Paula - Meanderings

Monuments

A friend sent me a message: “Go to news. Notre Dame is on fire.” I leapt up from the computer and for the next two hours or so I was riveted to the T.V screen as I watched the Cathedral, the heart of Paris burning. I was saddened.

My Bert and I have had the privilege of visiting famous monuments and landmarks around the world. They remain in my memory, in my psyche, and yes in my heart.

On separate occasions I have cried, laughed, cried and laughed at the Berlin Wall. I even own a small piece of it from when it was torn down. My Bert and I raced from Amsterdam to Berlin to witness the ‘unzipping’ of the refurbished Brandenburg Gate by President Bill Clinton.

I got goose bumps the first time I saw Westminster Abbey, The Blue Mosque, The Great Pyramid of Giza, Notre Dame de Paris, The Taj Mahal and so many more. There are entire cities that I consider to be monuments. Jerusalem, London, Paris, Athens, Rome, The Vatican, Amsterdam all come to mind.

Whenever I think of Denmark the small sculpture of The Little Mermaid brings a smile as do the Manneken Pis in Brussels which dates from 1388. They are beloved symbols that give a unique identity to a particular place. They are more than interesting sculptures.

The Christ the Redeemer statue on Corcovado means we are in Rio de Janeiro. Going to the opera at the Sydney Opera house is one bragging right I hold dear. And you know you are in Australia.

As I looked at Notre Dame I was grateful that we had toured it as a couple, as a family, and with travel companions. I wondered if we would live to see the ‘after’ even if only virtually.

As the fire burned my thoughts were turbulent. I was filled with dismay and sadness. I am not Roman Catholic. That did not matter. I am neither a Parisian nor French. That did not matter. I was looking at an iconic symbol. That is what a monument is. A symbol that is universal that can appeal to anyone.

Great literature, art, music, dance, drama, architecture are ways in which we showcase our creativity, share our talents and demonstrate the human need for beauty that transcends the mundane. They speak to the soul. Monumental works like Notre Dame validate that need and give credence to Keats’: “Beauty is truth, truth beauty.”

When we toured Notre Dame the fact that it was the keeper of the Crown of Thorns was awe inspiring. I enjoyed seeing the art, the craftsmanship that went into the building but uppermost in my mind was the history. The same words I said then came back to me as I uttered them again: “If only these walls and stones could talk.” Notre Dame burned at the beginning of Holy Week. Ironic, isn’t it?

I wondered if the egotistical Napoleon was turning in his grave recalling his glory when he crowned himself Emperor of France in Notre Dame. He had no great love for either the Pontiff or religiosity so he may have some ambivalence about this destruction. As the spire fell I wondered if all those nobles who travelled past its doors in tumbrels to be guillotined found some macabre similarity to their own fate. They lost their heads and now Notre Dame was losing its own.

As I mourned the passing I wondered if some were cheering that this was a symbol belonging to ‘the other’ not to them. History, literature, religious fervour, art, music, wars, and love are all part of Notre Dame and they were fighting for space in my thoughts as I watched. That is a monument. It means everything to some and something to everyone else. You may be indifferent to it but it cannot be ignored.

The Meander: Over one billion Euros were donated within forty eight hours for the restoration of Notre Dame. Extraordinary! I cannot remember any human disaster that raised so much in so short a time. Hmm…

Experts estimate that it will take up to fifteen years to rebuild Notre Dame. With utter conceit I looked over at my monument, my Bert, and wonder if it will take up to fifteen years for his spire to topple.

Howsoever long it takes, if I am still alive, I will rejoice for one and mourn the other. The Light and dark together as ever.

Time for Sale

I am dreaming. I am in a hurry. There are others also scurrying here and there. I look at my wrist but there is no watch there. I call out that I need to get a watch but they should carry on. I am in a car driving fast down a hill. I pass a large crowd and shout: “I have to buy a watch and time!” I wake up.

The remnant of the dream remains and disturbs. I take a few deep breaths and think how wonderful it would be if one could buy time. Every caregiver would want to be first in line.

The dream has dredged up the watch seller we met in Gibraltar. What a character he was!

His stand was in a prime location. Going or coming you had to walk by that stand. There were all kinds of watches for the amazing sum of ‘$10 dollars each or three for $30!’ he would holler.

It was a bargain and a smile in one short sentence. However, that was not all.

What drew and held a crowd entranced was the non-stop patter of the seller. He had an English accent which I thought was Cockney. I asked him if he was born within the sound of the Bow Bells to which he answered:

“The sound of the bow Bells? Darling, mi pregnant mum was at church and when the darn thing rang she jumped so high that out I popped. I tell you, love you canna get more Cock(pause)ney (wink, wink) than that.” Groans and laughter ensued. It seemed he had an endless number of jokes, sly remarks, double entendres to keep us entertained and buying his watches. Purchasing a cheap watch in Gibraltar suddenly became de rigueur

I bought three watches. My rationale was that as frequent travellers it was good to wear these cheap versions for sightseeing.

The next year we happened to be back in Gibraltar. Our watch seller was at his post. His patter was loud, persuasive and entertaining as usual. He looked out, saw us and shouted: “Aye, there’s mi customer, come back from –where you from mi darling? ‘Canada’ all the way from Canada to buy mi watches. Want another three mi love?”

We walked the main street for a bit and returned just as he was turning over the stand to his son to take a break.

“Good line you use about a returning customer,” I say. He looked at me and said:

“I do remember you. Your husband got in on my act and actually persuaded people to buy the watches telling them the spiel alone was worth the money. Then you bought three watches I am sure you really did not need and for Chrissakes, it is sorta hard for you to disguise yourselves. Stuck in my head is the fun loving, happy, odd couple. Come, have a cuppa and a beer for you my friend?” We comply. Bert won the paying the bill battle.

We are back in Gibraltar. This time I am on a mission to get a good watch. Gibraltar is a duty free port so prices are better here. I am happy with my purchase.

We stop at our favourite cheap watch seller. He hails us again, he tells people to ask us about the fabulous bargains we have made and how we come specifically to Gibraltar to buy his watches. The patter is non-stop as usual and entertaining. He beckons us over and says: “OK, which of these are you getting this year?” “This year, I am not getting any. I just bought a lovely one just down the road.” I point in the direction of the shops. He laughs, tut-tuts, shakes his head, and in a loud voice says:

“Oh, you did, did you? Let me tell you something, darling, you got snookered. I bet you paid more than ten times what my beautiful watches cost! Come here mi luv; let me tell you a little secret. That expensive watch you bought tells exactly the same time as mine.”

Amid the laughter I hear ‘true’, ‘that’s fer sure’. I think Bert and I are laughing the hardest.

It is about five years when we get back to Gibraltar. We make a beeline to our cheap watch vendor. No, I do not need a watch. We just want to say ‘hello’ and listen to the patter. His son is at the stand. Bert asks after his father. He has died. We offer our condolences. We are sad. An errant thought: He ran out of time. He would appreciate it. I bought a watch in his memory and walk on under a suddenly dimmed sky.

The Meander: A thief snatched my watch as we were walking back to our hotel in Santiago, Chile. After the anger, feeling violated and acknowledging with thanks the care of the good Samaritans who came to our aid, I turned to Bert and said: “He will be so disappointed that the ‘gold’ watch is a ten dollar Gibraltar special.” We begin to laugh hysterically.

Our good Samaritans slowly leave and I think they are still debating whether we were happy to be unharmed or that the incident had been so traumatic as to leave us unhinged.

By the way, those Gibraltar specials lasted from 18 months to over five years and kept the same time!

Friendship

This is not friendship day or week or month. It seems to me that I get a beautiful, sweet message about friendship and friends almost every week and they all end with an order to send it on to my friends because it is friendship day or week. If I should add them all up there would be a thousand weeks in a year just for friendship. My friends know how much I value them so I do not mind getting friendship messages but I need no reminders. My friendship is on tap every day all year. And it is a two way street.

My friends cross all boundaries, cultural, religious, social, and economic. There are friends I have not yet met. I have often opined that I was not blessed with a large family but I certainly made up for that lack with a host of dear friends. Better yet, I get to choose them even as they choose me! My friends live all over world and all are dear to me. My friends fill that need of humans to have companionship who share a commonality of purpose, desires, mores and love. There are all occasion friends and special event friends but they are all friends of the heart. I laugh with them; cry with them and the hugs are wonderful. My friends are full of kindness. I write about one of my darker days and I get a beautiful bouquet with this card enclosed.

I laughed! What a friend. I have been sustained by the outpouring of love since that post. I was refreshed.

So it is with a full heart that I say “Thank You” to my friends. Thank you for giving me strength, love and courage to carry on. Thank you for sharing the ups, the downs and the in between. Thank you for being by my side to laugh, to cry, to rejoice at successes and to commiserate with me at disappointments.

Thank you for bringing me back to the light when I have those dark days. Thank you for the laughs, for laughing with me and laughing at me.

The Meander: My friends make the anguish less and me more. Thank you!

Birthday Appraisal

I have just celebrated a birthday. On the morning itself I turned to my Bert and said:”You can wish me Happy Birthday”. “Oh, is it your birthday? “Yes”. “Happy Birthday, Sweet Pea.”

The telephone rings and it is the first greeting of the day. “Who was that?” “That was our son and daughter-in-law. They were singing the birthday song to me.” I begin to sing and he joins in. “ Are they coming today?” “No. The family celebration was on Monday. We had a lovely meal and you really enjoyed your shoe-string French fries.” “Oh”.

My birthday was wonderful and different. It began with a Caregiver Wellness programme which included Dancercise, Music Therapy and Meditation. There was a fabulous lunch, then dinner with friends at a Japanese restaurant. We sat at the Teppanyaki Bar. My Bert exclaimed as the flames shot up towards the ceiling: “Gosh, I am HOT!” Naturally everyone seated at our station laughed. The evening was filled with laughter.

My birthday is a time of introspection; of reviewing the past year and looking with hope towards a brighter year. That has not changed.

However, this year my astrologist friend told me that this was a special year for all who are born on March 21^st. She referred me to an entry in Google quoted here:

“Your horoscope for March 21 to 27, 2019. This is no ordinary change of season. Spring has sprung on a super full moon in Libra and with the sun in Aries supplying added life force to Chiron in Aries, a transit that happens once every 50 years. … Aries is the sign of new beginnings, fresh starts, and action.”

I kept on reading the lengthy article as I was curious. It proved interesting until I got to such deep astrological pontification on ‘Solar Return’, ‘square aspect’ and ‘Mars-North Node aspect’ the latter supposedly having great impact on my relationships and love life. I am a caregiver for my Bert. I can teach all aspects, astrological or not about love. I gave up on the long form and with tongue firmly in cheek parsed the above short version specifically for ME, the birthday girl. Here goes:

“This is no ordinary change of season” – It never is in Canada. Snow in May and golfers teeing up in December are par for the course. Groan. For me the seasons change on a daily basis and they are: a good day, a bad day, a day when brain cells die, a miracle day of almost normal.

“Spring has sprung” – Hey, hold your horses. It is still only March! Meteorologists will tell you that spring arrives on March 1st.^. Huh? Yet March does bring hope for warmer days. I can feel that spring is in the air and I celebrate the fact of life, new life, my life, my day.

“A super full moon in Libra”- I did see the super full moon. It was heavenly! (Geez!). I did not care that it was in Libra or Libya or wherever. It was full. It was bright. I was happy to see it.

“The sun in Aries”- If I had the power the sun would always be in Aries and every other Zodiac sign. I am a child of Light.

“… supplying added life force to Chiron in Aries…every 50 years”: Yes, the sun is a life force. The rest being Greek to me I went to Google. I found this among other soon to be forgotten tidbits:

“In astrology, Chiron is referred to as the “wounded healer,” and on Feb. 18, this strange, and oh-so-unique, comet will conclude an eight-year-long transit through the dreamy sign of Pisces, and slide into fiery Aries until the year 2027. Naturally, this asteroid’s energetic influence will play a role in both our lives, and in the collective overall. So, yeah, this is definitely a big deal.”

No big deal to me as I will be long dead before this fascinating phenomenon comes around in 50 years. Neither does being on fire for the next eight years inspire jubilation. Also, since being sidetracked is an ever present danger when on the internet I also found out that Chiron is a comet, a key, the biggest superpower we have which helps us unlock our greatest gift from the heavens. Somewhat oxymoronic for a “wounded healer” I thought.

The best was last.

“Aries is the sign of new beginnings, fresh starts and action.” Every day is a new beginning. For my Bert I could say every minute is a fresh start. As a caregiver I am always doing. I saw this as being given permission to be positive, to never give up.

The Meander: Astrological prognostication or not, life is not dictated by our stars but by ourselves. We can choose how we will overcome the vicissitudes thrown in our path. I choose that no matter how dark the day I will try to face the challenges with a positive attitude for the rest of the journey. We will make it with a little help from our friends… and astrology.

Storytelling in Motion – Bodrum

We flew to Istanbul one week before the cruise began so we could explore that ancient city at leisure. It would be our third exploration but there is so much to see and shopping in the Grand Bazaar deserves a trip in itself. Our hotel surpassed our expectations and then here we were ready to board our luxury yacht.

Yes! As fans of small ship cruising we were about to board a five-mast staysail schooner, one of the largest sailing cruise ships in the world. No, I am not a sailor but that is the description of what would be our floating hotel for the next seven days. The number of passengers on board was a mere 294.

The first exquisite experience was to watch as the computer operated sails were raised with coordinating music. Istanbul slowly faded. We saw other ships and boats but none compared to ours. I knew this cruise would be special

We arrive at Bodrum, the only maiden port for us on the voyage so off we go to explore. I had done my research on Bodrum so my head was filled with Halicarnassus, Herodotus and events that occurred in years that were followed by BC, and The Mausoleum.

I like to think that Bodrum is famous because of ostentatious love. When the Satrap, or ruler, Mausolus died in 353 BC, his wife had an enormous white marble monumental tomb built. The top was a stepped pyramid and was such a wondrous accomplishment that the Greek historian Pliny designated the Mausoleum as one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. It was designed by the great Ionian architect Pytheos. Not only was it the largest tomb ever built by the ancient Greeks it was also well built as it stood for 19 centuries until an earthquake destroyed it around the 14^th century. Only the massive foundation remains though some artifacts can be viewed inside the Castle of St. Peter.

With my head filled with all this antiquity and the romance of a bygone era, I was so surprised to see the modern, clean city nestled on the sunny bay and surrounded by spectacular scenery at every turn. The only discordant note was the proliferation of vacation villages and timeshares cluttering up the shores. It reminded us of the Costa del Sol. I thought of it as the Marbella of Turkey. Despite this, it still had the ambience of being a step back in time. It would not have surprised me to see Anthony and Cleopatra holding hands and strolling through the Theatre of Ancient Halicarnassus.

Yet the best was yet to come. On arriving back on our yacht we were informed that a dancer, an expert in both the history and art of belly dancing was on board to entertain. We debated going but curiosity won out. There was an introduction and history of the art by an emcee who informed us that the dancer would perform four stories in dance.

Oh, what a treat. This gorgeous Turkish woman came out, gave an elegant bow and the music started. Within a moment we knew we were experiencing something special. This was pure artistry. She was grace incarnate. She moved in fluid, sinuous, sensual patterns, undulating from her toes to the ends of her hair. The tiny musical coins sewn into the costume added to the mystique. The movement of her eyes, the flutter of her lashes and the placement of hands and fingers and the ripple of her undulating torso and hips were all integral to the telling of the tales. We were in awe.

I looked over at the resident dolt, yes, there was one. He had a beer bottle almost at his mouth but he did not take one sip, so enthralled he was. That was the greatest compliment. She danced as if she was engaged in intense communion in a separate interior place. Yet we were totally engaged. Her dancing was a most eloquent language. Mesmerizing.

You know an outstanding performance by what happens when it is over. Here, there was a long moment of complete silence, a collective letting out of breath, and sighs of wonder broken by: “Oh, what a performance.” We rose as one and the sound became a cacophony as we each tried to find the words to articulate our admiration and appreciation of what we had just witnessed.

Nearly every guest had seen belly dancing performances prior to this one but we all agreed that they fell far short. My Bert kept asking: “How did she do that”?” He was not the only one.

The Meander: We try to find pleasure in everyday small miracles. This was a miracle, not so everyday and not so small. My memory is packed with travel miracles.

The Gem at the Toe of the Boot

Sicilians are proud of their culture, customs, cuisine and laid back ambience. Whenever we have visited that part of Italy, sooner or later we will hear the oft repeated phrase or some variance of it: ‘Sicily is the gem at the toe of the boot’. You will also hear the Mafia spoken of with some ambivalence. It is either blight or an integral part of the culture and a benevolent organization that looks after its own. What I know for sure is that the food is good no matter where you find yourself in Sicily.

We were only two days from Rome. The last days of a long Grand Mediterranean cruise. The Captain had announced that we would be cruising through the Strait of Messina. With packing, last minute exchanges of contact information, selecting gifts for our wonderful cabin steward it was akin to him telling us he was going to brush his teeth. I did not pay too much attention. I had too much to do, plus the grand final Trivia contest was coming up and though I was the weakest link I hoped my team would take home the first prize. We did not, to our chagrin. Our cruise pals came to say they had scoped out a great place on the upper deck for us to sit and watch the scenery as we traversed the Strait. Since they were also busily packing we decided that we would go to the special cruise talk about The Strait of Messina. We would therefore get the information and be able to skip the lazy time on deck watching the shore and instead do the packing.

My disinterest went straight out the window when the presenter started with: “Have you ever used the phrase ‘between the devil and the deep blue sea’ or ‘out of the frying pan and into the fire’ or, ‘between a rock and a hard place?” We all laughed as we answered in the affirmative. She explained that we would be cruising through the Strait of Messina, the birthplace for all those expressions originating from the Greek myth of Scylla and Charybdis.

Scylla and Charybdis were two monsters who lived on opposite sides of a very narrow stretch of water. They were the bane of Odysseus and his crew. If in trying to avoid one monster they happened to sail too close to the other they really would be caught between a rock and a hard place. Bumping up against either side would culminate in the same dire result, a watery grave. I would hazard a guess that you would be hooked too with such an introduction. The narrow stretch of water across which these two monsters lived is purportedly the Strait of Messina.

Packing could wait. We could not wait to get to our vantage point to sit and look for monsters and their homes as we cruised through the Strait. We did not think about its reputation for very rough and dangerous tides forming whirlpools that could sink large boats. No doubt this natural phenomenon was the explanation for the ‘monsters’ that plagued Odysseus. Neither did we enter the debate about the long proposed suspension bridge that would connect mainland Italy to Sicily over the Strait that was the hot topic of conversation at the time. We were filled with the romance of the imagery of the Greek myth as we cruised through the land of mythology.

The journey is beautiful. There is the blue of the Mediterranean, the green of the hills, the many picturesque villages dotting the coastline. We watched a bus, a train and transport truck travelling across the water. They looked like dinky toys but we could follow their journey. There were many tunnels and we would scan the horizon waiting see where they would emerge. Scudding patches of clouds would add another dimension and shade to the mountains as we sailed by. The combination of nature, calm sea, new friends, and the aura of the myth made for a fantastic experience. From our vantage point all seemed peaceful and tranquil.

We made up stories about the people who may live in those villages, separated by mountains, seemingly isolated one from the other. We were watching the mainland side and I wondered about the logistics of dating across the Strait. “I am sorry dad, I missed the last ferry. Can you come and pick me up?” No wonder that for years that bridge has been a dream for so many. If it ever comes to fruition, it will be the longest suspension bridge in the world. Or as some refer to it, ‘a bridge too far’ when despairing that it will ever be built.

There was a moment of regret as we exited the Strait heading north to Rome. We would be flying home from Rome via Frankfurt. We were happy to be going home but after the serene, lazy sail through the Strait taking in the bucolic scenery, Rome and Frankfurt seemed discordant, a disruption of the peace, a too swift wake up call back to reality.

The Meander: Cruising through the Strait of Messina was an unexpected pleasure. There is one such treasure on every trip, cruise, and journey. As in life you just have to say ‘yes’ when they come along.

A Sombre Tour

I did not sleep well the night before we landed in Dakar, Senegal. I knew the reason. We were going on tour to Ile de Goree. So many of my friends had visited and told of the emotional toll it took as they walked through the House of Slaves.

The House of Slaves on Ile de Goree is a Museum and UNESCO World Heritage site that commemorates the darkest period of man’s inhumanity to man – The Atlantic Slave Trade.

Goree was the holding port for slaves. Of the approximately 45 million human beings who were torn from their homeland to be sold in the New World, nearly 20 million left from this place to face the treacherous Middle Passage crossing. First begun by the Portuguese, this trade in human ‘cargo’ went on for three centuries from 1536 to 1848.

At the entrance to the Museum stands a statue depicting a female and a male slave. They are bare breasted. The woman holds onto the man her face uplifted. The man’s hands are lifted high holding two parts of a broken chain. He too looks upward. There was an involuntary hush as we walked from the statue and through the doors of the Museum. The slave house had rooms measuring eight feet by six feet in which up to twenty persons, shackled by their necks and arms were held. They were allowed one daily bathroom break. Families captured together would most likely be separated here as they would be once they arrived in the New World. If you came to this holding pen you had already lost everything including your name. After all cargo was a numbered commodity not a person. You got a number and your next official identity would come from the person who would buy you and therefore owned you.

Dare to show resistance, to rebel and you would be relegated to two small cells, so small you were unable to stand up. You would be shackled, seated, with your back against the walls. A hopelessness seemed to emanate from these two cells. Doom, bleakness, darkness, defeat, despair hovered in the air. My stomach knotted. I gasped audibly interrupting the guide.

“Sorry,” I said.

“It is OK. Many people cry in this place. In fact Nelson Mandela was almost in the same place you are when he wept.”

We continued the tour and came to the Door of no Return or ‘last look’ door. I took a picture, the same place President Obama had had his picture taken. I cried. I could not help it. I imagined the heartbreak as each one realized that once they passed through this door to descend to the waiting slave ship it would be the last look they had of their homeland. Now they were losing the last vestiges of belonging, of home.

They had lost their personhood when they were traded for guns, trinkets, food. There was a formula to assess the value of this human ‘cargo’. Children as tall as a man’s leg, females tall enough to reach a man’s chest no matter their ages were desirable, even more so if they were virgins. Men were assessed according to their weight. If a man weighed less than 60 kilos they would be taken but kept in a special holding room at Goree and ‘fattened up’ with beans to ensure a better price when sold.

The strongest, fittest, tallest men were the most valuable. They may be worth a gun or two or more. No problem, as these were going to bring a high profit when re-sold in the New World. Also, they were the ones most likely to withstand the rigours of the Middle Passage crossing.

I struggled for breath as I listened to the atrocities, to the barbarism. I was ashamed at the description of the ‘cargo’, the ‘goods’, the ‘numbers’. They were human beings, mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, princes, princesses, chieftains, innocent children. There was no nuance or balance to my emotion. What I felt was raw, rough, deep anger. This was beyond cruelty. And this abominable trade lasted for over 300 years!

I had studied this bit of history; I had watched the movies and documentaries, seen the depictions in books and listened to erudite speakers. No cinematographer, no author, no speaker or history scholar could capture the emotion of seeing this up close. Walking through the Stygian gloom of The Slave House shook me to the core. This was evil, pure and not so simple.

The tour did not end there though the rest seemed immaterial until we visited St Charles Church, built by the Portuguese in 1658 and the place where you got the best view of the House of Slaves and Ile de Goree. I could just envision the pious and devout congregants leaving mass and looking at the island, maybe see a ship loading the ‘cargo’ and mentally counting the profits the ‘cargo’ would bring.

The Meander: I wept when I first visited The Berlin Wall and wept with joy as we were at the re-opening of the Brandenburg Gate by President Bill Clinton. I wept at Auschwitz and said a prayer for my late brother-in-law, Theo, who was held in Dachau. I weep for sadness and weep for joy but my tears at Ile de Goree were the deepest most hurting tears I ever shed. I was weeping not only for the 45 million but also for the current 20 or 30 or 50 million living in slavery. For these the chains remain unbroken.

Oh, by the way, we are Celebrating Black History Month!

It’s a Journey

Life is a journey is an oft repeated cliché. There is truth in it. What better way to describe the path we each travel from birth to death.

My Bert and I recently celebrated our 50^th wedding anniversary. I have been pondering our journey together. There have been many journeys within the journey. All began as unknown territory.

Journeys begin with hello. They end with goodbye. Some flash by like comets others are slow perambulations. Some are sunlight, some are dark night; some give you strength, some make you weak.

Some you want to hold forever; some you can’t wait to let go. Some make you laugh until you cry some only make you cry.

There are journeys that you seek and journeys that are thrust upon you.

Some journeys lead you to people who become Lifeliners, friends forever. Some lead to people who are fleetingly important for just a moment in time.

Journeys are moments, no matter the duration. Some are landmarks of your life that help you find your soul, your strength, your spirit. Journeys are multifaceted. You juggle the segments, living them concurrently. Journeys teach you to multitask.

Journeys are never straight, direct or easy. Yet once you begin you must continue.

Some journeys seem never ending. You stumble, ineffectual, distraught, full of fear, numb with disappointment. You see chasms and dangerous cliffs, mountains that seem too high to scale. There are twists and turns and unexpected obstacles. These are the fragments that seem to be put in your path to frustrate you, only you. Now comes the realization that this is really your journey, only you can walk this particular road, only you can make the decision which path to take.

It is wonderful when you can take control of the journey. You have solutions to problems, answers to questions; you dream the impossible and see it become possible. You start out in uncharted waters diving into unknown territory and surprisingly make a safe, happy landing. Yes, some journeys are wonderful, delightful and satisfying.

Each one has a life journey. How you travel it is up to you. You can accept the help of friends and family with grace. You may show gratitude for the kindness of strangers. You may be lucky to give love and have it returned twofold. In the end your journey will be a reflection of your truth, of you.

More than 50 years ago My Bert and I like so many others have over the years, made a decision to walk our journeys together. What a journey it has been and continues to be. On this challenging leg the decision on how the journey unfolds is mine to make for both of us. I can make us both miserable; bemoan the unfairness of it all or I can embrace the privilege that it is to be a caregiver to the one you love and to whom you are the world.

My Bert and I are still saying hello to love, to life, to joy. We embrace the moments and while they are fleeting for him and lasting for me they are our moments. His journey and mine will commingle as they have for more than 50 years. We will continue to walk in tandem and greet each day with hope that it will be a good day.

The Meander: The day you are born is the day you begin to die. That is inevitable, inescapable and undeniable. As my Bert and I continue to say hello at the dawn of each new day I hope we will both be able to rise to the occasion and be ready to say goodbye at journey’s end. In the meantime we will keep on with the journey. We will live the moments and not look around the bend. Why bother? What is there will come without fail.

Birthday Conundrum

Our next port of call was Tabuaeran, Fanning Island in Kiribati. Tabuaeran is the same as Fanning Island in Gilbertese, an official language of The Republic of Kiribati (pronounced Kiribash). Needless to say, by the time we tendered into port I was already confused. We got the information overload from a Mr. Fanning himself after whose ancestors the island was named. It was a delight to travel with him and his charming wife and to attend his most informative lecture.

Fanning Island is like Pitcairn Island, out there in the Pacific Ocean almost in the middle of nowhere. A beautiful atoll, a ringed shaped coral islet surrounding a central lagoon, and shaped like a foot. In fact Tabuaeran, means ‘hallowed footprint’. There is no electricity, no piped water, no mountains and no jungle. It is low lying just above sea level so global warming is a definite threat to its existence. It would only take one big tsunami and pfftt, no more Fanning Island. Residents number less than guests on ship (1900) as it is estimated there are only 1200-1500 people living there. Its land area is approximately 13 square miles. The lagoon is 426 square miles, 7 miles wide and 50 ft. at its deepest.

Canned meats are considered delicacies. We were met by a singing, dancing troupe of both men and women dressed in grass skirts. There were a few older people dressed in original coconut fibre clothing reminiscent of the similar sartorial choice of Nuku Hiva. The most significant crop and export is copra so coconut palms abound. They appeared to be wearing coir welcome mats including headgear. This analogy is quite appropriate as they are very friendly with a welcoming smile. I took one look at the dress and immediately felt scratchy and HOT. Employment and another export come from large seaweed beds owned by a conglomerate that sell the seaweed to spas and health and nutrition companies worldwide.

Diet is fruit, a few root vegetables, fish, pork and sometimes chicken. Breadfruit is a staple, and we were introduced to a plant from which sugar is made by boiling the sap.

There are three nurses on the island to look after medical needs including dentistry and should there be a serious illness it is a long boat ride to Christmas Island 160 miles away for the nearest medical Centre. Supply ships come every four months and if you should get really ill after one has just left then it is likely you will die. The children seem well cared for and happy.

We did the grand tour, crowded on three wooden benches in the small and only diesel truck on the island. There were lots of shell jewelry and carvings for sale.

Now to explain my birthday conundrum: Prior to 1994 The International Date Line (IDL) ran right through the middle of The Republic of Kiribati. That was a problem as the East and the West were on different time zones and if you woke up at 7:30 a.m. in the East, the next atoll over would be waking up with the same sunrise but it could well be 26 hours later or prior? It also meant that business could only be done on four days of the week. The Governor declared the IDL would be adjusted to bring Kiribati into one time zone. That declaration resulted in the Eastern half marking Friday, December 30, 1994 and waking next day on Sunday, January 1, 1995. This explains why Kiribati is the first place to celebrate New Year’s Day, and why the IDL jogs far right at Kiribati. Help!

But that’s not all. These islands also sit at the equator, so as the ship cruised along to stop at Fanning Island and carry on our South Pacific sojourn it just so happens that my birthday fell right in the middle. So there was one day I celebrated my birthday, and soon was celebrating my birthday again and of course, there was the Neptune/Poseidon ceremony as we asked the God of the Sea to grant us safe passage and permission to cross the Equator. Oh what a mess! Oh what fun! Oh what a conundrum!

On my birthday we crossed the Equator so I was in both the Northern and Southern Hemispheres. We crossed the IDL twice so I was in the East, West, North and South of the world on my birthday. While I tried to wrap my head around the puzzle my Bert just happily went about asking the ship’s staff what time and what day it was according to ship’s time. He found it amusing and had no intention of figuring out anything. It would all right itself somehow, he knew. Sure it did, but five passengers had birthday celebrations two nights in a row neither older nor younger than a day prior or later?

The Meander: There were times we looked at our travel account and felt we should put it to better use. Such thoughts died immediate deaths. Travel always won. We would not have it any other way. On these cold days, I miss it so much but the memories are alive and well in my head, my heart and my travel journals. We are grateful. No regrets!

A Golden Night

Friday January 11, 2019 I woke up very early. The weather report said it was -12 Celsius with a wind chill of -20! Brrrrrrr. But this is Canada in winter.

January 11, 1969 was on a Saturday. When I awoke then it was already 28 Celsius with a projected high of 30! But this is Jamaica in winter.

The coincidence did not escape me. Fifty years married and a 50 degree difference in temperature.

On Friday, January 11, 2019 my Bert and I celebrated our 50^th wedding anniversary with 50 close friends. It was a Golden night, a night filled with love and Light.

The setting was special, decorated in gold and white. The dinner was marvellous. The toasts were heartfelt and warm and so eloquently delivered. Best of all was the love that seemed to permeate every corner of the room.

I saw friends making friends. I saw smiles, heard joyous laughter, saw caring glances and chuckled at the comments made at our ‘before’ and ‘after’ photographs.

It was a night to reminisce. Fifty years is a long time together for any couple. During that time we loved, we argued, we worked, we had successes, we had failures, we gave, we received, and we brought two wonderful children into the world. We mourned, we hoped, we laughed, we always laughed. We travelled the world, we helped, we got help, and we supported and received support.

It was a celebration of friendship. Throughout our lives my Bert and I have been blessed with the most wonderful friends. We are so grateful for that so decided we would do our best to have some of them share in our joy and to let them know how much they mean to us. They were representative of so many more whose influence and guidance and love have helped to make us who we are.

It was a night of family and friends who are family in every sense of the word. There were some we missed, but who were with us in spirit. Our best man at our wedding could not be with us in person but he was with us in song as his recording of The Prayer was played. At our age some who wanted to be with us could not for a variety of reasons but we still felt their love.

The highlights are many. The wonderful paean from our dear friend; the tribute from our beloved son; the reading of Sonnet 44 Elizabeth Barrett Browning ‘s How Do I Love Thee.

However, the greatest moment of sheer immediate and spontaneous laughter happened when we attempted to renew our vows. Our family friend and Minister had in perspicacity and necessity reduced the vows to a simple: “…Bert I ask you, do you still want to be married to your wife Paula?” Bert looked at him and said: “Let me think about that.” The laughter filled the room. I was in stitches as I thought: “That’s my Bert.” As usual, my Bert set the mood for the rest of the night. It was laughter, joy, Love and Light in the company of family and friends.

The Meander: My Bert and I opened the dancing with ‘our song’ Unchained Melody. As we danced, my Bert held me close and sang the words throughout to me. In our eyes was only love. Love endures.