Skating solo

I can't remember the last time I went skating all by myself. Over the almost 30 years of my marriage, I've always had my partner, my kids, or a friend to go along with me.

And for the last three winters, I don't think I managed to go skating even once. With a dog to walk, and all the trekking of the valleys and ravines of Edmonton we've been doing, we just never seemed to go skating. But this winter I vowed to put my skates to use at least once. 

I suggested heading to Victoria Oval or Hawrylak Lake several times over this wintry season, but no one seemed very keen. Then it got so cold, it felt like there was no point going as there are no warm skate shacks where people can lace up thanks to covid, and I didn't much relish going through the effort for a short skate with frozen toes... I wanted it to be a good long one! Maybe I'm a wimp, but I'm a warm one!

Last night's weather forecast said today would be balmy in comparison to the last two weeks -- above zero! So I made plans to go skating by myself. Since my partner is working from home, I have the car and decided to drive myself to Hawrylak Park to loop the islands on the lake. As I left, I told my daughter I'd be back shortly, after a good skate.

What I had forgotten was that the Silver Skate Festival is happening at the park, and of course, I had to see it all... snow sculptures, snow flowers, the "undersea garden" area, and the new Community League Plaza (which quietly opened during this pandemic), before I skated. 

My early morning timing was perfect -- there weren't too many people around so I didn't need to wear my mask, and the ice was smooth from the flooding and lower numbers of skaters during the cold snap. So I had a lovely two hours looking at art, listening to stories told by Indigenous Elders, and gliding around the two islands in the lake on my skates. I imagine the whole area would be magical at night as it's illuminated with different coloured lights.

It was lovely to be there on my own... usually, I want to really look at things, and it was wonderful to go at my own pace instead of being rushed along by impatient folks! By the time I left, people were arriving by the droves, and I was glad to be heading home before mask wearing became necessary. Those darn masks fog up my glasses!

The Silver Skate Festival runs just two more days, until February 21st. If you're planning to attend, I'd recommend going early in the day, as I expect the crowds who stayed away while we were in the deep freeze will come out by the thousands this weekend. And If you don't plan on going, you can always check out the festival's website... and my photos below.

If the ice doesn't melt too quickly, maybe I'll see you on Victoria oval in the next few weeks. Have a good weekend!

My fave in the snow sculpture competition --
owl and fox in masks!

Snow flowers...

This fellow accompanies an interesting folktale
about envy trolls...

A school of fish. 
Wish I'd gotten pictures of the jelly fish in the pines...

The Community League Plaza
has an interesting display about the
100 years of Edmonton's Community Leagues.

Stories in Indigenous languages can be heard
in the four seasons section of the Silver Skate displays...

This would make for a fun family photo!

A Tribute to Lidia

When the text came this morning, I was surprised by how hard grief hit me. Alfonso, the son of my 85-year-old Italian neighbour, Lidia, texted to let me know that his mom had died.

Lidia was an extraordinary friend, arriving in my life just when I really needed someone like her to make me laugh and to commiserate with me over the difficulties of raising kids. She was balm for my soul at a time when I was finding motherhood particularly challenging. Over the last few years, I spent many mornings in her kitchen -- she didn't have to twist my arm very hard to convince me to come in for coff (coffee, in Lidia's inimitable English) which often turned into lunch before I even realized it. 

Lidia had this knack for pulling food out of thin air, often a homemade minestrone with bread and asiago cheese, or a simple pasta dish with her homemade tomato sauce. And if someone extra showed up, there was always room for one more! Good Italian espresso was ever present, leaving me buzzing a little for the rest of the day. When I told her how much I loved her "coff," she gave me one of her little espresso makers, which I used this morning so that my daughter and I could drink a fitting toast in Lidia's honour. It went well with the last few Bertozzi ciambelline cookies she gave me on one of my last visits with her. Shadow-dog enjoyed a cookie in Lidia's honour, too. Whenever we walked past her house, he would automatically turn up her sidewalk.

Through long chats since her husband of 67 years died almost 18 months ago, I learned a lot about her life. An farm girl whose father died when she was 17, Lidia was married "by proxy" in Italy (an uncle stood in for her husband-to-be, Ralph, who was 27, and already in Canada). Ralph promised to send money back to support her mother and siblings near Cosenza (close to Naples) in exchange for Lidia's hand in marriage, and sponsored many of them to come to Canada in the years following. In the meantime, Lidia arrived in Edmonton at the age of 18, an early Italian immigrant who, to hear her tell it, "lost my papa, and married another papa." I suspect the difference in their ages became less of a factor over time as they grew into love for each other, and that love became clearly visible in their care for each other.

Ralph, who had found a job with one of Canada's railways after the end of World War II, already spoke passable English and knew his way around, but Lidia didn't know the language and stayed alone in their apartment for a time -- with a chair to hold the door shut as there was no lock. Her husband did most of the errands around town, and I don't think Lidia ever learned to drive. But at some point she found work in a Chinese restaurant (which turned her off restaurant food for life when she found a mouse in the soup) then as a cleaner of a large office building, and eventually a seamstress. As the Italian community grew in the 1950s, so did Lidia's circle of friends. She was very happy when one of her sisters came to live nearby.

Lidia's three children, her grandchildren and great-grandchildren were the loves of her life, but she "adopted" me because her own daughter lives "too far" in Hamilton, ON. Whenever I phoned, it made it easier if I began, "Hello, my Italian mama," because she knew exactly who she was talking to, and she would often reply, "My daughter, you been away too long. You sick?" Other Lidia-isms -- "No to Fi'e Guys with Fries! I cooka my own food!" "Dat'sa da life," and "Goooda luck!" used both to exclaim over any kind of news or to wish someone well. How I loved her accent, though it sometimes made it difficult for me to understand her over the phone. She made me wish I could speak Italian!

The last year of Lidia's life was probably her most challenging because she was a social butterfly who loved to share food and stories with everyone she met. It was nearly impossible to visit without Lidia serving some kind of food. After losing Ralph to cancer, she found it hard to be alone -- and then the pandemic hit. Because she was unsteady on her feet, I worried about her, and sure enough, she had a few falls that left her bruised and sore. But she kept on going, determined to live out her life in her family home. 

I tried to check in regularly, usually standing at the door of Lidia's porch, though it took a while and many COVID deaths in her beloved Italy for her to understand why I would no longer come into her kitchen. Through the summer, we managed many visits in her back yard because she and her sons let me plant corn, peppers, tomatoes and a friend's perennials in her garden and greenhouse. 

Whenever I stopped by to water plants, I tried to make sure that Lidia and I sat properly distanced on the patio to chat, though it was always hard to dissuade her from bringing out cookies and coffee. If Shadow was with me, she gave him bits of ciambellini, and if it was late in the day and I complained about not knowing what to make for supper, she often had a perfect idea about what I could do. She gave me my one and only lesson on making gnocchi, and everything I know about cooking with squash blossoms, I learned from her.

When the weather got colder and we couldn't sit outside, I phoned each week, just to check in and make sure she was okay, and whenever Lee and I took our evening neighbourhood dog-walk past her house, we would look to be sure the hood light over her oven was on, a sign that all was well. But one evening in early December, only the porch light was on. So I texted Alfonso, and learned that Lidia had a stroke and was in the Glenrose Rehab Hospital, going through tests. About ten days ago, he let me know that she had been diagnosed with a brain tumour, and this morning, he let me know that she had "passed."

I have many reminders of my friend... a few perennials in my yard, my Lidia rose bush, a couple of houseplants she gave me, a couple of embroidered linens she created for her hope chest as a young woman, and the aforementioned espresso pot that has become my "Lidia coff" Sunday morning ritual. 

How I will miss my friend who, in her own words, "spoke English like minestrone," mixing it with her native Italian. I will miss the way she and her boys teased each other in "Lidia's Restaurant -- Please leave a tip" as the sign over her kitchen door announced. Lidia's voice was always the loudest, and her laughter was contagious. 

I will miss Lidia's phone calls and how she sometimes got my phone number mixed up with that of her neighbour next door, who is also named Maria. I will miss the way she could cry one minute and roar with laughter the next, her emotions always close to the surface. I will miss her way of looking at the world with deep faith in God, and optimism in spite of life's sorrows and struggles. 

Lidia, how blessed I was to know you. Thank you for being my friend, and for all your kindness since we met in 2013. I hope you and Ralph have had a joyful reunion! You both have a room in my heart. I have been missing you a lot over the last three months, and I hope that when you see those pink flowers (Lavatera, they’re called) in God’s garden, you’ll remember me, too. I look forward to a cup of espresso together with you and Ralph in heaven. I love you, my friend!

Lent again, sigh

Remember the beginning of Lent last year? When we received ashes on our foreheads instead of having them sprinkled on the crown of our head like this year? Lent began, as it usually does, before the pandemic, and then it went on, and on, and on... as a friend said, The Longest Lent Ever!

In many ways, to me it feels like Lent never ended. In the past, I've spent my Lents fasting from certain things so as to appreciate their Creator more, and to remind myself to be more grateful for the many blessings in my life. But the pandemic means that the thing I value most, being close to family and friends, is replaced by staying away from them indefinitely. Even with the vaccine coming, it still feels like it's going to be a long wait.

So this year, I feel like a two-year-old ready to throw a tantrum. "What, You expect me to do another Forty Days, as if these 344 days of pandemic weren't enough? I don't wanna! Waaaaahhh!"

But then my sad little heart gets up off the floor and says, "Well, okay, Holy Spirit, I guess I can continue with your plan at this time. I can continue to fast from being with the people I love for the sake of the health and well-being of my community. I can spend a bit more time in prayer, fast from a few daily things that I know I've been taking for granted. I can creatively give the alms of my time, talent and treasure by reaching out to those who need the support I can offer from the abundance with which you have blessed me."

And I know that, in the giving of myself, my sad little heart focuses less on its losses and more on the joy it can bring to others. In not taking things for granted, I savour their goodness more. And in spending more time in prayer, my heart shifts from preoccupation with my petty concerns to a deep desire to rest in the heart of the Creator who sustains us all, and to follow the Holy Spirit's inspirations to do her and his will.

And in doing those things, my sad little heart becomes a joyful little heart set on serving others and making Lent worth living, even in pandemic times.

Sunday Reflection: A pandemic's gifts

Today's reflection is brought to you by 

Job 7:1-4,6-7.

These days

it's easy to feel like Job,

that biblical character 

who lost everything.

We complain 

about how hard life is,

the long labours we face

until things are better.

We see the months of emptiness,

the blandness of our days

behind and ahead,

the nights of worry,

the misery all around us

(and especially,

in the news).

Honestly,

though we are body- and soul-weary,

more often than not

it's a relief 

when our nights

give way to morning.

It's like we are 

wishing our lives away

in feeling hopeless,

though we know life is short.

We forget

that

God surrounds us 

with good,

visible 

if only we lift our eyes.

Remind us,

You 

who made all that is,

that Creation

and our puny selves

are held 

in hands 

much gentler

than our own.

Help us 

to let go of our misery

and see you...

and to gentle our own hands

and hearts

to care

where care is needed most.

+Amen.

* * * * * * *

I don't know about you, but lately it feels like there's so much complaining going on that I want to stick my head under a pillow and stay there. 

Yes, all that we have lost because of this pandemic -- our connections, our freedom, our sense of security, our old ways of doing things, our very equilibrium -- is weighing us down, depressing us, shortening our tempers, and trying our patience, if we have any left.

So we might be able to relate to Job, who lost everything dear to him. Have we really lost everything dear to us? Really? I hope we can see that there is always something good that comes, even out of loss. I've been dealing with a rather serious loss for the past couple of years, and though it hurts, it holds gifts in its hands, too. In the end, Job came to understand just Who was in charge, and once he did, when he put his faith and trust in the right place, things dramatically improved for him. As they have for me. Life is about learning to let go.

We don't know when the pandemic will end, but we have to believe that we also will see things improve if we have the patience of Job, and put our faith and trust in the right place. Freaking out about the things we can't control (vaccine shortages, for example) only makes life more miserable. Focusing on "months of emptiness and nights of misery" (Job 7: 4) only dims the light of goodness around us.

Last night, I participated in an online gathering with a dozen girlfriends from High School who hadn't met since a party at my house in 2015. We shared about the things that have changed in our lives and how we are coping with this strange time we are in. With educators, moms, health care professionals, caregivers, an engineer, a librarian and a chef in our group, it was an interesting evening... one that filled me with hope. Though we all face different challenging circumstances, we celebrated our long term friendships and the recent marriage of one of our group, and we listened to and cared for each other even though we were scattered around five cities in two provinces. As one friend laughed through her tears, "Thanks for the therapy," I suspect we all felt the value of our connection. It was better than therapy in my books (and I know therapy)!

It reminded me that when we reach out to each other and find common ground, hope rises from our brokenness and brings us light to move us forward. Even though this pandemic causes a lot of pain, it has the power to remind us of the goodness in you and me.

In the week ahead, I invite you to connect with a friend you've lost touch with. Perhaps that reconnection can be one of the pandemic's gifts for you.