Sandi Knight Photo — The Trans Canada Trail, Neepawa, Manitoba, Canada
This, is my season…
I love the cool starts. When crisp morning walks awaken the senses and refresh the spirit. When I sit on my deck, steam wisping away from my coffee as I hold the warm mug in both hands. When hummingbirds flit past me, gathering nectar to fuel up for their long journey south. When both summer and migrating backyard birds take turns splashing about in the bird bath. When a gentle breeze whispers promises through the leaves of trees awaiting their fall make-over. When flowers are vibrant and bright, alive with butterflies & bees. When I pause to appreciate and soak in the beauty surrounding me.
I love the warm, sunny afternoons. When sandhill cranes circle high above, and I hear their distinct, rattling, throating call. When the steady hum of combines can be heard in the distance, gathering the season’s bounty. When the garden is full of fresh produce to gather for dinner & preserve for winter. When a snack can be grabbed as I walk by the apple tree. When I can fit in a last-minute beach walk or hike with a friend. When our dog rolls happily in the shade in lush, cool, green grass. When the sky is bright blue and wispy clouds float seamlessly through it.
I love the rainy days. When the dust of summer is washed away, brightening up the landscape. When it’s cool enough for soup; for turning on the oven to transform forgotten bananas into mouthwatering muffins. When I grab my favourite sweater & make a cup of tea. When I call friends to catch up or make plans to get together. When the dog curls up beside me on the couch as I read a book. When I slow down, pause, rest & reflect.
I love the evening walks. When harvest sunsets take my breath away. When a cricket symphony plays in the background. When migrating geese & swans fly overhead in their shifting ‘V’ patterns. When the moon rises to the east as the sun slips away in the west. When darkness comes just a little earlier. When the stars appear by one-by-one until they form a twinkling net from horizon to horizon. When I hear the soothing, rhythmic call of great-horned owls. When I sit on our deck for just a little bit longer because I don’t want the day to end.
This is part of my story, my family history. It was published in “Chicken Soup for the Soul — All in the Family” in October 2009.
Reunited with my dad — March 23, 1995
The first letter arrived a few weeks before Christmas. My heart stopped when I saw the return address. I was pleased but apprehensive. I dropped the rest of the mail on the counter and sat down at the kitchen table.
I had written to ask him for family medical history. The reply was long. It had the information I had requested and then some. It explained a little of my past, but kept me at arm’s length. I re-read it a few times, then wept and set it aside.
Life goes on; many things sit and collect dust in the back of one’s mind. A year later, an unexpected Christmas card with a family photo arrived from his wife. She said he was busy working out of town but he would write soon.
I studied the picture. Immediately, I knew where my looks came from. I really didn’t bear much resemblance to my mother’s side of the family, but here was a man staring back at me who looked familiar in so many ways.
He had a grown son and daughter — a family of his own who looked so happy together. They wanted to get to know me. Asked if I could send a picture of my family. I wasn’t sure. Did I have the courage to go forward?
A mere week later, my aunt reminded me, “When one door closes, another opens.” I hadn’t thought of it in that way. My mom had just died. My aunt encouraged me to write back.
The reply came in February. As I read his letter, my eyes misted over. He would be in Manitoba in March. Could he and his wife stop by to see us? After almost thirty years of absence, he wanted to meet me.
Excitement, happiness, fear, and sadness washed over me all at once. My toddler wanted to know why I was crying. Not wanting to worry him, I replied, “It’s okay. They’re happy tears.” To be truthful, I had no idea what those tears represented.
Saying goodbye — July 1964
I was only two years old when they divorced. Hard as I had tried over the years, I had no memory of him. Divorce laws weren’t necessarily fair in the 1960’s. My mother did not allow any contact — no cards or letters, no phone calls, no pictures, no visits. Gifts he mailed were returned. He did not want to make a bad situation worse, so reluctantly agreed to stay away. An unselfish act in his eyes. Living two provinces away did not help.
When my mother remarried in 1966, she changed her surname, but I still retained my father’s last name. So growing up, I always knew of his existence. When you are young, you accept your life as it is. It was not until I had children of my own that I really began to question my parents’ decisions. How could have they thought this best? It was likely complicated, but no one ever offered an in-depth explanation.
Now, here I was a parent myself, feeling very much like a child all over again. I had a month to pull myself together, a month of waiting and wondering. It wasn’t as though I wouldn’t be busy. I had a two-year-old son and a newborn daughter. The end of March would be here before I knew it.
Then panic set in. Would I be ready? How would I look? How would I feel? He was coming to Manitoba in March…what if it stormed? Our farmyard always looks so bleak and unkempt that time of year. Would he get lost trying to find our place in the country? Would I have the house clean enough? Would he think I was a good parent? What if he didn’t like me? Would they stay for lunch? What would I cook for two people I didn’t know? Was this really a good idea? I was reeling. I needed to breathe…three deep breaths in and out. It wasn’t working so I tried again, slower this time. Don’t worry, I told myself. It will be fine. I needed to calm down, but couldn’t shake the anxiety and fear.
The days and weeks slipped by, and March 23rd arrived. The weather cooperated. The roads were fine. Our son and baby daughter had slept well and looked sweet and innocent. I, on the other hand, looked tired and nervous.
We watched and waited. A car pulled into the yard. They got out, opened the doors to the back seat and pulled out gift bags. They had brought presents. I had nothing for them. Lunch alone would have to do.
They saw us in the window, smiled and walked to the door. I welcomed them into our home. He put down the bags he was carrying and came up the three stairs toward me. Then the unexpected.
He reached out and hugged me. It was a big bear hug filled with emotion. It spoke volumes. I have never been hugged like that before or since. The hug said, “I’m sorry.” It conveyed, “I’ve missed you. I’m happy to see you.” It expressed, “I love you.” It made up for every missed birthday and Christmas. It explained, “I wish I had been there for all your firsts, for every accomplishment, and for every time you needed a shoulder to cry on.”
I didn’t want to let go, and it seemed he didn’t either. The hug replaced my worries with comfort. Words were not needed after all, but introductions were, and so the hug ended. It was time to relax and visit. We had a lot of catching up to do.
We visited again that summer in Alberta, then continued to call occassionaly and exchange letters. Over his time communication dwindled. His last letter to me was in November 1998. We tried to connect for a visit in 1999, but it didn’t work out. I never saw him again. He died on June 22, 2001.
Serendipity — “the fact of something interesting or pleasant happening by chance”. This beautiful painting by Kathy Bradshaw and my fictional story fit that narrative in a surreal way. As Kathy was finishing her captivating forest piece, I was writing this. Neither of us had any idea what the other was doing. In fact, while we know each other from social media, we’ve yet to even meet in person. The experience truly feels like a ‘Big Magic‘ moment. I hope you enjoy the collision of our creativity.
“I can smell the moss” — Kathy Bradshaw
Sarah quietly slipped away — away from the crowded house, away from the stories, away from the condolences. She needed to reflect on her memories in peace, needed to feel near her Gran.
She walked down the garden pathway, through the horse pasture, along the fence line until she reached ‘their’ tree. Two intertwined hearts were still on its trunk. She paused a moment, her fingers tracing the worn etchings, lovingly inscribed by Gran all those years ago, “So you’ll always remember the way, even when I’m not here.”
Oh Gran…I’ll always remember the way, and the very first time you brought me here.
I was so upset that day. My parents once again exasperated with me, “Why are you crying this time?”
Gran looked at me and softly said, “Come along.” She saw me, understood me, didn’t try to change me, “I love you just as you are!” She took my hand, guiding me quietly and gently down what would become a familiar, comforting trail.
I cautiously followed her on the narrowing path, large, lush, green ferns brushing against us. Then the clearing opened before us, so welcoming, so magical. Sunlight filtered through trees, dancing on the moss-covered floor. Tiny blue flowers, “Bluebells,” Gran said, swayed gently in the grass beneath the trees. It felt like we’d entered a secret, enchanted forest.
And so, it had become their place, their private forest oasis — where it was safe to cry, be upset or excited, to feel all her emotions without judgement. Gran listened, nurtured and loved. She taught Sarah about birds, insects, animals, about trees, moss, ferns and wildflowers. She encouraged imagination and creativity.
They would lean against the trees or stretch out on the soft bed of moss. Sometimes they read or Gran would tell stories while whittling tiny perfect carvings. Sarah would colour or draw. As time went on, she began painting, exploring with watercolour and pastels.
One year Gran bought her a camera, and Sarah’s love of photography began. Behind the lens she became skilled in the art of noticing, of being present and immersed in what was in before her, and with while doing so, her anxiety would dissipate.
Even though it meant moving away, she had been encouraged by Gran to go to university. Little did Sarah know at the time, that it would be for more than four years — that her work would take her around the world, photographing people, animals, buildings, monuments, and landscapes she never could have imagined as a girl. Gran cheered her from afar, and when her health allowed, she would travel to Sarah’s openings and exhibits, proudly beaming and telling anyone who would listen, “That talented young woman is my granddaughter. She sees and captures what we may miss.”
Sarah bought Gran a digital photo frame to keep up with her latest travels and projects. Weekly phone calls or video chats kept them connected, and she came home as often as she could. Then, no matter the season, Sarah and Gran would make time to visit in their special place in the forest — to catch up, reconnect or simply just sit, listen and observe. This was, and would forever be, her favourite landscape.
Various photographs from here and her expansive collection had found their way into children’s hospitals, daycares, schools, shelters and even youth detention centres. Her intent was to do what she could through her art to decrease anxiety for children while invoking a feeling of calm and safety, especially those in difficult situations.
With time and success, she’d been able to accomplish this, at no cost to the organizations, through her own non-profit organization — the “H3 Art Network”, in honour of Gran. When Sarah suggested it be, “Helen’s Healing HeArt Network”, Gran quickly declared that name was far too long. After much debate, Gran finally agreed to the H3 abbreviation.
Over the years, many prints, canvases, and even custom door wraps had made their way into countless spaces. At Gran’s suggestion, H3 also expanded to work with senior centres, assisted living associations, personal care homes, hospitals, health care facilities and hospices.
Sarah never imagined her vibrant Gran being in any of those places, especially a hospice. Yet it happened. Gran requested her favourite photo be hung in the common room — “as large as life please!” It was impossible not to smile at her determination and enthusiasm.
It was one Sarah had captured with her first camera. When spring was ebbing into summer. When the greens were vibrant and varied. When sunlight danced playfully on the carpet of moss. When the bluebells swayed in the grass. At that moment, when Gran and Sarah had entered the clearing, they’d both stopped, captivated by the beauty of it all — almost afraid to take another step or speak and break the spell of the tranquility and perfection before them.
Sarah loved that photo too, but the file was too small to print the size Gran hoped for, so she enlisted the help of a dear friend and talented painter. The canvas was ‘as large as life’ and the re-creation of the photo was beyond what Sarah could have wished. The texture, the colours, the details perfectly portrayed the photo and captured the emotion of their special forest retreat.
When it came time to hang it, she wheeled Gran out of her room and watched her reaction as it was unveiled. Her face lit up in amazement, “Oh Sarah dear, it’s like we’re there again! I can see the bluebells. I can feel the breeze. I can smell the moss.”
A week later, her beloved Gran, her coach, her cheerleader and life instructor was gone. Sarah wasn’t sure how she could carry on, but she knew going back to their spot was what she needed to do now, and it would always be so, whenever she needed to feel her Gran’s presence.
Three different paths. Three different journeys. Three different stories.
Yet here they were, at the same opening, at the same time.
Drawn here by some unknown force. Fate? Serendipity? A higher power?
It didn’t matter. They walked into the forest side-by-side. Quiet. Solemn. Disheartened. Each carrying their own burdens of sorrow, trauma and pain. The shadows of the trees seemed dark, daunting, almost frightening.
They could hear a stream in the distance, and instinctively knew, in that opening sunlight would be dancing on the water as it rippled downstream. They paused a moment but weren’t drawn there.
The trees were calling today. They chose to go deeper into the forest, single file as the path narrowed, the tips of branches brushing against their shoulders.
It led them to a clearing where worn tree stumps encircled a fire pit made of stones. It was time to stop. To light a fire. To be together in this sacred spot.
They sat, shared their stories, their truths, their hurts. Relinquished all pain into the smoke, watched it circle up, up into the tree tops and beyond…
For a long while they were still, quiet, reflective. Then the one with long, dark hair started to laugh — a contagious, joyful laugh. The others joined in. Feeling lighter. More complete. Free.
The dark-haired one suddenly leaned to the left, swung her feet to the side, one hand on her chair stump. She let the momentum carry her, twirled and began to dance.
How could the others not dance with her? Let joy flow through them? Celebrate — their new-found feelings, unlikely connection, each other and this healing circle?
Their secrets were safe here. Sunlight filtered through the trees. Laughter echoed through the woods.
An acrostic story. (26 sentences. The first letter of each new line beginning in sequence with the letters of the alphabet)
Airborne at last, Zaida heard her girlfriends cheering as she finally gathered the courage to leap.
Being there for her today, and over the past year, meant so much to Zaida. Cancer had been the unrelenting enemy and while the fight was difficult, there were bright moments along the way.
During her treatments and surgery her astounding friends — Taylor, Val and Jane — supported her with food, visits, phone calls, messages, housecleaning, yard work, chauffeuring duties and most importantly ~ laughter!
Even when she pushed them away in her darkest hours, they remained close by, giving her space but refusing to leave her alone in her battle. Friendships like that are a treasure. Giving up hadn’t been an option, and their support had been as important as her medical team’s efforts to reclaim her health and get her to Rocky Point today.
High above the treetops on this spectacular June evening, she released her fears, both of heights and cancer. It was exhilarating! Jumping off the platform hadn’t been easy, but wow, what a ride it was!
Keeping her eyes to the sky, she saw a bald eagle soaring high above — a symbol of strength and courage. Letting go of her tight grip on the rope, Zaida closed her eyes, put her faith in the harness, leaned back and flew upside down along the cable.
Memories of the past year dissipated as she embraced the moment, feeling the cool evening air rushing past her. Never before had she experienced this feeling of total abandon. Officially cancer-free and flying high above the gorgeous ravines of the Pembina Valley, she felt euphoric.
Preparing to land, Zaida pulled herself upright, smiled broadly, letting out a ‘whoo-hoo’ as she coasted to the next platform. Quashing the trepidation and anxiety she had felt at the beginning was liberating.
Rocky Point Hy-Wire Adventures promised a “breath-taking outdoor thrill ride” and they did not disappoint. Sailing across the 1000-foot cable, 150 feet above the ground was indeed a thrill, and actually fun, yes fun!
Taylor had been right when she said if Zaida could beat cancer, she could conquer anything! Using this adventure to overcome her fears wasn’t as crazy as she thought.
Val’s wild shrieks now echoed across the valley as she was next to come across the zip-line. Watching her friend fly towards her, arms and legs outstretched at wide angles, Zaida laughed.
“X marks the spot, so outta my way!” Val hollered.
“You not only did it, you let go and hung upside down you show-off!” Val teased as she embraced Zaida.
Zaida’s name meant, ‘fortunate one’ and she felt incredibly fortunate, and grateful — for her health, her family, her supportive friends, and this amazing, empowering experience.
She stood in awe of the mountains towering around her, inhaling deeply the pure, crisp, cold air, wondering why it had taken her so long to get here.
She could hear the echos of those who had come before her, feel the spirits of those who never made it home, lost to the power of nature in this incredible landscape.
A place where beauty and harshness collide, where light and darkness create shadows of hope and fear, faith and uncertainty, power and helplessness. A place where time stood still, yet urged you to move forward — to follow your dreams, listen to the yearnings of your heart, use your gifts and your strengths to their full potential.
This moment was fleeting yet she knew it would stay with her forever. She now understood the lure of the mountains. Coming back would not be merely a dream, it would be her reality, her future. Of that she was certain.
There was a softness in the morning light. A feeling of calm, of peace, of hope.
Overnight, frost had painted the sleeping trees. The waking sun casually spashed soft pastels onto the canvas of clouds rolling by.
She abandoned her coffee, pulled on her boots and jacket, and opened the door. The air was crisp, refreshing — it helped clear the fog of the week’s heaviness from her mind.
She wandered through the yard, paused to watch the sunrise, admired the white crystals coating the landscape. How lucky she was to be surrounded by this beauty. To have calm envelope her, while the world seemed to swirl in chaos and uncertainty.
She raised her camera with hopes of capturing not only the view, but the feeling, the emotion of the moment. She couldn’t change the world, but maybe, just maybe, she could brighten someone’s day by sharing this soothing view. And if nothing else, she would be documenting the memory for herself. A photo to look back on, to recreate that feeling whenever she needed it.
As she ran her fingers over the worn and weathered logs, she knew she had found the homestead — her grandmother’s birthplace. Sarah could feel the presence of her ancestors here. The roof log of the tool shed had collapsed, but the four walls stood proud among the trees and long grass. She admired the dovetail construction — such perfection, such strength.
To the west of the tool shed were remnants of the ice house. She imagined her grandmother running barefoot through the grass, sent to retrieve milk or butter from the cool building on a hot summer’s day.
Sarah wandered through the overgrown yard site. Large leaves and a tinge of red in bright green grass beckoned her back towards the road. Rhubarb! Was the garden once here? The house couldn’t have been far away.
She continued her search and found the stone foundation where the house once stood. It had been gone for so long, a victim to fire. A gust of wind, a long curtain and a coal-oil lamp. Destruction was swift, the effect devastating and life on this piece of land never the same. Tears welled up as she imagined the horror of that day.
For now, she needed to get to the task at hand. She had promised to take pictures. She had promised to bring back a stone from the foundation. She had promised she wouldn’t cry. But tears overtook her. She sat down, head in her hands and wept.
I’ve been going through old stories trying to re-ignite my creative writing. This one was inspired by a visit to my great-grandparent’s homestead near Willowbrook, Saskatchewan in August 2010.
Sandi Knight 