by Donna Bishop
“Me too.” Then Liv’s face brightens in a smile. “I have something for you too.”
Now it’s Liv’s turn to leap up. She emerges from the house with a large bundle wrapped in flower-print fabric in green and rose pink, tied with a large blue bow. She places it in front of Celeste.
“You’ve done so much for me, not only as the best friend anyone could ever hope for, but as a guide through all our sessions. I wanted to do something for you that would reflect that.”
Celeste pulls the bow. The fabric falls away to reveal an intricate quilt. The design is random, a mosaic of fabulous colour and textures.
“I call it the Wyrd Quilt.”
For a moment Celeste is speechless, then she spreads the quilt before her. “It’s gorgeous Liv! I’ll always treasure it!” One patch catches her eye and she inspects it closely.
“Hey — I remember this! Isn’t this the fabric we tie dyed and made those terrible-fitting skirts from?”
“Yes! They were awful but the colours are pretty! And see here, the striped pieces are from that purple dress of Rebecca’s you gave to Molly. She loved it. And these yellow ones are from the Batman shirt Micah wore every single day when he was four. I even put in one of Ross’ shirts.” She points to a square of green tartan flannel.
Despite the warmth of the day, Celeste spreads the quilt across her lap and inspects each section, trying to identify each of the fabrics. She gently touches a square of thick white cotton, embroidered with a blue and yellow butterfly motif.
“Your grandmother’s, right? This is fantastic — it’s literally your life rendered in fabric. It’s appropriate that the prevailing colour is blue, with all these denim pieces.”
“Those were my old jean overalls.”
“Oh my God, Liv, you didn’t cut those up, did you? Your Little Mountain signature look!”
“Well, they were totally faded, ripped and worn through. I couldn’t see me wearing them to college or my new job.”
They sit in silence, admiring their treasures. The gifts are an acknowledgement that this will be Liv’s last day on the farm, their last day as neighbours.
Celeste reaches for Liv’s hand. She gently opens her fingers and places the cool soapstone in her palm.
“One more time? It occurred to me that we could go forward and get a glimpse of what’s to come.”
Liv feels a rush of apprehension. Nothing in her life so far has been easy and there’s no indication that things will change. She considers saying no, but she trusts Celeste. This is the logical last installment of the journey they began last summer.
“Okay.”
Celeste drapes the quilt over one of the chairs and bids Liv to sit.
“Once again, my friend, follow the trail to the ridge, and down to the water’s edge. Count the trees you pass…Ten, nine, eight…look to your future…seven, six, five…follow your blue cord…four, three…to see what will be…two, one.”
26
~ Casting Forward ~
Session No. 13 transcript, June 13, 1988
Liv, 2010
My feet are floating as I steer down the trail to the extreme right. It’s rocky and steep, and as I walk a fog envelops me. It smells of the sea. I choose my steps carefully. At the bottom, my feet land softly on an expanse of fine, grey sand. It’s a beach in a quiet bay. The tide is out, so the ocean glints in the distance. Down the beach beyond the pier, I see some people, so I move toward them.
Gulls wheel overhead, making me think of Hannah. I see a magnificent white boulder on the foreshore. I know where I am.
The sound of children’s voices draws my attention. There are several children, from toddlers to young teens, and a couple of sets of parents.
“Grandma!” a child calls. She’s clutching a kelp pod, running up the beach to a woman who sits on a log. The woman leans forward, laughing.
It’s me. My hair is shorter, cut to shoulder length and partially white. I have wrinkles at the corners of my eyes, but it’s me.
I recognize Molly beside me—gorgeous Molly, all grown up. Her hair glows like burnished copper in the afternoon sun and she’s deep in conversation with a tall fellow who doesn’t take his eyes off her. The angelic little girl who brought me the kelp pod, turns cartwheels in the sand yells, “Look Mom,” and Molly smiles and waves at her.
Micah — a grown version of my mischievous but sweet-natured son — bounces a baby on his hip nearby, while a small-framed, raven-haired young woman reclines against a rock, smiling at them. And there’s Leah, gloriously pregnant. Her porcelain skin and red lips suggest the earlier era of Grace Kelly or Audrey Hepburn. In baggy white shorts, t-shirt and a pink baseball cap, she’s laughing and helping a couple of adorable little girls put the finishing touches on a sandcastle. These are my grandchildren-to-be and my heart is already exploding with love for them.
There’s a man beside me on the log, but as hard as I look, I can’t distinguish his features. He has a lovely, warm energy, and seems to be very much connected to me. He’s chatting with yet another man and woman, both young. They have a certain familiar ease with each other and are clearly enjoying the day. Strangely, I can’t make out any of their faces — they elude me.
It’s enough to see this older version of myself reach out to touch him and look into his face. We lean toward each other comfortably and kiss.
I feel myself being pulled back — it’s like I have no substance — I can’t resist. I’m being drawn back, away from this future life by some gentle, invisible force.
Liv opens her eyes and they’re shining.
“That was amazing! What a crazy feeling to see all of us in the future, the kids all grown and are seemingly strong, with their own lives. Suddenly it all seems possible.”
“Wonderful, Liv. I had a feeling you would find a hopeful future. You deserve it.”
They decide to walk down to the river together. The water is high, so they stay well back from the bank and watch the deep chocolate water move past swiftly, relentlessly, carrying branches and debris.
There is a sense of finality for the two friends. They will never be closer than they are at this moment.
27
~ Weaving it into the Wyrd ~
October 14, 2016
Lounging in the shade of a massive green oak tree, I look out over the valley and the small village of Mukteshwar in the Himalayan foothills. The tree’s deep shelter from the burning sun is cool and so welcome. My muscles ache — for the past two weeks our non-profit crew has been stacking bricks and passing buckets of cement to build the second floor of a women’s shelter — and yet, I feel absolutely and perfectly content.
The scent of wild jasmine and roses, topped with a hint of nag champa incense and wood smoke, is intoxicating. Today, I am free to indulge in being pensive. It’s my birthday.
Four giggling children play nearby. They cast shy brown-eyed glances my way. Soon they begin testing their English: “Hello, lady friend.” They’re hoping I’ll play a game with them, and normally I wouldn’t be able to resist their cuteness, but today, I’m giving myself the gift of solitude for a couple of hours. My wonderful husband of twenty years, Liam, is back at the mountain lodge, arranging my birthday feast and Bollywood dance bash. I don’t love parties, but I do so love the people planning this one, and there is no saying no to Indian hosts!
I’m looking back on the first thirty years of my life, pondering the second, and hoping the third thirty will play out in full. Funny how I have come to see my life in thirds. It almost feels like the first segment happened to a different person — like a past life — and, in a way, I suppose that’s true.
Moving like a single, squirming entity, the village children come closer and present me with a crown they’ve woven out of marigolds. I place it on my head and say, “Khush raho,” which translates as “Be happy.” They laugh and scamper around me, but then a woman’s voice calls out and they quickly run off to their family huts, probably for their midday meal.
&n
bsp; The scent of the flowers and incense leads me into a thoughtful state and I begin to delve into my memory and consider my experiences, good and bad. Collectively, they form a huge swath of the fabric of my existence, and today I’m taking out that large, colourful tapestry, dusting it off and having a good look, to make sure the threads are properly woven into the Wyrd. Not that I plan on dying anytime soon, but one must be prepared. One never knows when Skuld will come to tie off your threads.
My grandmother Olive had a saying she loved to use: “A stitch in time saves nine.” As a kid, I wondered what the heck she was talking about, unless it was actually a hole in a sock she was mending. Of course it had a much broader meaning — you shouldn’t procrastinate, and you should keep your things in order and your life on the right track. How I wish she could see this shelter we’re helping to build for women and children in need of protection. My grandfather died at age forty, leaving her a widow with two young daughters, my mom and my aunt. Grandma fell into a second marriage with an abusive man. She was able to extricate herself after two years and made no bones about her conviction that being on your own is way better than selling your soul. It must have driven her crazy that my mom stayed with my dad. It was obvious Grandma didn’t feel much more than contempt for him.
She loved her adages, that sweet woman. One of her other favourites was: “Where there is love, there will be pain” — a sentiment I feel is so true. To experience deep love is to make yourself vulnerable to the possibility of pain. I think of the poem Ross quoted so dramatically, and interpreted so falsely, in the psych ward on the day my first marriage ended.
Look deep into your heart and you will find that which has brought you the greatest joy will also be what has caused your deepest sorrow.
Those years with Ross were some of the best of my life — they brought me three children who have grown into kind, intelligent, loving adults with children of their own. Those years led me to the realization that I needed to heal from my childhood trauma. Had I not been pushed to move forward, I may not have. Yes, there are some dark patches on this part of my tapestry — some places that look a little worse for wear, with intense and discordant colours. Still, they aren’t pieces I would discard, even if I could. To be honest, I would hesitate to cut out even the worst moments of my life. I would rather mend my tapestry than have big holes in it.
Undergoing hypnotherapy while concurrently dealing with a marriage breakup would not be something I would have recommended to my counselling clients over the course of my career — yet it somehow worked in my life at that time. Celeste knew that. Thirty years later, she’s still my dearest friend, and still practicing hypnotherapy.
It doesn’t matter how you heal. It only matters that you do.
For me, it seems I needed to come fully undone, quickly and all at once, in order to morph into the person I was to become. Pulling off the Band-Aid, so to speak, allowed me to look at the pain I’d stuffed away since childhood. The past-life regressions helped me to look further back to my ancestral and spiritual roots and find the essential understanding my immediate family wasn’t able to provide. Whether imagined, symbolic, or real, the characters in these stories gave me hope that I had the strength, resilience and deep, true, love within me to cast off the negative and choose a new path.
Bouncing around with Hannah in the North Atlantic, I learned we can recreate ourselves in the face of adversity. I learned that our distant family roots, as well as something that might be called our chosen spirit circles, can strengthen us and help us grow, or sometimes lead us awry.
Each of the past life regressions felt real to me. Just as genetic traits are passed from generation to generation, I now believe a kind of cellular memory, or consciousness, transfers from spirit to spirit.
When Ross and I went our separate ways, he took his faithful Labrador Ruby and together they made new adventures. I said some really hard goodbyes to my friends in Little Mountain and moved to the city to recreate our life as a family of four. I went from being a married farm woman to an urban, single, working parent and a full-time social work student. Moragh was with me at that time. I called upon her strength and independent spirit whenever I was struggling with self-doubt or life just got too hard.
Living in a funky two-bedroom rental suite in a rickety old heritage house, Leah, Molly, Micah and I found our way in our new life. While I grieved the serenity and constant beauty of country life, my friends, my animals and our lovely piece of land, I was stimulated, excited and busy beyond belief with college, work, getting the kids adjusted and going to group therapy at the sexual assault centre. I also had my romantic adventures — in retrospect, it probably would have been a good idea to put that part of my life on hold and just patiently wait a mere five years for Liam to arrive. But hormones.
Friends from Little Mountain would visit and maybe spend a night or two with us. We would stay up for hours after the kids were in bed, talking, sharing a bottle of wine or a pot of tea, but always laughing. They encouraged me to regale them with tales of my often embarrassing and usually hilarious romantic entanglements.
Leah, Molly and Micah struggled with our new life at first, but proved they were just as resilient as I had hoped. They didn’t see their dad very often — not surprisingly, he didn’t find peace working as a shepherd on a remote island. He was never the same after his hospitalization — in a short time, he lost not only his family, but his career. Teaching had become entirely impossible, and the college administration forced him into an early retirement. He bought himself a fifth-wheel trailer and moved around, eventually ending up in the Kootenays, where he had been born and raised. Even though his new gypsy lifestyle was his choice, or perhaps his illness’s choice, I think losing his career and leaving his family ripped out a big piece of his heart and spirit.
Without medication, he had more lows than highs. This compelled him to seek out more drugs and alcohol, chasing down his earlier highs. Even though he still possessed enough charm to get women into his bed, he seemed to have lost the ability or the desire to keep them there for long.
When the kids did see Ross, he was unpredictable — sometimes he was high as a kite and keenly interested in their lives, really wanting to be their dad, while at other times he was wrapped up in some completely off-the-wall project and oblivious to their company. They craved his love and attention, but were less and less willing to enter the uncertainty of his world. All three suffered because of this, as did he.
Once, he sent them home by Greyhound from the Gulf Islands by themselves, rather than driving them as we’d arranged. They got on the wrong bus at the ferry and ended up lost in Vancouver and called me from a pay phone, upset and scared. After that, I didn’t allow him to make the travel arrangements and I didn’t encourage visits, no matter how much I needed a break. But I couldn’t bring myself to deny him access altogether. Despite the pitfalls, I knew their visits gave the kids the sense that he truly loved them.
As I worked my way through my social work classes, I learned I was actually putting my children at risk by letting them be alone with a mentally unstable, addicted, alcoholic parent. Oddly, that hadn’t occurred to me until then. I knew I was terrified the whole time they were with him, but it didn’t occur to me that I could say no. I still had a lot of work to do in that area. They started saying no themselves once they were old enough, but they felt guilty about it, and so did I.
One of the Mukteshwar Lodge staff, Anil, has spotted me and approaches quietly, wearing a bright pink “I Love New York” t-shirt, carrying a tray. I look up and yet again I’m struck with wonder at the gorgeous backdrop of distant snow-capped mountains against the bright blue sky. My favourite Himalayan mountain, often shrouded in fog, is revealing her beauty today. She is Nanda Devi, which means “Bliss giving goddess”, and the second highest peak in India. I swear the cool, delicious breeze drying my sweaty brow is coming directly from her, several hundreds of kilometers away.
“Tea, Madame?” Anil asks — inter
estingly, he bears the same name as the boy in Veda’s story. Anil’s soft voice and the aroma of the sweet chai and spicy samosas bring me back to the physical world for a few moments. I stand to stretch and thank him as I receive the colourfully painted wooden tray of goodies. He’s even placed a fragrant orange rose beside the plate. He says, “Happy birthday, Madame,” in perfect English, before shyly turning away to leave.
After my snack, I recline on the thick cotton blanket and let my eyes close. Looking back can be a bit tiring — plus, I’m sixty now and can have a little nap if I want to. I drift in and out. I hear the brook bubbling in the foliage nearby. Does it trickle toward the life-giving Ganges? I remember my surprise when I first saw that river and it reminded me of the silty North Fork River, which flowed past our property in Little Mountain. The colour of the water had a remarkable quality — it looked solid and impossible to gauge from a distance, transparent up close. Like human beings.
I’ll never forget the feeling I had when the Honorary Chancellor of The University of Victoria, a First Nations elder, gently tapped my head with the mallet and whispered something in his language, Halkomelem, bestowing my degree. With that cherished tap, I felt I had been honoured with something far greater than a degree. It was an acknowledgement of trust in my ability to help other people with their struggles.
Looking into the audience, I beamed as I accepted my certificate, and I saw my people — Leah, Molly, Micah, Mom and Celeste. They shared my pride in that moment. This was the payback for the years when my studies made me less available as a mom, daughter and friend. I often had to take the kids to the college with me when I had evening classes, as I couldn’t afford a babysitter. I’d tell them they had to quietly play in an empty classroom, do their homework or read a book. If they were able to get along and not cause an uproar, I would give them each a dollar. Most times, they were stellar. Once in a while, they weren’t and I’d have to leave my class, red-faced and embarrassed.