The first Mother’s Day I didn’t hug my mom was May 1998, when I lived abroad in Mexico and went for almost an entire year without seeing my parents. I was seventeen. Mexican women, other mothers, raised me that year. My mom might have disapproved of my choice of strappy heels (she totally did), but she was 3,000 miles away. Over the years I’m guessing we’ve been apart more than we’ve been together on the second Sunday in May. There are plenty of reasons we’re not often with her to celebrate Mother’s Day (distance, work, in-laws), but the truth is that she’s just not the kind of mom that expects me to show up because Hallmark deems it so. Not only did I draw “unfussy mom” in the life lottery, but I also got a mom who has encouraged me to seek wisdom from other women and cultivate relationships far and wide. I’m sorry she was on her own today, but she’s a gardener; she knows that when you throw seeds in the air, sometimes you have to watch flowers grow from a distance.
As a kid, I spent a lot of time with my mom’s close girlfriends and my dad’s sisters. I thought everyone grew up sharing a bed with their aunties, spending special weekends in the city or travelling across the country in creaky hatchbacks without a plan.
Read MoreA few months ago, I looked at the calendar and realized this year school was letting out a little earlier and Labour Day was later. “What a long summer this will be,” February Me thought. “We should take a road trip!” Out came the maps. Could we drive through the Finger Lakes and then head north and see the entire Gaspé Peninsula? What are the secondary highways in Maine like? When would the lupins be flowering? That was then. Summer, like Winter and Spring, got a lot longer for everyone as we headed into March Break, or, as I have come to think of it now, the beginning of a new season we can just call the era of “fresh baked carbs.” The weird thing is, while I really was going to try “going Keto” (someday!), I may have secretly wished for a time warp like this. As J.T (our bearded Prime Minister) would say, “Let me be clear”… I did not wish for, nor would I ever wish for a pandemic, but I have caught myself many times in the last year thinking, “I would love to stop time.” Well, here we are…
Read MoreMany years ago, at a sleepover, I picked up an adult’s diary and began to read. I got as far as the first sentence before slamming it shut and carefully replacing it on the shelf. The person who penned those opening lines couldn’t possibly be the same person who’d earlier bought me an ice-cream cone! I knew the adage “you can’t judge a book by its cover” but surely if someone smiled all the time, they couldn’t simultaneously endure such inner turmoil, could they? Fast forward to the present moment. If you were to reach onto my (secret, hidden) bookshelf and pull down any one of my leather journals, the first words you would read would be: BURN ME. Mine is a life of adversary, jealousy and mountains of insecurity… at least according to the crazy diatribe that is my diary. Like millions of others, I’m not alone trying to make sense of the world and my place in it by pushing words onto a page. But, loathe to offer up my unedited ramblings for general consumption, allow me instead to direct you to some brave souls who aren’t afraid to open their hearts and minds and offer some worthy reflections in the midst of this dark mid-winter.
Read MoreThere’s an old song from the thirties I’ve always loved, maybe because I love origin stories. It begins, “I was born under a silvery moon, with a pirate’s heart.” Written by Agustin Lara, a troubadour who played piano in nightclubs when he was only twelve years old, it’s an ode to Veracruz, a city on the Gulf of Mexico where Hernan Cortés’ Spanish flotilla first collided with Huastec, Otomí, Totonac and Olmec civilization. Five hundred years later, Veracruzanos are dark-skinned, fair-skinned, freckled, tall, short. They may have black almond eyes or large green eyes, hooked noses or aquiline profiles… “Jarochos”, as people from the port city are affectionately called, are fond of nicknaming their friends and neighbours by their most obvious physical trait. Chubby? You’re “gordo”. Skinny? They’ll call you “flaco”. No tan? Güero. It’s the end of July, and I’m sitting by the water in my hometown, calling my “other” home, Veracruz, to wish Martha –my Mexican mama– a “Happy Birthday”, humming the old familiar tune until she picks up.
“Hola Güerita,” she answers, in her sing song accent.
“I found tickets to come see you in December!” I tell her excitedly, never imagining a few days later the cost of our reunion will break my heart.
“Excellente, mi hija,” she replies. Now tell me how you’ve been…
Read MoreToday’s the day the Toronto Star publishes my story, “North of Us”, in the Insight section. You can also read it here or listen to it by clicking on the link below.
Read MoreYesterday morning I woke up wishing I had been born a Buddhist. I practiced yoga (release!) and went for a run in the woods, trying to let go of a desire that was occupying way too much space in my mind. A week or so earlier, I’d been packing up at work, when my cellphone rang. The students wanted to answer it.
“It’s just the dentist,” I said. (Who else calls during the day?)
“Let us say hi,” they chirped.
Hmmm. That would be kind of funny, but no, I was there so they would get an education! No phones in the classroom! I checked the message later that afternoon, only to start shaking.
“Hello, Lena. This is the Toronto Star calling. You’ve placed in the top three finalists for the Short Story Contest.”
Read MorePapa Santos is a father after my own heart. When his now grown sons would bicker, argue, and escalate to blows, he would make them take off their shirts and hug one another bare-chested.
“This is your brother. Your only brother.”
He would solemnly repeat this mantra, ignoring the smell of their perspiring bodies, only allowing them to untangle themselves when their anger subsided. Today the sibling relationship bears the fruit of reconciliation from the loving persistence of their father.
I’m not sure child psychologists would prescribe this unorthodox method of conflict resolution today, but I still love the image of angry, sweaty brothers locked in a close embrace. In a world of cynical adversaries shooting pointed barbs across the Twittersphere, I could sell tickets to a show where people who find themselves at odds get in the ring and are forced into a drawn-out, skin on skin hug. No talking points, no agendas, no one single winner. Just Papa Santos chanting (whispering?): “This is your brother.”
Read MoreIt takes a moment for my eyes to adjust from the bright white snowy street to the dim surroundings inside. The door jingles as I close it behind me, yet there’s no urgency to summon assistance. I’m just here to browse, to slip back in time. The smell of everything ever sold reminds me where I am. Black rubber boots with red soles, woolen socks and insulated navy coveralls line the walls. I run my hands over the gloves: leather, suede, cotton. My shoes drip moisture into the old wooden floors, which cannot be sanded down any further. In the corners, where I head, there’s still a sheen of yellow varnish. On a dusty shelf, I spot preserves and start to laugh at a memory, tucked away like the layers of merchandise all around me. I pick up a mason jar and remember the February decades earlier, when my dad stood where I now stand. Realizing it was Valentine’s Day, and the stores were closing, and he was out of time, he decided the thing my mother would most love to receive would be a jar of pickles. You can guess my mother’s reaction. “But they’re really good pickles!” my dad insisted. They must be, because you can still buy them twenty-five years later.
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