Happy Birthday, 8 year old

Schoolbag in hand, she leaves home in the early morning

Waving goodbye with an absent-minded smile

I watch her go with a surge of that well-known sadness
And I have to sit down for a while

Slipping through my fingers all the time

I try to capture every minute, the feeling in it

Slipping through my fingers all the time,

Do I really see what's in her mind?
Each time I think I'm close to knowing, she keeps on growing
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Sleep in our eyes, her and me at the breakfast table

Barely awake, I let precious time go by

Then when she's gone, there's that odd melancholy feeling

And a sense of guilt I can't deny

What happened to the wonderful adventures?

The places I had planned for us to go?

Well some of that we did but most we didn't, and why I just don't know

Sometimes I wish that I could freeze the picture

And save it from the funny tricks of time

Slipping through my fingers....

Happy 8th Birthday, Anna!

(Words from © Mamma Mia soundtrack, Abba)

Last Hurrah of Summer

It's a tradition every year to do something "fun" to commemorate the end of summer. A last hurrah, if you will, before returning to school and the routines of autumn. This year, I surprised the children with a train trip into Ottawa for the day.

We took the bus from the train station - an adventure in itself for my country-raised kids - and headed for Parliament Hill to see the Changing Of The Guard (with its bagpipes and brass band and ceremonial sword salutes and fixing of bayonets), and to wander around the grounds.

And we took a tour of Centre Block. We had to go through security to get inside. Kind of like being at an airport. They actually confiscated my corkscrew(?) - try explaining that to a 6, 8 and 9 year old...!

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Inside we saw the House of Commons, the Senate, the beautiful architecture (the kids liked the wonderful reliefs and gargoyles carved out of the limestone) and the awe-inspiring Parliamentary Library which took our breath away (a fortunate turn of events as talking is prohibited inside). Then it was up, up, up to the Observation Deck of the Peace Tower. We were there at noon, just as the 23 bell carrillon was ringing out over the city.

After, we walked through Ottawa and the Byward market, past the US Embassy where a hunger strike was being staged (more explaining to a 6, 8 and 9 year old - who really didn't get why people would voluntarily not eat!) and onward to the National Gallery.

After lunch at the Cafe, we saw the Papal Art by such 16th century masters as Raphael, Michelangelo and Titian, although the kids were only really impressed once - at the large and somewhat gruesome painting of David holding up the head of Goliath.

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We did the Canadian Gallery because I just like to sit in the Group of Seven gallery and absorb their work (I particularly like Tom Thomson's The Jack Pine with it's layers of colour), but I somehow managed to miss the work of Alex Colville, who I also like very much.

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We looked at some of the modern art where huge canvases of colour (and one that was just painted black) were hung, making me feel ignorant because I have never really understood what makes them art. (If you're reading this and you can explain it, please do so).

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And we visited the Rideau Street Convent Chapel, because it is calm and serene and has marvellous presence, and sat by the adjacent Water Court to (pardon the pun) reflect on what we had seen.

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But of course, all of this paled beside one piece of art: the 30 foot tall giant bronze spider, Maman, that sits at the entrance to the National Gallery. And if art can be measured by wide eyed wonder, thrills and chills, this sculpture by Louise Bourgeoise won hands down.

Peaceful Easy Feeling

Between visitors and vacations, we haven't had a free weekend to ourselves in over a month, so once Saturday's round of school shopping, birthday parties, and having Erik's friend over was finished, it felt wonderful to fall back into my old lazy habits where I basically putter around doing nothing in particular.

Coffee on the stone steps while the sun rises over the old apple orchard. A picnic lunch under Ash's leafy canopy. Pull a few carrots from the ground for Sunday dinner. Make a couple of peach pies. And of course, always, wine at sunset on the veranda, keeping an eye out for the Great Blue Heron that makes his summer home down by the river somewhere.

Cannonball!

"Cannonball!!!"




That was the shout resonating across the lake a hundred times a day, as the kids (wearing lifejackets for my peace of mind) hurled themselves down the path, onto the huge rock that juts out into the deep water of the lake, and launched themselves into the air with a blood-curdling cry that would have done battling highlanders proud.

Ah, those quiet, serene moments of cottage life.

Books, books, books

I had three goals for my week at the cottage.

1. To have fun with the kids

2. To relax

3. To read books

1 and 2 were easy and remarkably complementary. And as I have raised a family of readers, #3 was achieved too. I read every morning after the canoe ride and breakfast. I read before lunch. I implemented Quiet Time for 2 hours after lunch and read then. I read after swimming, after boating, after fishing. And after the kids were in bed, I read again, in companionable silence with my mother-in-law, Liz, who is as avid a reader as I am.

I read 8 books. Anna read 3. Erik read a bunch (but some of them were graphic novels, which I as a purist only partially count). And Grace read with all of us.

On the Land

The cottage is stone and cedar, built halfway up the cliff on a ledge of rock so that we are amongst the treetops looking down at the ripples of the lake as the water breaks around the curve and face of the earth coloured stones.

Coffee on the deck, looking down towards the lake, was the perfect start to every morning at the cottage. The day stretched out ahead, no need to plan because at the cottage there is always time for everything.

Anna and I would start off with some yoga, stretching and balancing on the deck or on the flat cliffs behind us. We'd walk the dogs, and throw some balls for them to retrieve. The day would be spent on the water - fishing, swimming, and in the boats - but in between activities, we'd be up at the cottage eating, resting, playing games, reading. Me, the kids, and Grandma.

And after the last canoe ride, after the last dive off the rocks, we'd eat dinner and have a campfire (over the ashes the stories are told/of witches and werewolves and Oak Island gold) until night fell and we could head back up to the cottage to put three sleepy kids into beds and Liz and I could stargaze with a glass of wine.

At these moments, there is no malevolence in the universe.

On the Water

The first day at the cottage, it rained a little, and the lake was grey and pockmarked with raindrops. We swam anyway, the water cool and refreshing against the humidity of the day, and then sat on the rocks listening to the water rippling - a different kind of peace from the breaking waters of the ocean that I enjoyed a week earlier.

In the afternoon we raced off the rock and cannonballed into the deep clear pool of water below.

And in the evening, we watched the loons sail across, and were lulled to sleep by their cry echoing across the lake.

The next day we swam at first light and it was cold and clear. We dried on a rock under the morning sun, and then Erik and I went out in the canoe, slicing through the water away and then back to shore. The two of us went back out at sunset, farther this time, around the islands and back. Then we joined the girls diving into the sunlit depths, the surface warm, and the lake cool beneath.

It became an early morning habit for Erik and I to slip away in the morning sun that lit up the lake like a pathway. Sometimes the girls came with us, sometimes with Grandma in the paddle boat. Sometimes Grandma took the kayak out beside us and we explored the lake and the islands. At dusk one night, we all went out in the canoe, the laughter and voices of the children rising over the rhythmic sound of paddles in water. We pulled the paddles in and hushed as we got closer to the loons.

In that moment there was a lull, a peace, a sigh. As if the universe was breathing out slowly.