A Daughter's Eulogy

Here is a picture of my dad: Bundled in dark plaid, hunter orange toque, whiskers and hair slightly unkempt because "it's warmer fer ma ears that way!" driving Garf the Tractor to the woods to cut logs and drag them home. Snow everywhere, breath fogging, he and the dog warm themselves by the wood stove.
Here is another picture of my dad: Christmas morning sleeping in just to drive us kids crazy, instant coffee and sweets for breakfast and he was almost, if not more, excited for presents than we were. I remember him being so delighted and proud to haul all the gifts from their hiding places to put them under the tree on Christmas Eve, the pure excitement and joy on my daughter's face, and the feeling of complete family love and belonging on all those Christmas mornings.
Dad showed his love in different ways. Ours was not a house with a lot of hugging or verbal "I love you"s and actually, he spent a lot of the time away for work or in the garage fixing small engines, building something, watching the hockey game or listening to music. In fact, the garage was his home as well as in the house with us. Lazy boy chair, TV, radio, cold beer, warm fire - what more could you want?
He showed his love by doing. My father was a doer. It took me a long time to figure out his language, but here is a page from our book: a personal alarm system when I first moved to Toronto at 18 years old meant "You are my baby girl and I know what a scary world this can be. If anything happens to you, I will blame myself." A fire extinguisher and smoke alarms for birthday presents told me "I love you and want to protect you." And when my daughter Georgia was born child proofing and safety precautions were taken to an all new level because now he had two important girls to look after.
The relationship between my father and daughter has been a very special and beautiful one. Georgia has no biological father figure in her life and so my dad naturally stepped up to fill those shoes. Their love for each other is so obvious and so joyous to anyone who saw them together; she was like a second daughter to him and he was more than a grandfather to her. He taught her how to gut fish, rank wood, tend a garden, drive a truck and tractor, paint, build and fix anything and I can see how his guidance has helped shape her into the little person she is. The loss of my father Charles will be profound for my baby G.
For my brother Cory I can see clearly how our dad is living on through him. My brother's quiet strength, willingness to work hard and step up to help take care of us are traits he learned from our father, whether he likes it or not. I imagine the father/son relationship to be not as easy as it looks. Two strong opinionated men with the common goal of loving their people and making a good life - but often with very different ways of making that happen.
I want to be honest in this account of my father's life and by doing so, honour him. He was definitely not perfect and perhaps being the daughter he fiercely protected has coloured the mark he's made on me. But isn't that how lives are lived? Many men contained in one - father, brother, partner, friend.
Each of you knew him in a special and unique way. Each of you has been impacted and shaped by your experience of him as we bump and grind and jostle our way through relationships daily, that over time make us who we are.
Dad was somebody I looked up to without even knowing it. He was my measuring stick - be it some aspect of him I aspired to or one I wanted to avoid. We had a rocky relationship through my teen years and early adulthood, but I always knew I could count on him to rescue me, I could always count on him to keep me safe.

Thank you to everyone who loved him so hard, especially my mother, brother and his sisters, Lois and Hazel. You have wrapped our family in your arms and cared for us. And now, I guess, we say goodbye and see ya later Charlie.

Here is a memory from my dad: six years old and learning to swim, his big steady hands under my belly as I paddle my arms and kick my feet. He gently takes his hands away and I am on my own.

This Love Business

Should I feel ashamed of my strength, my toughness, the tenacity that has saved my life again and again? Should I be embarrassed of the events and circumstances that have brought me to this place in my life? Should I feel less than beautiful because other people have told me that's what I am?
The trouble with being tough is this: how exactly has it damaged me? I know the benefits of being one tough bitch with a generous shot of dyke thrown in: I've survived mental illness, I'm raising a wonderful and well adjusted child, I have incredible friends and a good relationship with my family. I'm smart and sensitive, empathetic and understanding. I've lifted the weight of the world and not broken in half completely.
The damage, however, is the utter pain I make myself feel when someone else disappoints me. The damage, perhaps, is expecting others to be as tough and awesome as me. And the damage that is done to my heart when I finally let go of the toughness and trust another to love me is like a hot knife in the chest. Fear and pain corrupt me.

Technology and Grief

On the couch at the hospital, clutching my cell phone, mp3 player blasting sad piano notes into my ears, still can't block out the world, still reaching out for comfort but only able to handle it through technological means. What does this say about me and my defenses? I am already crying, if someone touches me tenderly I may dissolve. Reach out only through technological means: can only handle the comfort, removed.

How, how is it that life is so incredible? Mountain highs and valley lows, all in one epic hike. One moment the trail kicks the shit out of you, the next someone is helping you up that steep incline. How can life begin and end simultaneously? How can I feel searing grief and giddy hope at the same moment in my time? So many associations are filing into my head now - the simple act of walking: one foot forward into hope, one foot left back in grief. Same body, same direction, same intent for life.

Pretty ladies, boys and ice cream

Dylan Thomas, Emily Dickinson, The Black Keys, pencil and pen, sketchbook, pretty ladies, boys and ice cream - all my friends today as I tried to soothe myself after visiting my father this afternoon in the hospital. And surprisingly, I was able to make a drawing, a good one. What a sweet, small gift! Maybe my hands remember how after all. I've been so critical and discouraging of those hands. When they don't perform, I get angry - even though I know I haven't exercised my drawing muscles in ages. It's certainly a skill that must be used and used and used, in order to maintain and hopefully, improve drawing skill.

I know this blog has fallen by the way side, but I'm not feeling guilty over it. It serves its purpose when need be. And hey, who reads this stuff anyway?

i carry your heart with me

ee cummings:

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet)i want
no world (for beautiful, you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope, or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

F Bombs Ahead

STRANGE. That is how I feel...all this existential, uncharted territory, unsure human feelings crap is all so damn strange, considering the attempt at routine lives we all make. Then again, there are stories of those trapped within their routines, struggling to get out of it, to feel passionately about something, anything...then there's me, who feels so much goddamn passion it's enough to make me want to stick my head in the sand sometimes. It seems I do nothing by the book. I am not straight forward, I am not boring, I am not bored. Fantastic, wonderful, you say. Gee, sure sounds romantic, Marsh! Well, fuck romance. This bullshit is hard.

I am empathy, incarnate. I am love, alive. I am a raw bloody heart just asking for more road burn. Please kind sir, please family, please God, drag me along the fucking diamond road of sharp pain to the gut. Fill up my capacity for human sorrow. Throw me from the tree tops in a whirlwind of joy and ecstasy. Then, make me feel small and ashamed, or, expansive and beautiful. It's all in there. I've got it all, maxed up. Mind you, I am so thankfully not of the subset that has these feelings to an unbearable degree (such as those with Bipolar disorder) but, Jesus, why did you make me this way???? Fuck.

My detail oriented, obsessive digestive digressive self seeks endlessly. For what? Meaning? My life is over crowded with meaning. If I see even a fraction of the lives around me, a part of people's love, loss, triumph, sorrow, struggle -- I am blessed. I am also overwhelmed. This job of being an empathetic, seeing-eye human, whose self proclaimed* mission it is to 'love and serve. serve and love' --this job is harrrrrrrrrrrrd. Man, the times I have just wanted to tell people to fuck off and check their bull shit at the door...but nope. I attempt grace. God must be looking at me, saying 'Aw, aint that sweet? Little kitten thinks she's a dog! Watch out kitty, you gonna be devoured.' No Marsha. He's probably more likely saying 'Aw. My baby's trying so hard. She's got it so backasswards, but she is so fuckin' sweet. I love that kid.' Thanks God. Love you too.

Fight the negativity! Fight the thought traps you lay for yourself. And for fucksakes, quit over thinking everything...just try to feel the wind in your face, unfettered, as your bike careens down York, knowing full well your brakes are a little iffy. Feel your muscles tighten when you paddle that kayak, knowing full well the current could sweep you off and you could end up in a bad way. Don't be afraid of feeling good, knowing full well you could end up sad and afraid. It's ok to love. It's good to love. It's crazy to love...it's so damn human to love imperfectly.