In Tofino

The desire and need to put pen to paper has been quite absent from my life lately.  It’s an odd feeling, but one that has evolved over the last 24 months.  My life has been overflowing with busyness that I’ve barely noticed my blog has stood still since 2014.  The longest period of time in between posts since this journey began in 2006. 

I am thankful for the life I have now.   My busy, yet simple regular life.  It’s one that I have longed for since cancer broke my heart over ten years ago.  My children are healthy, my new husband loves me with all my messy surges of grief and I live beside the ocean with the people that I love and crave time with the most.  It’s simple and I am content.  I never thought I could feel insulated from the reality I once knew.  Where every day was a struggle and I thought I would die of a broken heart.  I never realized the infinite capacity we all have to heal.  It just takes time, patience and courage.  None of which have come easily to me.

I have had a nagging feeling to bring this blog back to life since my visit to Tofino last March.  A place I have wanted to visit since I moved to the West Coast in 1998, but never did until just recently.   It’s given me a sense of peace and closure that I have been reluctant to write about for fear of ending this chapter of my life I’ve called “OnTofino” for the past 11 years.  I have commented to others over the years that writing has saved me. This blog has given me a safe place to write and process and work through the grief of losing Mark.  And it’s also been the place where I have discovered joy and happiness and the ability to love again in a way I wasn’t sure was possible.

Visiting Tofino in March of last year was a full circle moment for me that didn’t really show itself until the morning we were leaving.  I stood in Cox Bay that morning in awe, listening to the waves crashing against the shore.  It had rained in the night so everything was wet and slippery, it smelled of wet pine needles and the rays of sun were just breaking through the clouds. 

I had run up to the top of the path that morning for one last peak at the vast ocean that lay before me.  At home when I look out on the horizon, I see what are now familiar landmarks, the sandy spit and the small islands that speckle my daily view.  Mount Baker frames the landmass across the bay and forms the landmark from which I orient myself.  Here, the ocean looked wild and untamed, endless really; you could see forever.  I wanted one more visit with this special place that captivated me.   As I reached the top of the path I was overcome with the beauty of my surroundings.

I had seen dozens of pictures of this bay, of these waves, but nothing prepared me for how I felt standing there.  It was like I had found something that I had lost.  Something that had been waiting for me right there on those rocks all those years.   I stood there for a while quietly, watching the waves crash in their rhythmic way and I felt a weight lift from me in those moments.  I felt lighter and to my surprise, a sense of peace washed over me.   It was comforting and noticeable.  With excitement, I ran back to the room to get Chris and I dragged him to the top of the path to show him the crashing waves.    We stayed for only a few minutes then got caught up in the drive that lay ahead and started our way back down the path to go and check out of our hotel. 

There wasn’t any prolific event that day, or even that weekend.  It was a simple weekend get-away with my husband that was long overdue.   I felt a sense of peace as we wove our way back home along the highway.  The trees seemed bigger that day, the mountains more magnificent; the music on the drive seemed perfect. 

  

I had contemplated this trek to Tofino so many times over the last 19 years.  I had tried to find the time in my life to go and sadly never found it.  After years of Mark and I saying we’d go to Tofino, something always came up.  A job, a baby, another move.  With each wedding anniversary we pledged to go, but life just happened. 

After I lost Mark to cancer and I relocated back to Ottawa, I always regretted never making the trip to Tofino from the Mainland.  I had been so close for almost 10 years but never ventured over.  It was a regret of mine for years to come.  I found myself starting over in Ottawa on a quiet little street in the west end.  Not only missing him, but missing the West Coast and the life we had built together. 

In a serendipitous way, our street and our new home chose us.   Off all the places we could have landed, we found ourselves on a quiet little cul-de-sac in the suburbs of Ottawa by the name of Tofino Private.   I’ve wondered for years if this was a coincidence.  If it were pure chance that the empty lot in a field I put an offer on that day would turn into my little piece of Tofino.   I’ve come to think over time that these things we think are coincidences are much more than that.    If we look, we can find meaning in what would otherwise be random events. 

Tofino Private was the place that my blog grew and changed along with me.  I often felt stuck and heavy with grief in those early days, but at the same time something inspired me to keep on writing.  I found clarity in sorting my thoughts as I typed.  I rarely edited any posts.  I typed, spell checked (always!) and then posted.  Pictures, poems, videos, whatever thoughts were jumbled in my head and my heart.   It was cathartic to share so openly and without reservation.  I didn’t care what anyone thought, I just wrote to stay afloat.    As hard as it was, over the years we made friends on Tofino Private and we built a life for ourselves.  It took time to heal and learn how to navigate life as a family of three, but we did.    

As the ten-year anniversary of Mark’s death is upon me this week I find myself all out of sorts and wondering where the time has gone.  Feeling tearful and somber, then grateful all in the same day.  With each passing year, I feel a sense of relief and guilt at the same time.  I made it through another year, I feel joy and love and my life feels regular again.  But the memories of Mark seem further and further away and my guilt for living a full and happy life without him weighs on me at times. 

I am happy now living here on Vancouver Island and I marvel at how time really can heal.  I have surrounded myself with people who care about me and are patient with my heart.   My family of three has grown to a blended family of six!  I feel grateful for a second chance to build my life with someone who shares my sentiment for my kids, for music and for living a simpler life.  

Chris knew of my unfinished bucket list item and we made the trip to Tofino last March.   All though it was a place I dreamt of visiting in my previous life, it felt so right to go when we did.  We walked the beaches and spent 4 days doing nothing, it was perfect.   I found myself feeling well rested for the first time in a long time while on that trip and we’ve decided to go back every year.

After returning from Tofino I came to the realization that my blog OnTofino was ready to be put to rest.  I’ve been reluctant to type these words but I’ve known them to be true for some time now.   I have always planned to share this blog with Audrey and Noah so that one day they can read about their Dad and the life we had.  Now that I’ve found peace with our lives and our loss, I’ll say goodbye and see you all on the beach in Tofino.

I'm here, I'm home.

I like the sound of the planes as they fly overhead; it’s a comforting sound.  Not loud and obnoxious, just far enough away that it’s novel.  Mixed with the seagulls and occasional ferry horns, this new place we call home feels majestic to me. Though we’ve been here a year already, I don’t seem to tire of the salt air that greets me as I pull into the driveway.  Some days stronger than others, it’s a sweet reminder of how lucky I feel.   It’s like the daily nudge that says, “Hey…you’re here – right where you’ve always wanted to be.”  

That’s how I feel as my family and friends board their planes and make their way across the country to join us for our upcoming wedding.  Marking a day on the calendar and preparing to declare your love for another person has a way of putting things into perspective.   You think about where you are and how you got here. 

I glanced out over the water today as I folded laundry in our bedroom.  I stood there for a moment in between the ritual of folding and pairing socks and I watched the sailboats tick by slowly.  The waters were calm and you could here the conversations of the passengers.  It made me smile to hear their voices.   I walked closer to the window to open it wider and the gentle cool air wafted in, the sun was shining in on the new floor boards at my feet and I thought – wow, I can’t believe I get to wake up here every day.  Folding laundry didn’t feel like a task in that moment, I barely even noticed I was doing it.

I’ve been warned that this Zen feeling of contentment and joy may wear off.  I’ve been told that tending to the details of planning a wedding and hosting it at our home may rob me of my sanity, but I’m not sure I believe that.   Knowing I get to share this place with my husband-to-be, our children and all the people travelling to share in our day makes me just plain happy.  I can't wait to see what the future holds for us as we build our life here together.

Light the Night - Victoria 2013

 I walked, I cried, I even caught myself smiling.  I stood in the crowd in a flat daze watching blood cancer survivors in royal blue shirts soaking in life.  Their smiles so real and deep, their eyes twinkling.  It was as though they had just run a race and crossed the finish line.  It was beautiful and painful all in the same moment.   These faces were the epitome of grateful.  Grateful to be alive, to be walking and conversing with loved ones.  Just thankful to have woken up that morning for another 24 hrs on this earth.

The lanterns marked your journey to the night air around you and to those at your side in the crowd.  Who hasn’t been touched by cancer these days?? Where you there supporting (red), surviving (white), or remembering (gold)?

It’s a double edge sword to be so naked with your spot in life.  You want to be proud and honour the life of your lost one. The person who taught you how to love with all your heart.  The person who lived for his family and children.  But, to uncover this vulnerability in a crowd of others is stripping.    You feel pity and sadness when you catch the gaze of others who know why you’re there.  You feel as though you’re robbing hope from the ones who think they can beat it.

I stood and listened to the speakers as they told their stories of survival, and loss.   I remembered instantly what it was like to live a life consumed by hospital visits and fatigue.  I watched Audrey and Noah as they listened.  There was no talk of it in the car afterwards, no questions.  I was grateful for the reprieve from answering or having to explain away the why’s of cancer.

There were tears, but just my own as I watched the two of them navigate the path of lanterns at dusk ahead of me.  As we wove through the campus they talked about what classes they’d like to take when they go to the University of Victoria.

Then the questions started…Where do you live when you go away to school?  When is lunch hour? How long is recess??  When is curfew?  (I’m sticking with that one!) How many books can you take out of the library?  Do you get your own computer?  We walked past the ocean and earth sciences building and Audrey declared her major.   I think Mark would be proud of the little individuals they have become.  I sure am.

always in our hearts

our woods

As I wind my way through the familiar streets to work each morning the backdrop to my 12 minute commute seems busier than usual to me.  The workers are out pouring concrete and it’s before 8 o’clock.  A new neighbourhood park has magically sprouted from a rocky field of disarray.  Colourful bobbles hang on the end of tubes covered in bubble wrap of the newest splash pad to be.  Young trees lie on their sides protected in burlap waiting for the crew to lower them into their new home.  A suburb has been growing on the sidelines of my shortcut to work.  It seems to have come from nowhere, the rows and rows of houses look endless instead of sparse as they did a year ago.

I wonder to myself how many kids venture past the orange netting on the play structure when the workers go home at night.  The kids and families in this development must be craving their man made park after living in dust and construction for over 2 years, not a sidewalk or tree in sight until this week.   I immediately feel a pang of guilt for coasting through the freshly installed stop sign like all the others that morning.

All this hustle and bustle on the way to work makes me think about my little piece of paradise that I’ve called home for the past 5 ½ years.  It too was the same in its infancy, a forest and field, converted to construction zone, and ultimately a 35 home subdivision.  Trucks and workers invading what used to be untouched land.  The older neighbours tell stories of how their kids used to catch frogs in the very place where my home stands today.  I wonder how different it may have looked prior to the development, but I don’t have to go too far to see.

I have been lucky enough to have enjoyed the beautiful forest that stands tall right outside our front door.   The beauty and accessibility to the woods is what drew me to this special place and it will be the thing I miss most about living here.  I have run miles and worked out life’s problems on these trails.  Cycled with my kids, taught them both how to skate on the pond and most recently how to cross country ski.  Every visitor to our home is proudly shown “our woods” and it has become a place that my children covet as though it were their very own. 

I am hopeful the newcomers to Tofino Private will find the beauty in our woods and love it as much as we have. 

Sidney by the Sea

Its funny how there are places in this world that just seem to fit.   You may never have been there before, but when you get there – it just feels right.  You walk the streets and unwrap a neighbourhood and feel as though it was meant for you.   You sit in the local coffee shop and speak to complete strangers who are happy to make conversation – it’s the middle of a workweek and the pace is peaceful, unhurried.  

Maybe it’s got something to do with the person you’re with, or the common desire to shift gears and make a change.   Maybe it’s timing, maybe its luck or fate.  It’s probably a combination of all of the above, but there is something about the west coast that feels different.  There is something about being close to the ocean and the mountains that make it a beautiful place to be.  A place that you miss dearly when you’re far from it and you wonder how you ever left it for so long.

By day 2 I had discovered my favourite place for coffee and the best breakfast place in town.  I knew where to buy a great bottle of wine off hours (this is BC!) and I could drive Chris to work and back and not get lost.   I took advantage of my alone time while he had the busiest week yet at his new job and I wandered the streets of Sidney with no deadlines, and nowhere to be.  It felt downright luxurious to wander and explore while the details of a pending house deal worked their way out in the background. 

As the week quickly drew to an end the patterns of a new beginning began to show themselves…my walk home from dowtown was on Third Street always because there are more magnolias and cherry trees to see on that route home.  And, if it’s early evening you can see the sun shining on the water as you peer between the waterfront homes.   My morning stop for coffee is already a done deal, and the cashier at the local market smiled at me again like she recognized me.

I think we’re going to like Sidney, it just feels right.

Etched

Some dates and memories just stick in your head, difficult to shake.  Years go by and you marvel at your own ability to remember.  How can a person remember what the air smelled like 7 years ago one evening?  The hum of fluorescent lights in a vacant parking lot, the rain drops shimmering on the hood of the raspberry red minivan.  Two lonesome cars, parked under a light.

The stillness and heavy feeling that saturated our bodies fell upon us like a blanket that night.  Standing out front the clinic in a parking lot in Langley.  We stood in between our cars looking at one another, grasping hands, speechless – afraid to let go and escape into the privacy of our respective cars so we could both cry and embrace the terror that was surging below our brave faces we had tried to put on for one another.   

This night is etched in my mind, as crisp and as real as anything today.  I battle with myself when the memories come back.   I wonder what is gained by reliving such a traumatic night?  Why do I do this to myself?  Why do I let a date on a calendar dictate my mood?   Am I getting better at it as the years go by, or worse??   Why is this so real, so easy to recall 7 years later?

I’d always thought we are somewhat pre-programmed to soften memories to make it easier on ourselves.  It’s our built in safety mechanism.   How else could people survive traumatic events?  It would be destructive to relive these types of things over and over.    Human nature must take over somehow and soften the blow for us.  I believe this to be true, yet – there are times when all it takes is a date on a calendar, a place, a familiar smell, or the way the light shines and the memory is there.   Like it never left your side, not even for a moment. 

With all my heart

The words make me smile softly to myself as I read them.  I find it crumpled up, wet in a school bag days after the winter break has begun.  A piece of art that was tended to with care at the time, forgotten with the excitement of record snowfalls and the anticipation of Christmas.  I place it on the heat register to dry in the night without peaking inside it and remind Noah the following morning that he may have forgotten something in his bag.

It dawns on him when I mention it and he’s immediately concerned about where he misplaced his handmade card.  He makes a start for his school bag, I tell him it’s drying and he stops, relieved that its not lost for good.  Forgotten again for another 24 hours.  Presents, visitors, more snow and the excitement of Christmas morning.

I finally receive the card, hand delivered to me from the heat register after it being moved one or two more times.  Seemingly forgotten and un-important but given to me with a moment of care and pride.

“Here you go Mom, I made this for you…for you and Chris.”

“Thanks Noah.”

A hug and a kiss and he’s gone before I wrap my head around the words.

I read them again and I stare at the printed words on the page and his carefully drawn heart.  I sit and think about how far he’s come, how much he’s lost and how full of love he is today.   Makes me realize just how lucky I am.

Happy New Year to you and yours, may 2013 be full of joy for your family too!

Leslie