and Heath Asters (A. ericoides) which will all bloom late in the summer, through Finn's birthday, my special September baby. 

For earlier in the season I've ordered some irises: 'White Wings' and 'Little Sighs', and I'm sure I'll find a few more. I haven't even started planning the tulip and daffodils that will begin each new year, but what I have in mind will be something special - from under the oak tree, across the yard and into Finn's garden I imagine a wave of early, mid, and late tulips surrounded by smiling daffodils.  

I'd like to include a lemony-buttery daylily - this may be the perfect spot for Double River Wye.., and some primrose (Miller's Crimson maybe). We'll see what sort of nursery finds follow me home this year.

surrounded by healers

I am surrounded by incredible healers.

It's no secret acupuncture - specifically acupuncture with Sarah - changed my life and my perspective of medicine years ago. The role she has played in these months since losing Finn have saved my life more than once. It's so much more than the magic she does with the needles, her understanding of Chinese medicine and ability to translate it as she works, the clear connections she can explain about anatomy, function, and emotions.
In my first weeks home after Finn died she would come over - I don't even know how many times a week..it's all a blur, but I remember her there many times at the side of my bed gently doing what she does, letting me cry, helping me breathe. The point on my foot that she worked her acupressure on is forever tattooed in her handwriting 'foot over-looking tears'...because after a few minutes of that I would drift into a dreamless sleep and find some peace for a few hours.

I still see her twice a week and probably always will. When her and Carrie move into their new, beautiful clinic I'll probably see her even more. I'm believing in a little bit of divine intervention in this Year of the Horse that has brought us back to one of my favourite places - Andy's old apartment, the same house where we had Hannah's baby shower, our favourite stoop.
There's more going on here that I can't say out loud yet, but is so exciting - good things happening to good people, good friends ....all connecting back to this park, PACI, that favourite old apartment, down-town PA...our stomping ground.. The new-old connections are goose bump worthy. My text messages are full of people saying, "Giddy Up!"

Waverley Park at 8:46am
on my way to acupuncture

ruby rubber boots
at the top of the
Bay Street Stairs

Sarah suggested I see Robin Faye for restorative yoga. This connection is probably more life changing than I think now..., I've only seen her a handful of times, but very much like when I first started seeing Sarah, I leave each time with an undeniable feeling that something has changed, ..something has been fixed. After my first visit with Robin I struggled to get back up the Bay Street stairs - my lower abdomen and pelvis were still so fragile. This week I practically ran up the stairs without even noticing my accomplishment until I halfway through the park. My hips aren't even sore.

I marvel because it would seem like I don't really do much in these yoga sessions. I've spent most of the time laying on the floor breathing - doing nothing.., she positions me, sometimes comes along and changes the positions, moves my legs and ankles around - does stuff to my right arm (a weird problem area). ..I just lay there, sometimes fall asleep, sometimes cry..

Like Sarah, Robin has a very peaceful presence, it's easy to feel comfortable with her. Added with her knowledge of anatomy and muscles (a massage therapist as well), the kind of treatment she offers encompasses body, mind, and spirit - much like acupuncture, that has changed me so simply but so strongly.

Waverley Park at 5:49 pm
on my way home from seeing Rodney

Robin and Rodney speak the same language. Lots of anatomy, connective tissue talk, and all the muscle partners and groups that interplay all over the body. Sarah told me I should see Rodney Puumula the very first time I saw her. I didn't listen... I mean, I've known Rodney for years.., he a great guy.., but I've been sort of afraid of chiropractors for a long time. I believe in chiropractic care without a doubt, and it has helped me in the past, but since the infection of 2009 the idea of anything moving suddenly in my back sounded like torture.

Not that his myofascial treatments aren't torturous in their own way (I've cried) - and laughed at my crying..(which is about the extent of the emotional element of this treatment) I finally started seeing Rodney a few months ago, and though I worry a little about how excited he gets about poking the sorest areas of my muscles, he makes it worth it. He talks about bikes to distract me. 

Jessica Carfagnini has her own shelf in our kitchen. A routine of vitamins, tea, and foods that are gentle on our fragile systems might sound like a good idea for anyone any day, but there's more to it - and I'm not sure how to explain it. The Chinese herbal supplements are no different than the teas - all made up of stuff \I grow in our garden, or ..more naturally along roadways, in fields, and along streams all around us. 

tbay street art 

at 8:48am and again at 4:31pm 

(I call him 'hooray it's spring guy' this year)

Rodney aside, I wouldn't know any of these people if it weren't for Dr. Atwood, who sent me to Sarah in the first place, convinced acupuncture was going to be the key in ridding me of that infection., among other things. She was with us through all our losses, with thoughtful calls to home and hugs before science. She was with all through my pregnancy with Finn, and there for him when he was born. There again for us when he died. 

She's with us again as we hope to ...try again.. and understanding in ways I could never publish. 

sunset and the Giant
8:32pm
10 April 2014

Someone told Rohan to find Hugh Walker..., Rohan was talking about him before I was even released from the hospital after losing sweet baby Finn. We've seen him for grief counselling regularly since.. 

Hugh is a difficult subject - not just because our sessions with him are absolutely soul splitting, but because I don't even understand what happens in those sessions. We go in not knowing what to talk about, sort of wanting to talk about everything at once but unable to say the words out loud. He knows the words we need to say - doesn't say them for us, but some how knows how to help us get them out. Revealing, heartbreaking, ...I still can't believe we have to be there, talking about our broken hearts being the parents of loss. Hugh understands the disconnect, and is slowly and gently putting those connections a little closer together.

As much as we are going through this together, Rohan and I are dealing with very different feelings of grief. That can make even being together feel lonely and scary sometimes - I don't know how to help Rohan, he doesn't know how to help me... or so we think, sometimes... It's like treading water together, trying to keep each other afloat; somebody's always sinking, or.. we're both sinking. Hugh brings us back to a place were we can both touch ground, still hanging on to each other.  

Each of these people play roles in our lives that can't be expressed properly in words. It isn't just their specific field of medicine they offer us, a little something extraordinary comes with them. We'll never be "fixed" or "normal" again, there will always be a need for healers in our lives. I hope to keep all of these people close to me for as long as possible. 

...and this doesn't include all the healing friends - Heather, Marie and Fred, Edie, Erinn, Jenn, Sheri, Andy and Karen, Cathy, Lori and all of BMN, Caroline, Shelly, Tanya for her courage in healing of another kind, Michelle from TheBump, angel mum Starlette, ...and so, so many more who have made it so we never feel alone. 

baking... who knew..

In one of the many stories of infant loss that I've read lately a simple story about potatoes has stuck in my mind. I wish I could link to it, but I've lost the story in links - when I find it I will. This mother wrote about trying to make mashed potatoes some time after the death of her infant daughter..., she peeled the potatoes then stood there staring at them wondering what to do next.
That really summed it all up.. use it as an analogy if you like, something so simple as making mashed potatoes, and not 'forgetting' what to do..but just not even understanding what you're doing - in the middle of doing it.

We decided sometime in November that if we didn't host our Christmas party - which had been a hot topic since we bought the house..., well, since the last Christmas party... We couldn't imagine a quiet house over Christmas. The house was already too unusually quiet. It still bothers me if the kitchen radio isn't on 24/7.. silence makes me crazy. I feared if we didn't jump back in and do what we wanted to do.., that we never would. I think Rohan and I would have been okay with never participating in life again, but we couldn't do that to Hannah. 

I knew well enough not to take on cooking much. Erinn was contacted immediately for baking, Maltese for their awesome trays of everything, Rohan - all too eager to be distracted by cooking meat over fire, and me..., I thought I'd bake a bit. maybe make a pan of spanakopita. Which people might think I accomplished.. but, no... no, no. no...

The meltdowns in the kitchen the week prior were something off Jerry Springer. I could not for the life of me understand what 1/4 cup meant. Cup of what?!?! What the heck is a 1/4? It was like reading Chinese. Worse, these were recipes from my own blog, recipes I've done so many times that I've decided to record it.. (the foremost reason being for Hannah, her virtual cookbook of her family favourites, for when she moves away..which is coming sooner and quicker every day..)

I couldn't work my way through a sugar cookie recipe, I burned anything that got in the oven (I don't even know if any of the baking actually did - that was just dinner..).. Truffles. People might think truffles are challenging, but to any baker we know these things are actually stupid-easy: melt chocolate, cool chocolate, roll chocolate, dip chocolate... The failed attempts at this process are embarrassing, the successes were triumphant. No one ever knew of the tears that went into the 100 or so truffles that survived my shaking hand. 

I haven't followed a recipe for my 'standard pan o' spana' in years, but the night before the party there I was downloading recipes, not understanding, crying, ..and if it weren't for Rohan helping to translate we never would have had any of it. 

I used to love cooking, trying new recipes, trying my own experiments - in baking and cooking.. It's not something I've ever found difficult. Stressful sometimes, challenging in all the ways I love, but never difficult.

So to be stumped by a 1/4 cup was ...I still don't even know the right word. It's the closest I can come to understand someone with a brain injury - trying to re-learn a language.. How do you learn something you've known forever but have never seen before?

Since then I've had months of digestive upset, lack of appetite, lack of interest in food.. I've tried to cook - boiled down and burned chicken bones, burned sweet potatoes, burned toast, burned rice, ...I made pancakes one morning - messy by applauded for flavour... burned more toast... I've managed to heat frozen things, and I made banana bread once. That's about it.. 

Then come garden season, which (to me) ties in so closely with cooking. We're planning our vegetable beds, and the addition of a wood fired oven ...and with that came searches for bread recipes, and sour dough starters. Then I imagine the herbs we grow being added to those breads and baked in the backyard...and suddenly I'm reading as many recipes as I am garden blogs, 

and what comes of that..?!?!

Today, out of nowhere, I get the urge to bake, and a  Butter Pecan Cake and my favourite bread soon appear on my stovetop..neither of which I should consume right now with my tender system, but Hannah will enjoy them, (and R too...). 

The Butter Pecan Cake was posted by

Brule Creek Farms yesterday. 

Andrea's recipes are incredible...they're always successful, and full of flavour. I don't even want to eat cake right now, but this recipe make me want to bake cake. And I freaking did! I still can't believe it. Granted, it's still cooling on the stove, and it's a little toasty...but damn, I baked, and I didn't burn it to an inedible crisp. 

It was hard to not think of baking bread when reading the Brule Creek recipes. My sour dough starter will use their rye flour, so.. I made some bread. It hasn't been baked yet, so it could still be added to the burn list, but today's efforts are about the most I've accomplished in the kitchen in months, so I'm going to give the dough some hope.

photographs and found treasures

The last few boxes surrounding my desk in the basement are in the process of being unpacked. Finally.
Most of what's left are boxes of photos that need to be dealt with properly, organized, and put in albums - I've slowly been compiling everything for that project..., which I'm actually really looking forward to doing.
Family suddenly has a whole new context, and our photographed story from my father as a child in Holland, my mother as a kindergarten teacher, my sister and I growing up, our weddings, our children... is something worth telling properly.

This morning was spent sulking, feeling sorry for myself, emotional, unable to even look at Finn's photos. I miss him so much. Some times(days, hours, minutes, moments) I'm able to hold it together, others ..not so much. I think I'm learning when to take a step back... let the grief do what it has to do.

There are times I can't read other grief stories, I can't bear how much I relate to them.., other times I can't tear myself away. Today I found my way to Mitchell's Journey, unable to look away from his father's story.
He speaks and writes beautifully of his son, but most important to me is the photographic story - and what he says about the importance of being a "paparazzi" in your children's lives.

I felt terribly guilty for dangling my iPhone over Finn from the moment we were reunited after his birth. The convenience of being able to take decent photos with a gadget that fits in the palm of my hand was too easy, and even more easy to share instantly with family and friends. I kept telling myself to live in the moment and put the camera down, but I didn't.
How grateful am I now that I have dozens of photos of him - photos in every outfit, at every time of day - and night, in the sunshine, with the dogs, by the fire, outdoors, indoors..., I captured every minute I could. Without those photos now - where would I be? From his growth inside me, to his precious ten+ days, I have it all on digital files, saved forever.

(Due to the mother-daughter code photos shared of Hannah must be approved by her - and for the most part they haven't been since "teen" was added to her age. ...but that doesn't mean I don't take them, save them, and have them all at hand.)

Chris Jones' story is important for another reason - as a father's journey through grief. His words are poignant, thoughtful and not held back by any tough exterior. I think it's often hard for father's to express themselves; Rohan has said a number of times how difficult it is to 'be the man' in this situation, hold it all together.. (...in those early days I don't know how he did it, while I lay motionless). So much of child loss and parental grief is focussed on mothers and how mothers cope. A father's perspective isn't something we've come across much, and certainly not one this beautiful.

Among the photographs and boxes of important things I don't know what to do with, I found some odds and ends of my mother's, some she intentionally left for me with messages scribbled on the envelopes, others just random things I ended up with - notes, drafts, notebooks she kept records in (she kept records of everything).
In a faded grey folder I came across a photocopy of pages from Dinah Shields & Edwina von Baeyer's book A Beginner's Guide to Gardening in Canada.

(von Baeyer's Rhetoric and Roses and Garden Voices being among my favourite garden reads..)

My mother's handwriting (in red pen - she must have been grading papers at the time) dates it 1992 ...
I know in the early 2000's she took a course or two in personal landscaping, hoping to do something pretty with her new construction home & garden - the work for which was put in me as hard labourer. She still didn't have a clue, but her determination was expressed clearly through likes and dislikes over my work. I am still being punished for planting purple (her least favourite colour) delphiniums in her front garden. (I thought they were blue..)
Though her enthusiasm for outdoor gardening may have been underwhelming, her indoor garden was always something spectacular. Also in the faded grey folder, a little pencil written note pulled from one of her many notebooks - on sprouting and growing avocados. My childhood memories of windowsills are not without a small glass of water with an avocado seed balanced on toothpicks half way in water, half exposed. I can't possibly imagine how many avocado plants she grew. I don't think any of them ever grew an avocado, but her plants were gorgeous.

Isn't it something that my mother the reluctant gardener was the first inspiration in my plans for our new garden.

Her Hansa rose will be among the first additions, but I've also just ordered some David Austin roses, a little tender here, but worth it even if for only one season. In my first garden I planted Winchester Cathedral - simply because I loved the fragrance of the blooms, even in the pot at the nursery. It wasn't until it was planted and I introduced it to my mother that she told me of how her and my father watched the changing of the bells at the real Winchester Cathedral while on a belated honeymoon (I think my dad was at a conference and my mother tagged along, but they called it a honeymoon... *academics*).
Ordered today is a new Winchester Cathedral, Golden Celebration, Graham Thomas, Jude the Obscure, and Lady of Shalott.
They're all of the hardier Davis Austin roses (famous for old world style and fragrance), but still considered somewhat tender here. I'm willing to take my chances. I'm eyeing up the sunny beds nearest the house for these, but that would involve the removal of boring shrubs..., which is a lot of work.

I see a lot of shuffling in our garden's future. The Reluctant Gardener pages my mother focused on were shrubs: flowering almonds, ninebark, burning bush... all of which are interesting, and worth considering for spots in this garden as well.

Rhetoric and Roses: A History of Canadian Gardening, 1900-1930
Edwinna Von Baeyer 1984
ISBN-10: 0-88902-983-0
ISBN-13: 978-0-88902-983-5

Garden Voices: Two Centuries of Canadian Garden Writing
Edwina Von Gal, Edwinna Von Baeyer, Pleasance Crawford 1995
ISBN-10: 0-394-22428-0
ISBN-13: 978-0-394-22428-2

Reluctant Gardener: A Beginner's Guide To Gardening In Canada 
Hoel Cooper, Edwinna Von Baeyer, Dinah Shields 1992
ISBN-10: 0-394-22233-4
ISBN-13: 978-0-394-22233-2

disorientation

morning sunlight

shining on

my angel baby

There's an absurd amount of effort put into suppressing thoughts and feelings just to get through every day, so much it is exhausting. I think it explains how Rohan and I are able to sleep at night, we're so drained, physically and mentally.

When we first started seeing Hugh Walker for grief counselling he made it pretty clear that there was no going forward until we were able to face, confront, deal with the images, flashbacks, and memories that haunt us most. I've tried, I really have - in so many ways I can't avoid it...

It's not easy; I fight it, play mind games to throw my thoughts somewhere else, but it all comes back to me one way or another. Not a day goes by with agonizing tears. I'm either unable to get off the floor or I'm locking it all up so tight I shake - I can feel it in my hands, and in my jaw when I try to talk. Leaving the house requires too much of me most days; I know I can't hold it together and the anxiety brought on just by thinking of having to say anything out loud or look anyone in the eye is an absolutely frightening feeling.

Every day I try to put Sarah's tools to work, the exercises she's taught me to take controlled breaths, to relax my mind and my body. I breathe deep and I try (so hard) to think of something else, think of myself as something else, somewhere else. I try to just think of my breathing - through my whole body like she's taught me..., but lately all I hear is Alejandra Ribera's lyrics, there's so much labour just in breathing lately...

It's all so exhausting. 

Too many competing emotions, all wanting to take center stage: grief (unthinkable grief), confusion (about everything from aforementioned grief to tying my own shoes - or skates), sadness (with me for life), loneliness (but not a kind anyone here can cue), anger (with no direction), disbelief, I could go on..., name an emotion and I've it. Each of them need tending to. 

There are times I feel happiness when I think of Finn or of being pregnant with him. It's a strange kind of happiness though, and I'm not sure I know how to describe it yet (brings us back around to that confusion).

The work it takes to concentrate on anything other than Finn, or Finn and my mother together is merciless, and I feel enormous guilt for trying so hard to get away from any thoughts of him. I just don't know how to get by otherwise...

With my mother, I'm not as conflicted; I understand why she died and as I've said before: we expect to lose our parents. I'm sad that she lost her life so early (she was only just 71) and I'm sad that she suffered in any way, but I understand why she's gone. What gets me all wound up is thinking about her and Finn - and the bizarre connection of profound life events they shared in 2013. 

Still, I can't help feeling like an orphan, an orphan and a childless mother all at once, overnight it seems. Learning to live with this uncomfortable empty feeling which I know is never going to leave me makes me I feel like I'm caving in on myself ...and starting to understand that this is simply the new me. I get these very brief moments of feeling ridiculously powerful for this, but those moments aren't often and I usually get rid of them pretty quick. The only powerful one here is grief. 

Time ever since Finn's death has gone by very fast (you'd think it would be slow...) I don't notice days going by, all the details just become part of the blur. Add that to the confusion. There is routine, sort of - I get up every day, I see H off, I stay up, I watch sunrises... 

It's hard to return to things I used to do. It's the messed up mind again: I can't remember basic things - like plant names.. ugh.. You'd think turning to gardening would be therapeutic - perhaps when I can physically do it, because mentally I'm lost. At H's birthday party I was talking to someone and blurted out a couple plant names, surprising myself, reminding myself it's there, somewhere. It's just all boggled up. I'm not going to stress it right now, just shelf it. We'll see what happens in spring. 

I still can't seem to cook or bake with the ease I used to. Part of it is a complete loss of appetite and a confused (there's that word again) palate. Everything tastes salty to me (no I'm not dehydrated) (deficient kidneys, yes), but bread and grains also taste off to me - and have since I started eating again after losing Finn. Everything changed. My postpartum grieving body is not accepting food with ease, more and more I'm starting the day throwing up; and the pain of digestion is causing me to ponder pros and cons of eating - usually resulting in a meal of water. I hate this. I used to love food.

In an effort to try to do something else (something different) I pulled out H's sewing machine yesterday - the one we gave her for Christmas a few years ago which I don't think she's ever used. Ahem.

I used to sew all the time, making quilts and clothes and toys for H. I thought maybe I'd try to make things - tangible things; I don't really know what's going to come of this. Staring down the machine's needle - a new to me machine, much fancier than the reliable (and heavy) (almost 50 year old) machine I inherited from my mother years ago (currently MIA) - I realized quickly that I have no idea what I'm doing. Google brought me to the 72 page pdf manual, which I'm convinced was written by someone who understands English as a third or fourth language. I think I'll get it though; it's a change of scenery but still familiar territory. My mother taught me how to sew.

I'm not entirely sure where to end this post...