Gifts

By Pam Hadder

"Each of us has cause to think with deep gratitude of those who have lighted the flame within us" - Albert Schweitzer

It's been a long haul, but as convocation draws near I find myself pondering the meaning of it all - beyond the coursework, content and theories; what did I really learn?  It is said that no one can steal from us the things that we commit to memory, but I also recognize that those things we cherish the most are much more than any factual knowledge!  Larger themes have bloomed and overlapped: indigeneity, human history and the power of inter-connection - transporting me to vistas I could not have imagined.  

I have been thinking about a friend's remarks on higher learning.  I congratulated her on pursuing her masters degree and she said that the more she learns, the more she realizes how much she doesn't know! As I prepare to celebrate my graduation, I feel the same sense of joy mingled with deep humility.  I am deeply grateful for the loyal few who encouraged me, and did not belittle my musing - their influence and support have been immeasurable gifts. My world is altered, perceptions heightened, and I have the tools to address any impediments that cross my path.  However, I recognize the necessity of continual learning, and I am eager to pursue new academic goals.

Learning is often taken for granted, but it is a privilege to which not every person has easy access - I faced many barriers; without the support of others I could never have been successful.  Even within my program I faced constant challenges - for example, required electives which seemed irrelevant and that terrified me: "I can't believe I have to take this course - oh my God, this is way out of my league!" Interestingly, it was these "tough nuts" that left the deepest impact. Additionally, by overcoming my fears and objections, I began to recognize that beyond any external factors, my greatest limitations were self-imposed! Ultimately, however, the things I resisted the most became my treasure chest and my fortress, reshaping my self-view, inspiring my heart, and replacing voids with bridges to hope and increased understanding. Looking back on my childhood and young adult years, I can now see how I have allowed naysayers to destroy my aspirations. 

This time of learning has breathed new life into me, and has firmly nudged me back on my path. I know that I want to keep on learning. I know there are more obstacles than scholarships. And most of all I know that I have value, purpose, a place, and a voice - I want to make the most of every day that I am given. Each day is a sacred gift that is beyond value; infinitely precious, and all of the people we interact with, the choices we make influence outcomes far greater than ourselves. Looking out my window at a bleak, grey sky, I don't see hopelessness any more - I think of this Earth, its beauty and its people. I imagine the potential and happy tears well - oh, my feet are restless!

Scentimental

By Pam Hadder

So what does Salvador Dali have to do with my daughter? Well, it’s complicated – a story made of sensory impressions, passed from father to child; from grandfather to granddaughter. It’s illusory and yet obvious, and it all started with a spritz of cologne.

My daughter’s birthday just passed.  I can still remember the moment she was born – how small and still she was.  They say newborns can’t see that well, but her dark, almond shaped eyes bored into my weary hazel ones with the intensity of a very wise old soul.  She didn't cry; she came swiftly and peacefully out of my body and was gently sponged, swaddled and placed against my breast – a textbook, natural birth. Now she’s a twenty-something and Momma is just a strange aging creature that she has little time for – I think I am her worst nightmare; everything she doesn't want to be.  She constantly talks about how cool her friends’ Moms are, and I feel my motherhood slowly melting away like a sugar cube in hot tea.

Needless to say, she’s hard to shop for – I have walked countless miles and scoured shops for the perfect little something for all those birthdays, come and gone; something precious and pretty that she would wear and remember my love. Failure after failure, but I just keep on trying and blowing it –frankly, if I hadn't witnessed her coming out of my body, I’d swear there’d been a baby swap!  But she’s all mine – people tell me how alike we are, but I don’t see it.  I do know that I was not close to my own Mom – I love her, but I always fell short of her standard; I didn't measure up.  To this day, my Mom hugs me dutifully, and I have described her limp embrace as like having someone drape a light cardigan over your shoulders. 

Back to the birthday – I bought my daughter a handmade leather and crystal rocker-style wrap bracelet, and I found a card that played Frank Sinatra (she’s in love with him). And I put some cash in a tiny gift bag.  I knew she’d put on the bracelet once and never wear it again – after all it came from the leper known as MOM, but I wanted her to have something to open. I was right – she did try it on and thanked me, but I found the bracelet in its velvet pouch sitting in the living room the next day: ditched, another gifting mishap.  But the cash, well she spent it on a fragrance she wanted – AND she let me know the money I gave didn't quite cover the cost (ouch).  

This is where it gets interesting.  She wanted me to smell the cologne – “It’s a men's cologne,” she told me. She had wanted her boyfriend to buy it; wear it, but he didn't like it. I held the spray nozzle under my nose – hard too get a read, too faint.  I asked if it would be okay to spray a little. I over-sprayed, and saturated the cuff of my pullover; dang!  Finally, the scent: “It’s very nice, it reminds me of something – another cologne.”  But I’ll be damned, I could not put a visual to the strong connection I was feeling. Princess pranced off with her loot, but my mind was in overdrive.  Repeatedly I lowered my head, sniffed and thought, and I sniffed again.  Then it clicked – my Dad always liked this after-shave tonic called Tabac.  It wasn't expensive – it came in a white glass bottle and it smelled spicy - kind of like vanilla tobacco.   My daughter and my Dad had this special bond, he could be crotchety, but he was putty in her presence – she had found the scent that was uniquely her grandpa!  So I ventured into the tigress’ lair and I let her know about Tabac – she smiled and we talked a bit (I could be a stranger on a bus!); she knew she was Grandpa’s favourite, so despite the awkwardness, I felt I should tell her. At least I had some small pleasure in knowing, my Dad left an impression.  

The story doesn't end here – I kept sniffing my cuff, knowing I was on the right track, but that the scent trail led further than I had ventured; something was niggling away at me.  Then it clicked – I could see it: an amber-brown cologne, in a crystal bottle shaped like Aphrodite’s kiss, with a frosted glass patrician nose: Dali. I’d worn that cologne when I was my daughter’s age: spicy, sultry with a hit of tobacco.  My moment of personal realization: in my own attempt to define my young adult self, I had actually snuffled closer into my Dad’s shirt collar. No, still not done, but we are close! The final connection is a tight, symbolic loop-de-loop. The fragrance my daughter loves is called Pi, the fragrance is amber-brown and the Pi symbol appears in gold on the architecturally-inspired bottle.  Pi is the letter P, Pamela starts with P, Pamela is a Greek name, and I sign my art work as “Pamela”, but using the Greek alphabet/symbols. 

Scent and sentimentality – how complex the bonds that draw us together, even as we try to pull apart.

Hate Bomb

By Pam Hadder

We made you, we can destroy you.  There is deeply disturbing love-hate relationship with celebrity – it’s nothing new, but technology access has allowed destructive, spiteful behaviour to mushroom out of control. The vilest diatribes are vaulted into cyberspace without regard of who might be hurt, a volley of cruel imagery and words. With their assumed cloak of invisibility, users can be unbelievably base.

Celebrities: we are dazzled by their charisma, we are awed by their stature, and we fantasize about the wealth they enjoy; imagining a life of luxury and unimaginable abundance. Yet we love to see them brought to their knees, humiliated and ultimately destroyed – we made you, we can destroy you.  What does this say of human nature?  I like to think I’m not so evil a creature, but I’m not immune to enjoying some tabloid-style schlock. As a woman that has always felt the pressure to weigh less, be more feminine, and has never able to achieve 100% acceptance, my heart does warm a little when the paparazzi sneak pics of stars without makeup, for example!  I want to say, “See, they are just people – packaged and airbrushed; they have typical human ‘flaws’ – they aren’t what you think!”

Think of the great icons of film, music and public life, people like Elvis and Marilyn.  Pushed and manipulated by studios, managers and agents; addicted to drugs and ultimately destroyed as they strove to be thin enough, vivacious enough; to fit the hypersexualised, surreal die that had been cast.  Even at the peak of studio-manipulated “perfection,” Marilyn and Elvis were never enough; they could not satiate the human monster. A lot of people got rich, and a lot of folks are still making money on their celebrity. What do Lady Diana, Bill Clinton, Lindsey Lohan, Amy Winehouse, Amanda Bynes, Miley Cyrus and Justin Bieber have in common?  They have all been ruthlessly stalked, singled out and bullied, and some of them are no longer with us – did we push them over the edge?  I was sickened when Amy Winehouse died and jerks who had belittled her for her appearance and addictions cooed, “Oh what a tragic loss!”  Hypocrites.

Yes, I’m just as guilty; just as vulnerable to salacious gossip – I am far from blameless. But I clearly see that Justin Bieber is just someone’s son, a kid who experienced unusual success at a very young age and who is trying to fit in– he’s just a few years older than my own son for goodness sake.  Seeing Biebs in prison orange with bad skin just feels so uncomfortable; it makes me want to scream, “Where the hell are the good people – and where is his family in all of this?”  I worry for him and for us.  We should consider that he is being exploited by hangers-on who will be gone as soon as the money and drugs run out. Even on my toughest day when I am juggling bills and hustling for work, I wouldn’t trade places with Bieber or any other hounded “celebrity” not even for one hour – no thanks!  And as we enter the month of love, I choose to express my opinions with great care - love first, love without bounds. You are self-made; I choose to honour your existence.

Inanimate Intimacy

This past weekend we got a break from the severe cold (aka Artic Vortex!) and I happily catapulted my sheepskin-swathed self out for dinner and a movie.  It was a hugely encouraging experience from the get-go, as there were quite a few new movies to choose from – well, maybe not so “new” as I have been holed up since before the holiday season – so let’s rephrase that as “new to me!”  My girlfriend and I settled on the film, “She” – starring Amy Adams and Joaquin Phoenix; it is about a nerdy guy who falls in love with his OS named Samantha.

The movie was really fantastic on many levels – it had the superficial appeal of many films (great actors, quirky humour, etc.), but this was greatly downplayed in favour of thought-provoking content.  What has me wanting to see this film again is its cleverly written script and haunting, complex themes those words define. Unlike most films that hit mainstream theatres, “She” has the meat of a stage performance.  Highly successful in creating a realistic-futuristic experience using subtly crafted visual layers of alienation, the film treads a fine line between the immediate and what lies ahead. 

Take for example the pasty-faced urbanites smiling and talking not to each other, but to their respective customized OS – I could see a lot of myself and people I know in those faces and behaviours! Yes, scary but true – even as I write this, I know I will be posting it to a blog and sharing it on a number of social media platforms, and I am seriously questioning the value and reasoning behind all of that. A word that comes to mind is “posturing” – a sort of distanced posturing versus real connection and communication. Thus I reconsider the real world impact and personal context of my blog forays: a virtual smattering of self, volleyed off into the uncertainty of an ever-expanding cyber-surreality for a purpose that is half crap-shoot science and half boredom-loneliness-ego-driven-whatever-ness.

Compelling in its awkwardness, frustrating with its deliberate lack of videographic grandeur, relatable in its human brokenness, and memorable for the poetic wisdom woven throughout like a welcome breeze, “She” is more like something you expect to see screened at Sundance.  Most of all, the film has served as a reality check for this writer, this woman, this tech lover – it makes me want to touch, taste, feel , see more of the three-dimensional, flawed and fabulous real world and it puts all of this into harsh relativity.  Over and out.

Soul-full

By Pam Hadder

We are in that mysterious twilight time in the Canadian north - near the cusp of the winter solstice, we witness the slow degradation of day light, replaced by a familiar half-dream time that nestles between now and then.  My body responds by demanding more sleep, a slower pace, intermittent bursts of citrus-bright colour, and/or more caffeine. Canadians frequently joke about hibernation, but modern demands for working folks push toward the opposite: we fight the natural rhythms of the human body to slow down in winter.  And so my conflicted heart waxes toward the heavens, surveys the subtleties of colour, and gravitates inward to float in the dream-time place, soothed and sustained by the compelling poetry of words and sound.

I am always excited for the winter solstice – it brings us closer to the season of lights, Christmas, Kwanzaa and other holiday experiences that reinforce togetherness, cultural resilience and appreciation of our place within this living miracle. But more than this, the solstice means we are one day closer to spring!  By the end of January, the days are noticeably longer, and I feel a surge of anticipatory energy.  It is always this time of year that I receive my focus or mantra for the year ahead.  Most of the time, it just comes to me and I know immediately that it is true and meaningful.

This year is different – the interference from without seems larger,  and my personal insights are more soft-focus, nebulous, and  yet imposing like a great, old tree that I can’t quite wrap my arms around no matter how hard I try!  I feel like the messages are there, but I am not quite connecting.  My sleeping dreams have been varied and bizarre – no help there!  A few nights past I dreamed of incredible Hanukkah/Holocaust themed installations in a gallery.  An ash-grey room sparkled with fine glitter like ground marcasite, and here and there were bright jewel bits on the walls – looking closer I saw the bas-relief of Jewish family life.  It was both eerie and beautiful – it spoke to me of the survival of beauty, family and tradition amid great evil and opposition.  Another night I dreamed of wildly challenging outdoor escapades with my dearest friend, waking exhausted and questioning, “What was THAT about?” And on another occasion I was engrossed in mundane filing, sorting and admin work – a little too “widget factory” to relate to my working reality, and therefore simply crazy!  I imagine my brain doing a disk clean up and file dump – like “clean out the fridge” suppers I have been known to make for my children; it’s just doing what it can with what it has on hand!

And so I wait, expectant, hopeful, humble – maybe my mantra is merely to question or to dream?

The Mother Load

By Pam Hadder

I have picture of my two girls, my daughters, in my bathroom - 4 x 6 photos in clip frames. They are ages two and four and they are playing at the lakeside. One of the frames has been cracked - an oopsie from their pre-teen years. As I recall, I kept trying to be a Martha Stewart, but kids are hard on things, and after all, things are just things. Nonetheless, the fact that I need to update those frames niggles away at me every time I brush my teeth.  But my days are always full; without reprieve, the weeks and months fly by, and details get lost in the blur.  My Mother warned me that once you have a baby, the calendar pages fly by just like in a black and white movie. Mom didn't tell me about some things though - like when you raise your girls to be independent women, and they become those independent women, that it feels like all of it never happened. Is this the empty nest, or is this symptomatic of some undefined brokenness? 

I remember the first time those wee girls said "Mom" and "Momma" - the sheer joy of them growing and all of the "firsts." My older daughter liked to tickle my toes as I made her dinner: "Tooka, tooka, tooka, Mommy, tooka, tooka, tooka."  And my younger daughter would have spent all day in the baby sling curled into my warm body - if I had the fortitude to carry her for that duration! I feel like I should explain - I did not experience a lot of physical affection during my childhood years, and I wanted to be a different kind of parent than what I had known. I never heard the words, "I love you" from my parents; I think it wasn't considered appropriate for parents to be physically affectionate in their era, but I wanted my babies to know what it meant to be loved, completely and unconditionally - I poured out my words, my hugs, my kisses without reserve.  I did not believe in corporal punishment - I had been beaten, but I used time-outs to discipline my babies. I didn't want my kids to fear me the way I feared my Dad. But somewhere in the busy-ness of working, domestic chores, and all the stuff in between, I finished raising my girls. The butterfly kisses have disappeared like soap bubbles popping on a summer breeze; Momma is no more.

More memories... how I dressed the girls alike, fussed with their hair, read Fox in Sox until my tongue felt numb and worked at crappy jobs so I could spend as much time as possible with them. I remember knitting little sweaters as I dutifully attended Super Bowl parties with their Dad, sewing Halloween costumes in a cold corner of the basement, and falling asleep beside them when singing "I See the Moon" at bed time.  I remember all of the busy mornings, feeding bathing, dressing, playing, reading, walking/hauling, and repeat. The baby powder, the dear little hands holding mine, the raspberry kisses on soft tummies, the tickles.  I remember walking them to school, making brown paper lunch bags with a new doodle for every day, and sweating with anxiety as I walked home from work to pick them up from after school care - oh my God, I always felt guilty because it was sunny outside and they were in the basement of an old school.  How my feet, back and legs hurt from standing all day, how I lost sleep to catch up on laundry and cleaning, and how I fell worthless and powerless because I was always financially strapped. Their childhood was an intense time for me, but I tried to shield them from my struggles and fears. I wanted them to have a better life, more opportunities and more happiness than I had known. But so much of the time I was isolated by the sheer volume of what had to be done, and my fear of what would happen if I tried to change the pattern, let myself emerge from the automaton I had created to manage it all.

At some point the 24/7 care of our children is over, and their friends become closer connections, and the seeds of independence bear fruit - and it may not be a fruit you have ever tasted before. I suppose that a Mother becomes symbolic of everything they are not/don't want to be, and something they can't relate to. So, I suppose I have succeeded: they will be better, they will be different from the imperfect, frightened, ignorant, idealist that was Momma. I have tried to organize girls' outings but their young lives are full and focused on things of which I have only sketchy glimpses. Occasionally they let me buy them a meal.  My younger daughter regales me with stories of how great her friends' Moms are, and my older daughter is a mystery who keeps her communications superficial. I have finally connected the dots, and the image is an unrelatable construct of female parenthood, rather like the female symbol on a washroom entrance. 

So, when we have dinner together, I savour each moment, always hopeful that some trickle of the love that I poured into them will emerge, will morph into this amazing, positive thing that makes their eyes mist over, that makes them remember everything that was Momma - that some little piece of what I did is worthy of their time and memory. But they could be talking to someone on a bus - a random stranger to whom they extend courtesy for  few minutes. I inhale and exhale and drink in their beauty, grateful that at least they will sit and eat with me, grateful for this moment; grateful that I knew motherhood. A perennial optimist, I know I will keep trying, will keep revisiting my memories, and will keep returning to face their rebuffs; their thinly veiled contempt or worse - ambivalence.

My birthday is in July, and this year I was away with my job - it was a special time because it was the first time since I was 14 that I have had a whole month away from work. I had some work commitments, but it was combined with travel in some of the most beautiful areas of Tuscany, Italy.  The whole time I was accessible by email, text and phone. I don't like a fuss, but I do love my children and I have tried to raise them to be mindful of life's milestones - their birthdays were always celebrated; sometimes two or three times to accommodate the demands of family, in-laws and their own school friends. But this birthday passed with no cards, no calls, no texts - nothing. When I got home from my trip, my younger daughter was fussing over buying a card and gift for her former boss (an alcoholic chain smoker about who she constantly complained to me about). At this point, it hit me with painful clarity that Mom, Mommy, Momma was dead - I was just this image, this memory.  

All of the hugs, the sweat, the fears, the work, the tears, the sleeplessness became meaningless in this context. I had to face that it was quite likely that I would never have daughters who called me "just because," or because they wanted to hear my voice, or simply to see how I am doing. Momma was a station along their way, and even the vile former boss now ranked higher. DNA is just DNA, and all of our good intentions are just thoughts, after all. I stretch the pale skin of my lower belly as I shower and trace a soapy finger over the fine white scars.  Yes, this body delivered three babies into the world and gave one baby to the angels, it is a good baby maker and has the marks to prove it's use, and yet it could be any baby maker. My body bears witness to the signs that only one person cares about.

My son is 13 - he still holds my hand and tells me he loves me.  He still talks to me - not just to ask for something or because he needs something. Pinch me; will this time be different, or have I just forgotten these moments with my girls? He is such a sweet child and I fear for him in this world of violence, excess and indifference - most of all, I pray, "Please don't take his love from me." My friends tell me I am a good mother, but because I was cut off from my friends and family for so many years, I have a very small circle of friends - I sometimes worry that "Friend" may go the way of "Momma." I  look through a another sampling of old photos in the bill basket, and they don't feel like they belong to me. I see my old, worn gym hoody has fallen off the door hook again - I look down on it and imagine that is who I am to my girls: a dead grey shell, a husk of some creature that used to exist but is no more. I pick it up and smell the soft cotton - it smells like baby powder.

So Many Reasons

By Pam Hadder

What is it about certain numbers – why do we find some numbers to be significant, and we allow others to escape our notice?  A 25^th anniversary, the seven-year itch, five-year plans –and what of lucky numbers?  Personally I don’t believe in luck; nor do I support the celebration of life in pre-determined, generic increments.  All we have is this moment, this breath, this heartbeat, and why shouldn't every action and word be considered through that lens of precarious glory?

We are beautifully and remarkably made, we have such amazing potential – we are each comprised of incredible, immortal energy captured for a fleeting moment in human form.  It is a very big deal; exceptional and precious – yet all the while, we are herded, prodded into preoccupations of daily survival, of the mundane, of the expected.  We become disconnected from our glorious nature; our inextricable connection to the divine; the sublime.

This year a beloved, influential person in my life is having a "milestone birthday," which has made me think long and hard about human preoccupation with numbers, the order of things, labeling, organizing, and other trivial categorizations of splendid human potential.   My beautiful friend is having mixed feelings about the pending occasion, and doesn't want any fuss.  I get that, however, I want to celebrate the moment to its fullest extent – not because I am bound to tradition or societal expectations, but because I recognize and wish to acknowledge the importance of her unique spirit’s arrival in this physical realm. On a spring day, a number of years past, she was born into this life and embarked on a journey that eventually intersected with (and super-charged!) my own modest meanderings.  By her unique influence, she has made my life richer, brighter, more beautiful and deeply joyous – she is richly blessed with wisdom, humour, spontaneity, passion for life and charismatic presence. She possesses an intriguing, intoxicating effervescence that cannot be cultivated, but she presents these extraordinary gifts with remarkable humility and selflessness.

And so, dearest FC, for you alone – if numbers must prevail and hold significance – then let it be that with each passing minute, hour, week, month and year, that we recognize another aspect of our earthly self that is to be honoured and cherished.  I know it’s pretty easy to think of thirty or forty reasons that I adore you, my dearest, sweet, kind friend!