The Message is in the Massage

When I was a little girl my maternal grandfather used to stroke my hair. He wasn't otherwise a very demonstrative man. And he was a man of few words. But, I would lay my head on his knees for what seemed like hours and he would run his long, work hardened fingers through my hair. It was bliss.

As kids, when we got sick or scared or anxious,  my mother would do the same. Lulling us into pain relief and comfort. She continued the family tradition with the grans, spending hours of quality time soothing them... loving them... with their heads in her lap. After she died, the only thing my son wanted of hers as a keepsake was the knitting needle she used to run through his hair.

Even today as adults, my father, though emotionally absent and rarely attentive when we were children will lovingly administer foot massages to my sisters and I upon request. Touch…. as a form of communication in my family... goes a long way. 

All of this is to say... and possibly explain why...  I love to be caressed, stroked, petted and hugged. That is, in a kind, non-threatening and non-sexual way!!  And... why my sister and I “massaged” our way through Southeast Asia! Body massages. Foot massages. Head massages. Thai. Vietnamese. Swedish. Therapeutic, Accupressure. Aromatherapy. Bring it on! I've had massages in India and Bali. Now Vietnam and... Thailand. My sister out did me by adding Cambodia to her list.

I arrived in southeast Asia with a notion… easily confirmed by Professor Google... that Asia has a long and respected reputation for massage, considered to be an essential part of maintaining a healthy lifestyle. Sex tourism aside… history and tradition tells me that most establishments providing massage in this part of the world do not exist just to provide happy endings!  Though sometimes, it’s hard to know for sure?  An American/Asian man called Tony posts a hilarious story in his blog about awkward, personal encounters he had with three separate and enthusiastic Vietnamese masseuses in Ho Chi Min City... aka Saigon... who assumed, incorrectly, that since he was a man he was seeking happy endings... when all he wanted was a decent, deep tissue massage. You can read his story... and laugh... at:
http://tonysvietnamblog.blogspot.com/2010/11/baby-massages-and-happy-endings-in-viet.html?m=1

Thoughts of shady happy endings did not deter my sister and I from getting as many massages as our trip schedule allowed.  By the end we'd had about a dozen… that’s almost one massage every two days. All administered by young, tiny, remarkably agile and acrobatic women.  Except for one! It wasn't until I opened my eyes…. well into my first massage in southern Vietnam.... that I realized the thin, child-like voice of my masseuse belonged to a tiny, agile and very beautiful young man.   

I quickly learned not to underestimate the strength and expertise of these fragile looking young Asian... women.... and men... of small stature with high, microscopic voices.  I can personally vouch for the fact that they possess brute strength and a skill that comes with sheer determination and will if not formal education. 

The massages I received involved full body contact whereby each encounter involved the masseuse getting on top of me or squiggling underneath me in order to heave me into a backwards posture that even my chiropractor would either envy or despair. That’s when the magic happened!  Just when I thought I'd be thrust into a state of backward vertigo... for which I’m prone…. for the first time in years... the tension in my neck released and my shoulders dropped. I’ve been home from this adventure 2 weeks and I still feel the relief.  Now that's the kind of happy ending I can really appreciate!  So…. note to self:  don't be deceived by diminutive size or child-like affectations. These young ladies… and men…. have the strength of an Amazon!   

This is my last blog post based on my escapades in southeast Asia.  It was a wonderful adventure.  Best of which was sharing it with my sister.  But, I doubt I’ll go back to that part of the world because I’m inexplicably and repeatedly drawn back to India.  It’s not the markets… which is a primary draw for me to visit any part of the world.  It’s not the textiles or jewellery… which feed my art and have inspired me since I was a teenager.  It’s not the people… who are warm and generous and curious and infuriatingly contradictory.   It’s certainly not the spirituality… of which I only see blatant opportunism and exploitation.  I'm drawn to India for the never ending, in-your-face, always inconvenient mayhem/pandemonium/bedlam.  India gives me a feeling of impunity.  It boosts my confidence.  It bolsters my self-esteem.  It eradicates my fears.  It makes ME feel like an Amazon!  If I can navigate India… especially on my own… I can do anything!  

Losing Men to Thailand

I'm obsessing... I know! But, it's hard not to! My first sightings of western men "hanging" with Asian women was at the very beginning of this trip to south east Asia. Although I've been aware of western men's evident attraction to Asian women ever since John married Yoko and... not long after, my own father married a Japanese women... younger than myself!... I hadn't given these unions much thought until my first arrival in south Vietnam where I observed a few white men with young, beautiful Vietnamese women in the Saigon airport. There was little to no evidence of these cross cultural unions in communist north Vietnam or in Cambodia. But, evidence is overwhelming here in Thailand. So much so that it leads me to wonder if Thailand's primary resource is women... and sex. And... if women... and sex... factor into the nation's GDP?

Even from where I lie now... on my chaise... on this tiny, rural, green, under developed, relatively non-touristy, beachy, idyllic island... Koh Chang (Elephant Island) in southern Thailand... evidence is everywhere. Single white men... hanging with each other... in couples, in small groups, in large groups... in droves!!! And, white men with Thai women. Everywhere I go!!! All ages. All shapes and sizes. Not just the old dudes!!! British, German and French being the top three tourist nationalities visiting Thailand...  in that order. (That's a fact!, according to a local Thai newspaper.) Not sure where North Americans fit into the numbers. We haven't run into any North American tourists so far on this remote island, south of Bangkok. But, I know they're in Thailand!!!

It seems to me that this apparent exodus... please allow my disparaging exaggeration!!!.... of white men folk seeking... what?... in the arms of seemingly child-like Asian women... contributes to a huge loss to white, western women... of all ages! And... to Asian men! Especially in a country like Vietnam, where men already outnumber women due to religious and political restrictions. (See my previous post titled The Floating Women for my ruminations on this dilemma.)

I'm trying real hard not to make judgements and assumptions here. But the nagging question is... why? Why do so many western men seek apparent escape from western women? I've seen more than one documentary about the sex trade in Thailand. But, is it just about the sex?
Thai women are far less sexy and mysterious and enigmatic and ethereal and feminine looking than Vietnamese women. And, I would say, far less beautiful.

So, why are so many western men drawn to women who are not from their own "tribe?" My recently abandoned heart wants to say it's all about the sex!!! But, my critical thinking mind suggests there might be more to these cross cultural unions than meets my wounded eye.

In an effort to be forgiving, compassionate and open-minded, my gut says it's not just about the sex. It's possible... even probable... that western men ... especially those suffering from arrested emotional development... are seeking something they can't get from independence-seeking, confident, ambitious, kick-ass, western women who are no longer willing to make the compromises necessary to "mother" their men. In terms of enlightenment and emotional ambition.... as the 1980's cigarette ad claimed proudly... "We've come a long way, baby!" Sadly... for us western ladies... we've out done most men in terms of enlightenment and emotional development. And...they... "our" men!... don't want... or don't know how... to equal the apparent imbalance of our dissatisfaction and expectations.

Is it fear? That they... "our men" will never measure up to our over zealous, perfectionist wants and desires? Fear of aging? Fear of loss of importance? Fear of loss of significance? Fear of loss of stature? Or is it fear... of fear?

With some obvious wisdom at age 39... our ambitious, Thai, female tour guide... her name is Tar...in Bangkok suggested an insightful, compassionate and forgiving perspective.  Based on her observations, western men are drawn to Thai women because they... the women... are raised to be subordinate loyal, devoted care givers. In her opinion all men... eastern and western alike.... want to be looked after... cared for... like children... and Thai women, putting their needs secondary to the men, do this well. In Tar's opinion, this is an exchange that Thai women... especially those from poor, rural families are eagerly prepared to make given that opportunities for their education and advancement are limited. For these women, their only marketable commodity is their willingness.... and need. Citing Thai/western marriages she knows of that have lasted some years, she doesn't see western men or Thai women, willing to exchange sex for security, as bad. She calls them all "special!" Thus raising the question, in my mind, as to her definition of special.  It's a naive, but generous and pragmatic perspective.  At this point it should be noted that as an educated women and youngest daughter, she has happily chosen her career.. and caring for her widowed mother... over marriage and caring for a man. It's good to know that Thai women... the educated ones... do, indeed have choices.

OK... no big surprises here! Given my knowledge... and assumptions... of how women take ownership... or not... of their independence on both sides of the cultural divide. Western women have born witness to a steady exodus... permission requested, again!... of their men i to the arms of Asian women for  decades. One might say it's all part of the global economic exchange. But, Tar's comments make for an interesting validation from the Thai, female perspective.

In all fairness, I do want to get a male perspective. I do want to know about this from the men folk. Not sure if they want to talk to me though. It takes courage to talk through shame and embarrassment. Especially to a woman... me!... still showing obvious signs of betrayal.

I can say that I know a Canadian guy... my age.. who married a Thai woman... not that much younger than himself... and had a daughter with her. The marriage ended badly. She betrayed him with a man from France. He was devastated, but quickly took up with another Thai woman. I lost touch with him when he closed his export business in Vancouver and moved back to Thailand full time. But, I can see from his postings on FB... and my point here... is that he spends alot of time with his daughter and seems to be a devoted, appreciative and proud papa. He got a daughter out of the deal.

During our time here on Koh Chang, our beach chairs are situated right next to an older German man and his Thai girlfriend. Neither speaks English. My first impulse was to say something disparaging and offensive to the man. But, I have to admit that as we try to communicate with smiles and fragments of English, I'm warming to them both. He seems caring towards her. And he speaks Thai! That goes a long way in my books. It looks like he's in for the long haul. It looks like he's made an effort?

I doubt I'll ever have answers to all my questions. I'll never know for sure what's going on in the heads and hearts of our men... because I don't think our men know themselves.  But... I will say this... it hurts to think that I, as a western woman, is being rejected by my own tribe for all the things I feel most proud of: confidence, maturity, financial and emotional independence, critical thinking, emotional intelligence, good health, good fitness... and more. Perhaps I'm taking this to personally. But, in North America... from my wounded perspective... it already feels like there are too few men to go around. Regardless of age! These sightings... here in this highly sexualized country... this loss... makes my loss hurt more!!! 

Sent from my iPhone


Sent from my iPhone

Loss of Pride and Shopping in Vietnam

In India where the colours, textures and silhouettes are irresistible to my aesthetic sensibilities....I've felt compelled to contribute amply to the local retail economy.  Indian handicrafts have beckoned me forever.  

Handicrafts local to Vietnam are rich and plentiful. There's tribal embroidery from the northern regions. Embroidered "paintings" that are so intricate you'd swear they were photographs, done by women everywhere. Rubies, sapphires and precious gemstone jewellery from all over the country.  (Gaining access to gemstones was a main reason why the French dominated Vietnam for centuries.) Wood and stone carving from the centre. Laquered accessories.. plates, jewellery boxes and such... from the south. Delicate blue and white porcelain is everywhere. As are folded paper cards so intricately cut, they are a feat of creative engineering. 

Nevertheless, on this trip I've not felt so compelled... to possess... as I did in my travels in India. Having said this though, I have made a few purchases... and  given my considerable travelling experience, it's humbling to confess that I've been duped to pay more... too much... almost every  time.  

Retailers here are a sly and crafty bunch! The currency, given that $1.00 CAD is equal to 16,650,000 Vietnamese dong doesn't make shopping easy. There are way too many zero's attached to even the smallest purchases and much of the currency all looks the same. 10,000,000 dong is the same colour as 100,000,000!!!! Local merchants know this and naive tourists... moi!!... I'm ambarassed to say!!!... are easy prey. 

My first purchase was a large box of roasted cashews that I had to have... at 9:00pm... from the night market in Saigon. I bartered with intended confidence...  but the transaction happened so quickly I lost track of the zeros. I'm pretty sure he got 50,000 dong (3.00CAD) more than the bartered price in the end. 

Having honed my bartering skills on multiple trips to India and Mexico... or so I thought!... and thinking that my cashew experience was enough initiation... I made another purchase in the market with renewed confidence soon after. This time it was 6 intricately embroidered bags... intended to be gifts. I bartered hard and paid $5.00 each. Only to discover later that I could have bought the exact same bags for $3.00 each in a shop close to our hotel. No bartering required!  Now my guard is really up! 

But, wait!!!  The most humiliating experience is yet to come. Despite being warned by our guide not to buy anything in a gift shop attached to the tomb of one of many diabolical emperors... I spotted a tiny, precious teapot carved in stone and embellished with ornate brass. It looks antique... though I know it's not... and I hadn't seen anything like it so far. The last thing I need is a tiny, precious teapot! But this isn't about need. This is about sentiment. The teapot possessed me!!! I gave in and with the cautionary words of our guide looping in my head, I thought I'd won the teapot for 1,000,000 dong ($65.00) less than the asking price. For about 24 hours I was pleased. Then, I saw exactly the same teapot... in fact many tiny, precious teapots... In the airport gift shop for a mere fraction of the price. I'd paid $50.00 CAD too much. Ouch! The teapot doesn't feel quite so special any more. The loss is to my ego as well as to my pocket book. I've put myself on shopping probation!! We'll see how long it lasts. 

Oh oh! Bangkok lies ahead!!

Sent from my iPhone


Sent from my iPhone

The Floating Women

I'm fascinated by Vietnamese women. Their ethereal, seemingly fragile beauty is most evident in their tiny voices, second only to their perfectly symmetrical, tiny bodies and... most of all their mystery and quiet, alluring sexuality. No wonder western men are intrigued by Asian women. Unlike western women who flaunt their in-your-face sexuality without discretion, Vietnamese women exude femininity and grace with enigmatic softness and ballet like movements. Vietnamese women don't walk. They float.

But, big social problems are evident because in Vietnam there are 30% more men than women due to outdated, patriarchal social and economic pressures on families to birth boys rather than girls. Plus a government induced mandate... though not enforced as it is in China... that couples have only two children. Social practises are changing but family expectations die hard and until recently couples, overwhelmed by poverty, lack of education and family pressures would abort their girl babies. Today Vietnamese doctors are not allowed, by law, to inform couples of the sex of their child before birth. 

And so, today,  there are more boys than girls. It's a social dilemma that there aren't enough girls for young Vietnamese men to marry.  Their problem is compounded by the fact that it is common knowledge here that ambitious, young, Vietnamese women prefer to marry European or North American men. Age doesn't seem to be a factor. I've been here less than 2 weeks and it's almost common place to see much older white men with young Vietnamese women. 

Of course there's nothing new about this. I get it!!  Old codgers suffering from arrested development and sexual insecurity who can only get it up for the pretty young things. And, I understand the time honoured and ancient exchange of sex for security. But, here... in the eastern daylight... it looks predatorial and creepy. And it does make me wonder what sacrifices... loss of culture, family, integrity and self-respect... these young women have to trade off in their bid for a tenuous security. What amount of loss and grieving do these young women have to endure to sleep with the old guy? And, that makes me wonder if these relationships can really last? But, then... maybe longevity isn't really the point. 

Forty Years Later... In Vietnam... on Phu Quoc

I first learned about the war in Vietnam from my mother when she took me to a peace rally to protest the war, on the grounds of the Vancouver Art Gallery.  It was 1969.  I was 15. My little brother was 5. I don't remember if my sisters were there. But I do remember there were lots of people.  Wearing black arm bands, singing protest songs that were popular at the time... and marching. Those were heady, hopeful times. And in the years that followed, until the war ended in 1975 and draft dodgers were pardoned by Jimmy Carter in 1977, I learned about the risks that many young... too young... American men... no, boys!... draft dodgers, evading conscription by escaping to Canada... were willing to take in order to exercise their politics, their religion, their anti-war convictions, their fear.  I even entertained the idea of marrying an American boy I didn't even know in exchange for his safety.  Yes... those were times of naive innocence... and ignorance. 

Ever since the American war... as it is referred to here.... on the other side of the world, Vietnam has been grieving. And so, I come here on the heels of my own grieving with a curiousity to know what fills the holes... both literal and metaphorical... of despicable loss the size of an entire country.  

I'm travelling with my sister. The one I've written about before. The one whose recently experienced her own losses... of the life changing, anxiety inducing, intestinal kind. Our last journey together was about enduring unexpected, knock-the-wind-out-of-me, shock. This journey is about finding gratitude for each other and forgiveness in ourselves. 

And so we begin on Phu Quoc island off the southern tip of Vietnam. Having been repeatedly dominated over centuries by entitled parties, notably France, the US and Cambodia. And... while still recovering from ghosts of the past. On this tiny isle... comes perfection... in process.  

My knowledge about present day Vietnam is minimal to none. What I'm learning is that some holes can be filled with tourism. The tourist industry here is still in its infancy but potential is everywhere. If you want to see a tourist mecca in the making, come here. The Russians have already discovered it. And although Russian tourism is down compared to recent years, due to a failing ruble, the second language here isn't English. It's Russian! US tourists are few. But we have run into some Canadians. And savvy merchants from Kashmir. 

So my advice is... come now!!! Before it's too late. Unlike Mexico it's safe. Unlike Hawaii, it's not converted by US commercialism. Unlike Europe it doesn't suffer from entitlement. The food is superb. The sea is warm. The beaches are clean.  Tonight we head back to Ho Chi Min City, aka Saigon. We'll move up the east coast to Hanoi. 

More stories to come. 

Rebecca's Hats!

Rebecca makes hats.  She makes colourful, whimsical, wild and wonky and fun… hats. She also makes leggings and scarves and dresses and other stupendous, textiley, wearable, wonderful things... that make my eyes sing and my heart dance. 

I don’t know Rebecca well.  But, I do know she’s one kick-ass woman. You gotta be... to make hats!  She's also a foster parent… of the magical kind.  Patient.  Tolerant.  Kind.  Loving.  And, most of all... funny!  You gotta be that too, to raise kids that fall between the cracks of other people’s lives.

I know for sure that she's kick-ass because her studio's messy and fun and full of colour and life and...stuff!  

I know because she keeps an old rusty wok full of wiggly things and decaying leaves and... more stuff... on hand in the very epi- centre of her studio… for dying.  Dying of cloth, that is!  Just in case!  Because you never know when you want something to look tea stained, old or rusty.  She creates beauty out of rust. 

I know because she knows… how to play… with... stuff!  Easier said than done when most of us take ourselves far too seriously. I admire people who know how to play. There's surrender in play.  

I know because she has the definition of a yurt posted prominently in her studio.   A much needed reminder when the grim matters of life take precedence. 

I know because she bought an old RV that she wants to turn into a teacup.  

I know because the day after she had a radical mastectomy, the same day she was discharged from hospital, she left her husband and decided to move to a smaller house. 

I know because she didn’t get her boobs rudely reconstructed after having them removed.  

I know because she’s looked death head on in the belly button.  She’s experienced loss and grief of the horrific kind.  And to that she says $#@&*!!!

I know because she lives her life outside the lines of obvious convention and conformity. 

I know because her life is her canvas.

I know because she makes me laugh.  Something i don't do enough of.  Thank-you.

I know because she makes hats!  

... In The Wings of Salvation, Part 2

A Story of Salvation Mountain…. Cont’d from my last post on October 16

It’s helpful to be reminded that from despair and loss and the void of grief…. comes ecstasy.  

Just a short 15 minute drive to the south/east of the Salton Sea, on the hem of Niland, CA and the… oh-so-attractively-named…  Slab City…. lies… in a splendid spray of colour and play and make believe…. Salvation Mountain. 

Leonard Knight was a man who lived outside the lines.  And… I like that!  Though not much is written about him, (you can check out his official website:  www.salvationmountain.us/),

I’m going to guess that he was a brave man.  A quiet eccentric. A man of few words.  But, a man with a lot to say.  He was creative, tenacious and passionately religious.  

In 1984, at the age of 50, when some people begin counting their losses, Leonard began a celebration of sorts… a party… in the building of Salvation Mountain, his all-consuming tribute to God. 

Long after the shores of the tepid Salton Sea started receding, the fish dying and resort towns such as Bombay Beach and Salton City were taking their last breaths, Leonard chose his site, just a few miles from a dying shoreline, to declare his love for Christ and the Sinners Prayer.  Using building techniques familiar to desert regions, he declared his determination to create a tribute to a power beyond that would endure the vagaries of time by building his very own mountain from adobe, straw and thousands of gallons of lead free paint. 

Leonard’s salvation covers an entire hill and rises with pride and conviction off the Sonoran Desert floor.  The structure, hinting references to Antonio Gaudi, encompasses numerous murals painted with Christian sayings and verses from the Bible.  This massive undertaking would consume Leonard for the rest of his life.  In 2011 he moved to a long term care facility with dementia.  He died in 2014. 

 It was Leonard’s hope that his message of love be seen by people from all over the world.  But, it’s not easy to find since there’s no signage to direct people to the site.  And, despite being proclaimed "a profoundly unique, strange and visionary national treasure" by the US government in 2002… in addition to being declared a “folk art site worthy of preservation and protection” by the Folk Art Society of America… the site does not receive any government funding.  It’s a group of equally tenacious volunteers who have taken on the task of maintaining Leonard’s legacy to this day.   And… more tenacious people find their way to the party.  Get yourself to Bombay Beach or Niland, and Slab City, CA and the locals will direct you.  http://www.salvationmountain.us/history2.html 

I don’t know what Leonard might have been escaping from in his life.  His brief biographies (www.salvationmountain.us/bio.html)  don’t mention his losses or grief or the aberrations of his life that might have brought him to the desert to live in his truck without water or electricity for 30 years.  But, he went to Slab City for a week, to build a monument, and he stayed.  I’m going to take liberties and say that he must have been escaping something,… either internal or external.  The reasons don’t really matter. What matters is his tenacious legacy of hope and commitment and determination that began when a short distance away, a sea receded and opportunity was lost. 

I hope my point is obvious.  From loss comes latitude.  From despair comes opportunity. From grief comes renewal.  From sadness comes blessings.  From depression comes ecstasy.  But, in order to achieve these positives one must have the courage to see.  And… not everybody does see.  The people who remain on the edges of the Salton Sea may not be able to see… for any number of reasons.  But, Leonard Knight… he, saw God.  He saw the party.  He saw salvation.  Within himself.  And, I think that’s kick-ass.  His tribute to God, regardless of one’s religious or spiritual affiliation, offers momentary delight, joy, hopefulness, exhilaration… and, yes…. ecstasy. Leonard saw what the salty patrons (pun intended!) of the Ski Inn cannot.   I hope to see my life like Leonard Knight saw his.

   

Hope Lies Waiting... In the Wings of Salvation

A Story of the Salton Sea, CA.  

My intent with this blog is to share stories about loss and grief and how women over 50 rise through and above and out and beyond… all of it.  I feel blessed to be connected to so many resilient, tenacious women who are living bold, dynamic…. sometimes messy… lives.  A brave life is always fraught with starts and finishes.  A brave life is always messy. 

In today’s post I ponder geography as a metaphor for messy... trumped by human spirit.  I’m taking a brief diversion from the human side to reflect on the loss of an entire formation by mistake, as a metaphor for the losses we all experience in life.  A geography that is both male and female.  And while loss turns to hope in perpetual waiting in one spot on the map, not too far away, grief finds… salvation.  

   

By the time we reach 50, the majority of us have experienced life changing disappointments at best, and heart pounding, gut wrenching losses that can leave us feeling bereft, vulnerable and depressed.  Loss is life.  No one gets off easy.  Loss comes in all sizes and forms.  There is no measuring loss… or grief. No one’s loss is bigger or better than another.  No one’s process of grieving is right or wrong.  It just is.  This, in itself isn’t remarkable. What is remarkable, is the resilience and tenacity of people… men and women…. who choose to move on with creativity, curiosity, courage….  and audacity. 

Last week, I visited the Salton Sea, located in southern California with a friend, I've had the privilege of knowing for 40 years and who I admire for her courage, curiosity and class …. among other things.  It occurred to me, as we tentatively wandered the stinky, abandoned, wasted shoreline along Bombay Beach that this vast, receding inland lake can be viewed as a metaphor for the circuitous path of loss and grief that all of us are destined to experience as we age. http://saltonseamuseum.org/salton_sea_history.html

Dead fish line the shores of the Salton Sea 

The Salton Sea hasn’t risen.  And, it likely won’t, as California state politicians necessitate managing the livelihood of California farmers battling 5 years plus of severe drought, a priority.  But, the history of the Salton Sea is a fascinating story about eccentric opportunities created out of human error resulting in loss of livelihoods and communities and ending in grieving of grand geographic proportions. 

A tiny bit of history… taken, with caution, from Wikipedia.  Fifteen miles wide and 35 miles long, the Salton Sea was accidentally created as a result of an engineering error in 1905, when efforts were made to increase water flow into an area for farming when irrigation canals were dug from the Colorado River into the Coachella valley.  The "sea" then was fed by three rivers, as well as agricultural runoff, drainage systems, and creeks. With an estimated surface area of 350 square miles (910 km²), the Salton Sea became the largest lake in California and had some success as a resort area in the 1950’s – 1970’s. 

And dead pianos!

However, due to the waters receding, resulting in increasing salinity and pollution of the lake over years from agricultural runoff and other sources, many of the settlements have shrunk in size, or have been abandoned.  Many of the species of fish that lived in the "sea" have been killed off by a combination of pollutants, salt levels, and algai blooms. Dead fish have been known to wash up in mass quantities on the beach. The smell of the lake combined with the stench of the decaying fish, also contributed to the decline of the tourist industry around the Salton Sea.  https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Salton_Sea#Subsequent evolution.  The increasing stench which is expected to get worse and spread over time could threaten property values in relatively affluent cities as far away as Palm Springs, Indian Wells, Rancho Mirage and La Quinta. 

Like other geographies ghosted due to various human atrocities, the stages of grief are evident… all around the edges… in the abandoned towns and in the people who doggedly stay put.  This isn’t a new story.  Cities, towns, neighbourhoods, communities, come and go.  But, as I reflect on the possible outcomes of my own personal and recent losses… yes, these days all roads do lead back to me!!!!… the Salton Sea represents a barely living, breathing vision of loss and grief in the stark pictures of abandoned homes and in the 9:30a.m. beer and whiskey drinking patrons of the Ski Inn bar in Bombay Beach who are still waiting for rescue. For these people, hope lies in their resilience for waiting.  But, mere waiting is never enough.  And, in this case, it is likely that adversarial engagement with politicians won’t be enough either.  The solution will have to come from accepting the losses of the past and moving on.  Literally.  And so it is for me.  Waiting for hopeful intervention will not be my story.  There is no rescue… except from within. 

Part 2 of this story…. In the Wings of Salvation…. In my next post. 

Mom and the Man and Plenty of Fish!

At the very end of her life, my mother, had a love affair.  She met him on “Plenty of Fish.”  She was 76, he was 84.  I’ll take credit for being the facilitator of this twilight union because I wrote her profile.  But the rest was all her. 

Mom was pretty and cheeky and a kick-ass girl.  She viewed the world from the left side.  She rallied after divorce from my father in 1970 by attending university to achieve a degree in anthropology.  It wasn’t such a common sight in those days to see a pretty, young single mother of 4 taking fulltime classes and writing exams.  Several years later, from her perch as a career counsellor at the newly minted Malaspina College, she founded the first women’s centre in Nanaimo.   A heady and hopeful project in a time of renewed feminism. 

Mom was an ardent cheerleader for lost souls… men, as well as women…. and she frequently offered emotional and practical shelter to others who needed a pit stop.  This included our friends when we were growing up.  I remember living with my best friend in a canvas tent in our back yard because the bedrooms on the inside were full to busting.  Our home was a melting pot of creative activity and uncommon liaisons.  Growing up in a time of social experimentation, this all felt very exciting.  Upon reflection, however, I think it was also just abit confusing.  Boundaries were vague.  

  

Twenty years later, after she retired from the college and a years or so after her second husband left... suddenly… as too many men do….with merely a note to punctuate his departure….she embraced the residuals of her loss and grief with volunteerism and off-the-beaten-track travel.   Donning her anthropology hat, Mom volunteered for a non-profit organization, Global Village, that sought to find western markets for third world crafters.  She also volunteered for CESO… Canadian Executive Services Organization. The two jobs, together, were a good pairing. They provided her with free travel to countries and places other people had barely heard of as well as opportunities to seek out crafters in need of a market. 

Her first trip for CESO was to Sierra Leone.  Thankfully, before civil war ravaged the country and the people.  The project was to develop college programs for women.  From there she went to Bolivia, Guyana, Guatemala, Kyrgysztan… a country I’d certainly never heard of before…. and Skoocumchuk, B.C.  All of this when she was well past the age of 60. 

Canadian Executive Services Org 

Despite all of her extreme travel and academic achievements, she still identified herself through her relationships with men.  She also had a playful, almost child-like quality about her that got lost in the seriousness of her disappointments with them.   So, as she resisted aging, it was good to see her giddy and hopeful with the anticipation of a last love.   

Sadly this last relationship did not end well.  We know now that at the end of her life she had “global deterioration of the brain.” A condition that brought on intermittent dementia-like, disinhibited behaviours, such as appearing in my kitchen one morning fully dressed… except from the waist down!  A mental image of which she thought was hilariously funny.  Her man, however did not.  They had just returned from an arduous 5 week trip to his native country of New Zealand.  An episode similar to this had happened at a public pool in Christchurch.  In all fairness to him, I think he realized he was taking on more than he bargained for.  He, afterall, had his own issues of aging to deal with.  The relationship ended soon after…. with evasiveness and a Valentine’s card claiming friendship, not love.  Even from dementia Mom recognized the tone.  She was dumped.  She was crestfallen. 

Six months after her return from New Zealand, Mom died suddenly of a massive heart attack.  No notice.  No sentimental good-byes.  No long, drawn out illness.  I think my brother was right when he said at her memorial that she chose her time.  She did a scan of her circumstances after reluctantly moving into an assisted living facility.  Living among "the inmates," as she called them.... she measured her heart from the inside and her future opportunities. They didn’t measure up.  And so, she checked out… on her terms.  With courage and decisiveness. She was a pragmatist.  But, I’m pretty sure Mom died of a broken heart. 

Adrienne Marjorie.  You are missed 

Happy Birthday, Mom.  September 28.    

Point Roberts, WA.... A Short Nose to the South

Photo by J Stephen Conn 

I have a friend who says that Point Roberts is for people in the “witness protection” program.  She may be right.  Because in every sense of the word it’s off the grid of normal, urban want and expectation.  A tiny nose on the map, just south of the 49^th parallel, it’s easy to hide out there because no one’s watching. 

Mount Baker to the east 

If you’re American it’s difficult to get to because it’s cut off from the mainland.  Unless you travel by boat, you have to cross through two borders.  If you’re Canadian, you can’t live there for more than 6 months and, for those acclimatized to overstimulation, there’s not all that much to do.  No more than the size of Stanley Park, it’s dominated by trees and light and bounded by the border to the north and the sea to the east, west and south.  It’s kind of like living in a large, gated community.  These are all the reasons why I love it.

Point Roberts dwells in another time.  In another dimension. It’s surrounded by beaches and grass and it’s predominantly woodsy and rural.  The sun shines there when it’s raining in North Vancouver.  You can buy over an acre of waterfront with a view of Mount Baker for way less than a mil. Hell!!!…. you can buy a wooded lot there, that perks, for $25,000.00!!

Lily Point

There’s only one grocery store and the top selling items are cheese, chips, pop, beer and wine.  There are four restaurants and the service is lousy.  The one remaining bar… albeit seedy, (the scene there changed decades ago when Vancouver licensed liquor sales on Sunday), poised by the waters edge, with a view worth buying a beer for, is benign and non-descript.  No more Sunday strippers.  No more pull tabs.  No more dated rock and roll.  

The “downtown” core is dominated by gas stations and mail boxes.  The only thriving businesses are thanks to gas prices in Canada and to Ebay and Amazon.com.  The community newspaper is not threatened by the internet.  The tiny library… for reasons I mentioned in an earlier posting…  is the best in the world.  People still read there.  One quaint little church, though marked Lutheran, is mostly multi-denominational.  The annual garden tour is abit cheesy.  There’s no mall.  No theatre. No traffic lights.  No traffic!  Hallelujah!  Cell service is iffy.  For all of these attributes, it’s the best kept secret in the Pacific Northwest.  And it’s only 50 minutes due south from my front door. 

It’s here that my ex-partner and I shared a modest, little house on the beach.  For 22 years we watched the sunset and BC ferries tenaciously ply the Juan de Fuca strait.  The kids, however… mine and his…. never bonded with it.  Not enough to buy.  Not enough to do.  Too sleepy.  Too quiet.  Too boring!!!!  Two years ago we stripped the lot and began building our dream house.  A project I thought he wanted.  A project I thought would take us into old age.  A project I thought would bring all the urban family ADD’s together.

I’m reclaiming Point Roberts, the place, the community... on my own terms.  I'm putting the past behind me and I’ve decided to feel safe there.  I cross the border and I’m enveloped by nature and familiarity and simplicity and community and friends and a time gone by.  I’m going to build my own house there.  A tiny one.  In the woods, but close enough to the sea so I can smell it.  And, big enough for me and my kick-ass friends to create new memories… with love and spirit and soul.  For me, God lives there.