They call me Dr Love

"It's a good and bad thing to be considered an expert in love. I don't think there's any point in pretending that you get to be an expert by meeting your soul mate early on, going through a few meaningful ups and downs, marrying in a cloud of good taste or even in a meteor shower of funk and crunk, and then dying, 50 or 60 years later, having had a faithful and fulfilling love life. We don't call those people experts. We call them lucky." (-Amy Bloom)

I am not one of these "lucky" few (nor, if you're interested is Amy Bloom, author of the above-referenced article). Some might say that I've done the research necessary in order to become an expert, however. If wisdom comes from learning from mistakes, I've made enough mistakes in love to be a sage.

Nonetheless, last Wednesday, I got married. Not for the first time. It's an entirely different matter to call oneself an optimist over the age of thirty (especially with so much mileage). However, I believe this story calls for a glass-half-full mentality.

Once upon a time...

In 1992...

two little girls met in Mrs Reid's fourth grade class.

(Hint: I am one of those two girls)

The other girl is my oldest and dearest friend, L. We celebrated our twentieth anniversary last summer in Vegas. We discovered that we are too old for roller coasters and met the actual living descendants of Captain and Maria Von Trapp (We went for tacos with them! At 2am! At Jack-in-the-Box!)

She is my family. She is my heart.

I have always loved the family that came with her (as she did mine) not just because they're awesome, but because they belong to her.


So. My point. I just married my best sister-friend's little brother.



Think about that friend.  The one with whom you first shaved (hacked) your legs. Who listened while you sang Rizzo's part in Grease (over and over). The one you call when your life falls over. The one who sends you flowers with quotes from Bio Dome on the card.

And then you fall in love with her brother and the two of you get married.

That's what I did. On Wednesday. August 14th because it was their beloved grandparents' wedding anniversary. I married my best friend's brother. Not only that, but I got to marry his WHOLE FAMILY. And he got to marry mine.

The whole thing is so filled with joyous memories that distilling it once again becomes my blessing and my curse.

Deep breath...

The day before the wedding, by miracle or design, my fiance and I find ourselves alone in a quiet house. It is a "Remember This Moment" moment. As though the collective sum of our troubled pasts has somehow imploded to create something unspeakably perfect.

Our sister (!!!) L and her amazing partner collected driftwood from Kootenay Lake and created a stunning arch under which we
were married.

 

Everyone cooked. My dad played guitar and sang a playlist (vetted by my mother) of the best love songs ever written. My new brother-in-law brought his turntables all the way from Calgary and played the most beautiful and irreverent set you could imagine.

We wore what we felt like wearing. My new husband wore a Canucks hat and purple high tops. I wore white. Yeah. I know.

We didn't send out invitations. Mostly, we ran into people who were really excited to spend our wedding Day with us and those people showed up.

It was the perfect day. It is the perfect love. The perfect family.

Listen Friends: I would never pretend that I was patient with love. Even if I tried to get away with it, no one who's ever met me would buy it.

I lost faith in love many times after nearly killing myself trying to convince the world of my worth (or lack thereof). I tried so many goddamned times to give my love to people who didn't want it.

My dear friend, J's mom, Donna used to say, "Better no one than an asshole." Now. Not all of the men I've spent time with were assholes. Some were very lovely. Some would qualify in spades. Nonetheless, I venture to expand Donna's saying oh-so-slightly to include, "Better no one than the wrong one."

I cannot say if this is true for you. It has been true for me. Insincerity chafes at the crotch for me. I never get away with it for long before Life kicks me hard in the proverbial junk.

And so, after many years of swimming against the stream, I gave in and adopted a dog. I had pined for a dog for many years. "I'm alone every night. Why not?" This was the physical manifestation of my deciding to make my solo life a joyous one. Not by going to the bar. I was a single mom. I learned to step out beyond the limitations of barely tolerating my own company into the liberating territory of loving myself. It has not been easy. I do not pretend that your road has been easy or will be easy. In fact, I'm SO SORRY for how hard it has already been.

All I can promise is that it's worth it. Please believe me. Just a little?

This bitch got her happily ever after when all hope was exhausted. My best friend is my sister. Her brother is my husband. He's the yin to my yang. The perfect fit. He loves my child the way parents do. He does, like, all the dishes. Seriously. 85% or more.



Please wait. Or don't wait. Make your life as awesome as possible the way it is now. That way, if your perfect fit never shows up, at least you're having a kick-ass time of it.

That was my "strategy" anyway.

From someone who's been there,

-Er

Irish Blessings

May you have warm words on a cold evening. 
a full moon on a dark night,
and the road downhill all the way to your door.
-Irish Blessing

I just touched down after the trip of a lifetime...aaand I have no idea what to say about it.
















You'd think that a life-changing experience such as this would net me a ton of raw material, but in truth, the raw material is so raw that I can't even pin down a story.

I've been blessed to travel a lot and (somewhat) disciplined enough to write about most of it. A standard travel diary is what I've often used to record my wanderings in the past.

"And then we went here"

"And then we ate this."

In recent years, I've been so bold as to venture into, "After we did this, I felt that."

I've practiced yoga in four countries in two years and written inspired lesson plans and boring, self-involved journal entries.

Truthfully, the most interesting ways in which I've described my travels is via Facebook statuses and emails to my friend, B.

So how does this modern BFA write this trip and how it changed me? Dear God, not with poetry...

I tell the Internet.

Dear Dad,

There may be inaccuracies in my telling of this tale. Forgive me. I am as much a storyteller as you are a scientist.

Love, Er

This trip began as a tiny seed, three years ago.  My dad (an historian and full-on genealogy buff for my entire memory) was torn as to whether or not to renew his ancestry.ca membership when he received an email from E, "I think you belong to us"

We do. We didn't just find new relatives. We found new family. In Ireland. A whole bunch of them. And they're awesome.

This story begins in 1906 when a young Irishman fell in love with a young woman from a lower class. They leave Ireland, marrying on the ship that carried them to Canada. And back and back and back. I have ancestors and they're as immediate as anything.

See? It's a HUGE story.

I expressed to my dear friend/brilliant yoga student, R that I'd been experiencing writers' block around this post. She said wisely, "don't try to write the whole thing. Let it sink in and then write the moments."

So...

My Irish Trip

Part One

Ireland is really pretty and green. I had fun. We saw a lot of castles and drank some Guinness. 

The end.

Okay. Now for real.

Dublin at 5am when the streets are still dirty and we walk down the river Liffey and past a pile of human feces on the boardwalk. It is covered politely with a restaurant napkin. My mother wonders what we got ourselves into. We have three breakfasts and then sleep for four hours.

Live music in EVERY pub. Every night of the week. The kind of bands we pay a lot of money to see in Canada when the opportunity presents itself. My throat is raw from singing along.

Hospitality so immaculate that it begins with a recommendation to visit the Dublin Zoo from the gentleman at Irish customs who stamps our passports (we do. It's the best zoo I've ever seen). The hospitality doesn't end until our cousin drops us off at the bus depot in Wexford two weeks later (again at 5am). In between, we are inundated with family love. They chauffeur us, tour us, feed us and hug us the entire time.

Sierra's favourite memory, "The clothesline." I admit it's one of mine too.

The death-defying country roads. Fiery death around every bend. Don't even ask about the fruit stands. Wexford strawberries are worth risking your life for, but risk it you shall.

Family. Loads of family. Kids with adorable accents. Sierra's first sleepover with her three new cousins/bffs. "I will be brave, Mom. I am not ashamed"
(Yeah. That's a direct quote. I'm in trouble).

Time. On vacation with my daughter, I am the kind of mother I always mean to be the rest of the time.



















Bonding with my Canadian family as well as the new Irish one. Time shared between Sierra and her uncle, her grandma, her papa. Loud time, quiet time. Time to drink coffee (the best coffee) while looking out over Waterford Harbour. Precious, precious time.



There were castles and abbeys. They took our breath away. More than once we went on private tours of these places because not only does our Irish family know EVERYBODY but they were also so generous in sharing their time and passion for history.

There was a kayak trip for which there is no photographic evidence because Jonathan dropped the camera in the water (sorry, Jonathan. Last time).

As is customary in my family, there are many inside jokes that no one else will laugh at but have to be included nonetheless. I'll refrain from elaborating because I've promised myself I'll avoid self-indulgent,boring travel-diary prose.

You're a Ballyhack

What does it mean to discover that you've got a whole second home, far away across the sea? To discover heritage you didn't know you had and experience it to such a first-hand degree that it becomes part of your marrow? To absorb the suffering and pride and resilience and humour of a culture that's simultaneously yours' and not? To leave home to go home?

(I'm not entirely sure. It hasn't fully sunk in yet.)

But I'm pretty it means that I'm the luckiest girl in the world.

I ate a lobster roll at Hook Lighthouse that all other lobster rolls will fail to live up to, got lost in a yew-maze with my cousin, traveled 36 hours with my brother (senses of humour intact) and was many times moved to tears by the embrace of a family brought back together after over a hundred years by new technology and passionate persistence.

I dearly hope we can one day return the hospitality of our Irish loved ones and show them what Canada's been up to over the last century.

Until that day, I'll keep the kettle on,

Er

Growing...

A garden is a grand teacher. It teaches patience and careful watchfulness; it teaches industry and thrift; above all it teaches entire trust.

Gertrude Jekyll

We are in transition at our house. Not only is our family growing and learning our new places and roles, not only is our baby girl growing bigger by the second, but my fiance and I have both been seized by an insane desire to live with and on the land a little more each day.

It's really quite yogic in concept and will be old news to those of you who've been cooking perfect quinoa for years.

This just in: we feel better when we eat healthier!

We've been going gluten freeish. There's nothing militant about it. We ate brown rice noodles and organic free-range meatballs the other night. We're neither vegans nor entirely gluten free.

...we even...eat sugar...

Cue the theme from Psycho!!!

My dear friend, P calls herself, "Wheat Free, Meat Free, but not Sweet Free". We try to abide rather loosely by her model.

And, damn! It feels really good.

You know what else feels good?! Connecting with our food. On an emotional and psychological level, we're getting to know the food we eat a little more intimately. We grow a bit. We make a little more by from scratch.

Mom (last Sunday via text):  u might be becoming a hippie.

Me: Becoming? I'm a yoga teacher...

Mom: Yes, but now u make ur own granola too.

It's true. We eat salad grown in our backyard and have had no less than five conversations this week about wheat grass. A juicer is the only item on our wedding gift wish list.

Mom (Monday via text): What do u you want for ur birthday?

Me: How do you get your question mark to go upside down?

Me: I want a lemon tree. Or a juicer. Or a stand-up mixer.

Mom (after several minutes): A lemon tree??

Mom: Seriously:

Me: Yes. A Meyer lemon tree. They're sweeter.

Mom: where does one buy a lemon tree?

Me: On the internet.

Mom: hippie.

My love and I were swinging on our porch swing recently, discussing all the things we want for and from our home and yard. Lattice to shelter us from the illegal trailer park which has cropped up in the half lot next door. Enough wood to last at least three winters (so it can dry properly and heat efficiently). Oh. And a wood stove to burn said wood.

And then, we stopped for a moment to appreciate the fact that our yard will never be 100% complete but it's been the perfect place to grow our family in.

The yard isn't finished. We have a lot of lettuce and a bit of spinach in the garden (aaand...not much else). But nothing was even there a year ago so it's producing beautifully by comparison.

Besides which, fun things happen back there...

Yes, we're happy little hippies who come home from yoga class and head inside for a mostly gluten-free meal when it gets too cold out to sit on the porch swing and dream.

And then we pound through a bag of Swedish Berries while watching Game of Thrones.

Are you in transition?

What are you doing to get a little closer to that pie-in-the-sky lifestyle?

Keep on Growin',

Er