twofunkyhearts

My dad sent me this photo a few years back with the line “Would you get into a car with this man?” The photo was his taxi license from the ’70s.

Of course, my answer now would be “Yes!!” There’s nothing more I’d rather do now than drive around with my dad and listen to his stories. I think as a child it’s natural to have a somewhat one-dimensional view of your parents. They are irrevocably in that role, and it’s a bit of a stretch to see them in any other light. Of course, as a parent now myself I realise that I’ve got over 3 decades of life before my son was here, and while being his mom is my primary role now, I have a whole lot of life before and outside of him. My dad, obviously, was the same way. Half of his life he lived before my existence, and most of it I know little to nothing of. Much of his life even when I was alive and somewhat cognisant, I know little of.

So this is a call for stories please. I’d love to hear about my dad in the way that others knew him. When my dad passed, several people said Dad had been their best friend. He was known and loved by so many, and was a man of mystery (like who IS that guy in the photo? Anyone who knows that guy – tell me stories!). Censorship not required.

Seriously, if you knew my dad and wouldn’t mind telling me about him, please do reach out. I’d love to know you, and know a bit more of him. My email is: darylahiebert @ gmail.com (no spaces).

Hug your loved ones close, and ask your taxi driver about themselves.

19 days ago my dear dad passed on from this life. He was a ‘best friend’ to several people, and to me he was a big hug at the airport, a mischievous and fun grandpa to my son, and words of encouragement and softness at the most surprising times. That encouragement, perhaps most unexpected for me, came largely in the form of support for this humble blog. To my enormous surprise, he loved reading it and would almost always email me after a post to tell me what he thought (often saying something along the lines of “I loved reading it – but be careful!”). I’ve always been self conscious about writing publicly, but if my tough guy dad thought it was alright, my efforts were validated. His support, generosity and love made his obituary and eulogy sadly easy to write.

And so, this blog is for you, Daddio. I should have said it sooner, but it’s always been for you.

Starting a new year always gets me thinking of what I need to do. What to make, what to learn, where to go, which skill to hone, how to give. My tendency is to make lists, write goals, reflect on what I did the previous year(s) and how to do more, be more, in the next few hundred days.

Many years of shameless ‘self improvement’ have led me here. That search was fulfilling, in a way, at the time, but I don’t think goal setting and chasing more has done me all that much good, despite whatever New Years resolution self-help articles might say. To me, I’ve come to understand there’s a difference between being organised and ruthless goal setting and chasing. Being organised to me means general preparedness: a physical, mental and emotional tidiness for what might come. In contrast to goals, it’s not outcome specific. It appreciates the unfolding, as opposed to being obsessed about the bloom.

Those beautiful words above, attributed to Rumi, land well with me this year. So much of life since becoming a wife, a mother, a gardener, a landowner, a committed community member, has been about efficiency. Making sure the laundry gets hung up, the dishes done, the floor vacuumed before my son wakes up. Every trip to town must include a shop at the grocer, visit to the library, stop at the market, playdate for the little one, and (of course), some pushes on the swings. Cramming the most into the shortest amounts of time make things, well, crammed and cramped. Often I admire the doers, the overachievers, the workaholics, but more and more I understand they’re often not people at peace.

This year, like Rumi says, I wish to stop running. Sure, many of the activities that fill my days now will continue in the new year, but I wish to find space in them. To recommit to the practices that have created such a beautiful life in the first place: silence, mediation, contemplation, connection, prayer, writing, reading words with substance. Sometimes it feels unfeasible, but it is entirely possible to live a ‘busy’ life that is still calm and expansive, to bring silence with me into communication. This is what I hope for myself for 2022, and what I wish for our beautiful crazy world.

2020 was a beautiful year.

I know I’m not really supposed to say that given the current social climate. It’s like admitting you know all the lyrics to a cheeseball song or the dance moves to a Spice Girls music video (shut up, Megan).

But it was really good for us.

Sean and I started the year cross country skiing in the Kootenays, Hutchy showed up at the end of February, we left the big smoke for the coast soon after, and have been busy making a lovely life. Volunteering at local market garden farms has been a highlight, as has starting our own radio show on community radio (107.5, 2EARfm on Fridays between 10-1pm if you want to tune in). We’ve been so busy making our current situation a dream that we have almost forgotten how annoying lockdowns and face masks can be. As much as we are citizens of the world, it’s been wonderful to be citizens within this 5km radius. We’re incredibly lucky to live where we want to be, but also to have the energy, interest and time to make this place the kind of world we want to live in.

It’s nearly 1am and I haven’t yet gone to sleep from yesterday. This is, hands down, the longest I’ve willingly stayed awake since Hutchy was born. This late, long night has been spent prepping for Canadian Thanksgiving tomorrow. Last year, with me pregnant and tired, Sean stayed up till 2am making pies. This year, he was exhausted and after much persuasion, I put him into a restorative yoga pose which he hasn’t yet arisen from. This year, it’s my turn to plan Thanksgiving.

I’ve been making pumpkin pies from scratch, a veggie chilli, a kangaroo chilli, a pot of rice, quinoa-black bean “salad”, and some experimental pumpkin squares. (We over-roasted pumpkin this year… Not that I’m complaining).

As much as I know that I’ll be tired tomorrow, it has been nice to putter around the kitchen in silence on my own. Thanksgiving was always my favourite holiday growing up – no fuss with expectation or gifts, a (fairly) low stress feast with friends. As tainted as the concept of Thanksgiving is by the actual practice of it by colonialists, I believe modern-day Thanksgivings are one of the most beautiful ways to get together with neighbours.

As I cooked tonight I thought back to the Thanksgivings of my life, and to the people who have been a part of them. Of course, Shell Lake, Saskatchewan with Art & Judy up the hill. Those were my favourite Thanksgivings – huge smorgasbords of homemade dishes thrown together by a warm, eclectic, caring group of people that filled in as pseudo-grandparents. Judy passed earlier this year, but I’ll set a spot for her at our table tomorrow.

Later there were the Thanksgivings with friend’s families when I lived in Toronto in my early 20s. A decade later I appreciate being included more now that I did then.

In Belgium I hosted my first Canadian Thanksgivings at my beautiful apartment in an 18th century grand maison, inviting coworkers. Reflecting on it now, I feel it was a bit sad that my only guests were people from work. However, I likely only have that awareness now that I’ve landed in a place I call home, so maybe – when everything is taken into account – it isn’t that sad.

Then there was the Thanksgiving with Sean in Canada the first year we were together. Pumpkin pie hooked him – he asked me to marry him a few days later.

Returning to Sydney, we hosted the next few at our place in Bronte, bringing together a varied crowd. They didn’t all have a lot in common except for being really good, really interesting people. Something about feeding other people is so nourishing.

And now, here we are. Canadian Thanksgiving 2020 in Congo. Hutchy’s first. I hope he’ll grow to love it as much as I have, and to look back on his childhood Thanksgivings with fondness. I don’t think he could feel otherwise. Pumpkin pie is in his blood.

The Australian government has just announced WWII hero, Teddy Sheean, will (poshumously) receive the Victoria Cross for valour in combat. His story is amazing. Having been commanded to abandon ship after being torpedoed by Japanese bombers and coming under fire from fighter jets, he returned to his anti-aircraft gun in an effort to protect his crewmates who were in the water, strafed by the fighter planes. Teddy went down with his ship, only 18 years old.

At the time Teddy was not awarded the Victoria Cross, and had been denied again in 2019, but seeing that the Australian government has fumbled the Coronavirus response and needs something new for the news cycles, Teddy is now making headlines as the newest recipient recommended for a VC.

Reading about Teddy while looking at my sleeping son, I reflect on how it seems we truly don’t appreciate how fortunate we are until we’ve lost something. In Australia, the area we have been living in have suffered droughts, incomprehensibly catastrophic bushfires, a global pandemic, and now flooding. And still, this country continues to pillage, granting coal mining rights under Sydney’s water reservoirs, post-bushfire logging, giving approvals to blow up 46,000 year old cultural sites of inestimable value to humanity. The idea of war is especially barbaric to me now that I am a mother. Wars waged against people and wars waged against our environment… both are incredibly destructive, but the second may worst. As we continue to drain the Earth of resources to quench our insatiable thirst for consumption, the options for future generations are becoming increasingly limited. I look at my baby and wonder what the world will look like for him in only a decade or two.

North American indigenous culture examines an individual’s capacity to affect 7 generations behind them, and 7 generations ahead. The Iroquois made decisions thinking of the world 7 generations ahead of them. Our leaders could not be further from this kind of thinking now, even when we have more than ever at risk. Individuals are still voting in governments which destroy natural wonders for short term gains in investment portfolios that they intend to pass down to their children and grandchildren. But what use is money when their world is gone? And these are the lucky ones… we don’t speak of what will happen to people in places like Bangladesh, or speak of climate refugees with no protection and no options. While this coming generation has incredible capacity to change the ways of our society, we need to stop stacking the deck against them.

For as long as Sean and I have known each other we’ve talked about the leaving Sydney for somewhere closer to nature. It’s been hard to decide where to land – Canada or Australia? Mountains or ocean? Bush or beach? As always, the answer came when we least expected it – with a newborn baby and a global pandemic.

Leading up to HB’s birth, Sean and I agreed to a period of “confinement” (translated from the Chinese, Zuò yuè zi). This meant that for 40 days after his arrival, I didn’t leave the house much. No grocery shopping, no groups of people, no computers. However, within 2 weeks of Hutchy’s birth, lockdown measures were looming in Australia. The infamous toilet paper brawl that made international news happened not far from where we live. One Tuesday night Sean went out to get a few essentials. He returned home with traumatised eyes, and suggested it was a good time for a trip down the coast. Oh, and I should bring whatever I might need for the next month. Just in case.

We drove 5 hours south of Sydney, and sure enough lockdown measures were introduced. Instead of going back to the city we decided we’d stay put and changed our address. We stayed for 6 weeks of bliss, taking short walks on the beach, hanging out with our new little family. It was so good we decided to find a house of our own nearby. After lockdown lifted we returned to Sydney, rented our apartment and then drove south to our new permanent home on the coast.

So, here we are. In paradise. Miles of empty beach north and south. The Great Divding Range to the west. The Tasman Sea to the east. 120 steps to the bush. 200 metres to the ocean. Surrounded by national park. Wallabies and kangaroos milling about. Pods of dolphins play in the surf.

It’s been a good move.

Hutchinson Balou Barker. Happy, healthy, hearty.

Life is forever changed. The three of us are embarking on something brand new.

Sean and I are back at our favourite log cabin in Jasper for a month. It’s wonderful to be here, sitting by the fire, looking at the mountains, getting caught up on coursework and reading. (To be honest, I should qualify that by saying at this moment it’s great, but at other moments I get incredibly jealous of Sean skiing and am much more of a negative Nancy. We blame the mood swings on pregnancy but I think taking a season off while looking at the mountain would testing for anyone).

Jasper is a town of beautiful people. Last night I had the pleasure of getting to know Glenda, a 77-year resident of Jasper who was born on the prairies not too far from where I come from. She told me how she and some other ladies started fundraising for a seniors centre over 12 years ago and that it all started with a cookie walk. Pregnant and naturally sugar-addicted I was intrigued. It turns out that Jasperites donate their baked goods, and on one day in December the seniors’ center sells the cookies back to the community, in any combination buyers desire. It was just my luck that today was that special day.

My interest in cookies at this time is purely gluttonous… I know that whatever I would like to tell myself being pregnant, cookies really are not a nutritional necessity. In fact, just this morning I was sitting on the couch, talking to Sean about maternity pants (as you do). For some weird reason that is totally incongruent with looking good or with the practicalities of wearing long underwear in cold weather, maternity fashion leans towards tight pants. “Jeggings” and tight-ankle pants are the go. It should be obvious to all that this is a bad idea… As I said this morning, it makes me feel like a saran-wrapped cow. Sean, ever sensitive, consoled me by saying “No babe, your legs are just a bit more ‘drumsticky’ than they were before”… and to make sure I knew this was a compliment he followed it up closely with “that’s the bit everyone asks for when eating chicken.” Perfect.

Despite saran-wrapped-cow-drumstick-legs, I made my way to the Jasper Cookie Walk today. It was a competitive field, with a line up of easily 40 people between me and the cookie table. Several distractions lured me away – a 50/50 draw, the silent auction – but I regained focus in time to make it to the front of the line and walk out with 2 dozen cookies (most of which will be taken begrudgingly to another event this evening to limit my exposure and potential for gluttony).

It’s quite humbling how life works out. Only a few months ago I was saying I missed distance running and hiking and should get back into it. I never thought the Jasper Cookie Walk would be my first foray back into the field.