Seven.

Seven years... feeling at a loss for words today, so I went back.  These last few days I have felt the need to go back.  Back through photos of her smiling, beautiful face.  Videos of her laughing, talking, moving.  The missing, seven years later, is every bit as deep.  So - today I will go back.  Back to where we grew up.  Back to share memories and honour her, as a family.  

 

The following are the words I spoke for Shari at her funeral seven years ago.  Since I don't have the words today, I will share these instead...

 

How do you put words to the loss of a daughter, a sister, an auntie, and a friend?  We can’t, and any efforts here to encapsulate the life of this angel will fall short. Shari, for those of you who didn’t know, walked a difficult road for most of her life.  Hers was perhaps not the path that my mom and dad would have hoped for when she entered this world all those years ago.  While she lived, while she grew, while she evolved and while she achieved… anxiety and depression were her constant travel companion.  Tired from the constant challenge of carrying this far too heavy burden, Shari left us last Monday in a moment we struggle to define and understand.

 

But while our gathering here today is defined by this sudden loss, Shari was much more than the burden she carried and the decision she made to ease her pain.  Few people epitomize the tag of  ‘gentle soul’ more than Shari.  How many of us carry our burdens with such grace, with such patience and beauty?  How many of us would literally stop to avoid hurting an insect, how many of us bite our tongues when confronted with an opinion or perspective we don’t agree with so as not to offend?  Shari glided through this world touching the lives of every person she met and negatively impacting so very few. 

 

It is easy for me to remember the sister that I admired, the person that I loved and looked up to.  When I was little and would wake from a bad dream, I ran scared to Shari’s bed for comfort.  Shari was my older sister, my confidant and my protector.  Over the years, and especially in this past year when things got scary for Shari, I am proud to say that she came to me and for what was one of the happiest times in my life she lived with my family.  I was honoured to have her turn to me for support and for me to be able to repay her for all of the times she had held me and protected me.  During those precious months I reflected on how beautiful she was, I laughed in ways only Shari could make me laugh and I watched her love and nurture my family in ways that I could never repay.  I will be eternally grateful for the love she showed Andrew, for the way she instilled her artistic temperament in Nora and for the confidence she gave Julian to have deep, philosophical conversations.  My sister has always been a part of me, and always will… but to see her reflected in my children and to see their love for her fills me with a pride I cannot put into words.  Thank you Shari for teaching me, from the day I was born, what true love and friendship is. 

 

To my mom and dad.  I cannot begin to understand the pain you feel today, but I remind you of your beautiful family and how much your children love and care for one another.  These past weeks have shone a light on how close we are and how much love we were raised with.  Shari never wanted to disappoint you and she ached when her emotional setbacks would cause you stress.  I know that you have carried the burden of her challenges more than anyone else.  You have done so with love and dignity and I know she loved you deeply for your efforts to respect and understand the complexity of her emotions.  The connection between you, parent and child, is epitomized by the harsh reality that while we searched for her for four very long days Dad knew where she was instantly.  Dad knew where she lay and felt intimately what her last steps had been.  Last Monday evening, tired of the struggle to be at peace with herself Shari walked from my house to the boathouse with the bright light.  She followed that light, and the metaphor here is not lost on any of us who were looking for the signs, she found comfort in that light and she would have her spent her last moments under it.  She entered the spot where dad said she was and there she entered into the light of another protector and the peace she so restlessly looked for her in life was given to her.  

 

Be at peace, my sweet sister, my best friend.  

I love you, always & forever.

oscar & clinka

I have always drawn.  For as long as I can remember.  With some breaks along the way.  My brother, sister and I all grew up loving to sketch and paint.  Our family never quite understood where this 'artistic flair' came from - neither mama or papa like to draw.  My brother enjoys drawing caricatures, sista was always drawing, colouring, painting, creating.  For myself, I did the majority of my art during school, doodling or sketching when I should have been paying attention.  

I tend to sketch the same things over and over:

flower

butterfly

tree

house

sun

swirly shapes

oscar & clinka

I started sketching oscar & clinka in university - during class, of course.  They ended up being a recurring addition to the comic section in The Brock Press.  Some of the scenarios I created for them were autobiographical, and others were just made up gross or strange things I thought about.  It always felt safer to share gross and strange things through oscar & clinka than in 'real life'.  Sure, the comic was 'by Jules' and it was distributed to the ENTIRE university... but, besides my tiny group of friends, no one really knew who Jules was...

I remember a particularly inappropriate submission - like, I think I blushed when I handed it in - and two weeks later someone wrote a Letter to the Editor saying:  "I don't know who this Jules guy is, but he really needs to get some professional help..."  I remember finding it funny not only that my sketch upset someone so much they felt compelled to write a letter to the editor, but even more amusing was they assumed such grotesque inappropriateness could have only come from A GUY.  After that, all bets were off - I was officially inspired with the goal of being as inappropriate as possible.  I was also sure to sign my followup submission:  'by a Girl named Jules'.

I know I am not alone in this, but the funny thing about me and art is - I only want to do it when I am inspired to do it.  Once oscar & clinka developed a following (likely under five people) I hated the pressure of 'having' to come up with creative ideas and draw them.  Hence, the vast majority of submissions were drawn while I was in class, on whatever scrap piece of paper I could find, usually on the same day it was due to be handed in.

Once I became an 'adult' and a 'corporate professional' I would still draw on occasion.  My subject matter, however, became much more appropriate and palatable.  I gravitated towards sweet, lovely little sketches of:  flower, butterfly, tree, house, sun.  I would sometimes sketch in my notebook during long meetings, or training sessions.  A few coworkers noticed my art, some of them truly appreciated my lovely little sketches, and for them - I would draw on my very best paper, and frame them as gifts.  One or two of my pieces even became tattoos on other people's bodies (which I love...).  oscar & clinka spent a long time on hiatus, safely tucked away in a binder placed on a high shelf in the basement.

A few months ago, a friend asked to see the original oscar & clinka pieces that were in The Brock Press.  I pulled the old binder for her, and watched her pour over each piece, laughing along the way.  She loved the realness and edge to them and encouraged me to start drawing them again.  A few days later I pulled out my sketchbook - and sadly realized that the last time I had drawn in it was in 2014 - the year we lost Shari.  I took a deep breath, and clinka poured out of my brain and through my hand... oscar quickly followed.  It felt good to draw them, and breathe new life into them again.  They now live on their own Instagram account:  oscar & clinka.  I only draw them when I feel inspired to do so.  I am not sure how inappropriate they will get - but a part of me hopes I get a Letter to the Editor.

jbxo

Twenty-Two Egg Cartons

 

Papa is old school.  He doesn't always have to buy things with money like the rest of us.  Growing up on a farm, he learned the age old tradition of the barter system.  You know:  I have cucumbers and you have tomatoes - let's swap!  I always found it fascinating to watch my dad go out to 'run errands' and 'pick up a few things' in the summer.  In addition to checking that he had his wallet (which he usually couldn't find) he would spend time carefully loading a box of items from his garden, and setting it in the back of his vehicle.  Many hours and visits later, he would come back home stocked up with a variety of items, always including a carton or two of eggs from a local farmer.  In my dad's world, one DOES NOT EVER throw out or recycle an egg carton.  Egg cartons are to be saved, and brought to his farmer friend, to be filled with more eggs.

My dad isn't a huge fan of the Big City.  When he comes for a visit he usually finds an excuse to run an errand, or go for a walk.  He finds the houses a bit too close together, it makes him antsy.  One question he would always ask when he came here or when I went to them was:  "Do you have any egg cartons?"  I haven't recycled an egg carton in years, I keep a little stack in the garage, and would usually have three to five cartons saved up for my next visit - handing them to my dad, his eyes would light up like I was giving him bricks of gold.

I haven't seen my mom and dad since August 2020.  My stack of egg cartons has been growing in the garage for months.  Every time I add a carton to the pile it hurts my heart a little bit.  Each carton represents time spent apart - with no clear end in sight.  Visits, meals, laughter and stories missed.  Time that we can't get back.

As we approach the one year mark (I refuse to use the word 'anniversary') of this very strange time, and apprehensively move towards a 'new normal' I am thinking about how much has changed, how different I am, how different we all are - especially for those who have lost loved ones.  One year ago I referred to an article I read which perfectly detailed how, through the pandemic itself, we were all going through a grieving process.  I still find this to be very accurate and true.  Much like any great loss, we have been in shock for most of the past year, there has been denial, anger, depression... as we slowly move into acceptance.  Interestingly, for me, much of this past year has also been peaceful, beautiful - an awakening and a realization that in many ways I don't want to go back to 'what was'.

But, the one piece that continues to break my heart is the 'missing'.  The time with those we love, that we will never get back.  The empty egg carton stack that continues to grow...

I miss you.

jbxo