Eulogy for my paternal Grandmother, Irene Hamilton

Eulogy for my Grandmother, Jessie Irene Hamilton (Thompson). 1916 -2005

Delivered on November 22, 2005, Trenton, On.

 

I stand before you today, with the knowledge that we are all united, family and friends, not only in our desire to pay our respects to Irene Hamilton but rather in our need to do so.

Today is our chance to say thank you for the way you brightened and enriched both our independent and collective lives.

It is not an easy task to commemorate the life of a woman with such a rich character and beautiful soul. My reflections and recollections of my grandmother are many, and they offer a tapestry of memories rooted in beauty, wisdom, sadness and unparalleled happiness.

Even in its simplest form, the story of her life instils a sense of respect. It provides a picture of a life well lived.

Born Jessie Irene Thompson, she was one of four children born to Samuel and Charity Thompson in Napanee, Ontario. At times, her life was not easy – she found and lost love early in life, she was married and widowed at a young age; and left with two small children to raise on her own. 

Love then found her again, and she married my Grandfather when he was serving in Trenton during WWII. They were married for 44 years and raised a family of five more children. Now, many seasons have come and gone and she leaves a legacy of five surviving children, their spouses and more than forty grandchildren and great grandchildren.

If one were to write a book of her life, the underlying theme to which the plot plays out, would be rooted in her convictions, her values and her faith. From her notable work ethic and strong family values to the strength she drew from her belief that God would help her climb the highest mountains.

 While raising a family and working all her life, she still found time to be a Girl Guide Leader, a member of the Women’s Institute; an active member of the Women’s' Progressive Conservative Association, and the president of the North Trenton Home and School Association. There were very few community events that if asked, she did not volunteer to assist with.

Her dedication to her community and her sense of civic responsibility is, if nothing else, what we owe to her to carry forward.

It is within the story of her life, that I realize that the most important gifts bestowed upon us are the intangible. They are not the gifts we display in our homes; they are instead the gifts we receive with our hearts and with our minds.

I know that through the course of her life, Grandma inspired, guided and provided a platform for many different people. What she gave to each person is as independent as his or her need for the gift. These memories are yours alone. They are her gift to you, to your heart.

The gifts, like her children and grandchildren, are also her legacy. They are for those here today, and for generations to come as her wisdom and strength moves forward towards eternity through those who loved her.

For me, there are four very specific and monumental gifts that she gave me. They came in the form of lessons. They represent the teacher that she was to me, and the student that my own grandchildren will some day be.

Lesson #1: The Importance of Simple Truths.

Illustrating the blatantly obvious moral right in pure poetic form was her inherent nature. I would guess that not a day passed that an ethical parable did not come out of her mouth.

Ingrained into my memory and certainly more so to her own children are her  sayings. Some are profound in the wisdom they offer, others completely silly, and that is exactly why they are cherished.

I would like to share a few of her simple truths with you;

·        Oh what tangled webs we weave when first we practice to deceive

·        It is better to be looked over than to be overlooked

·        From the time you are born till you ride in a hearse, there is nothing so bad that it couldn’t be worse

·        It’s only a problem if you let it be one

·        For every stitch sewn on a Sunday, you lose nine on Monday

·        This too shall pass

·        A “can’t” is a sluggard too lazy to try

·        Good intentions like a crying child should always be carried out

·        The road to hell is paved with good intentions

·        You can’t tell the depth of the well by the length of the pump handle

I know that these sayings will continue to resonate with us. Make her proud and use them well and use them often.

Lesson #2: Pride.

Grandma taught me that when you take care of yourself, you make yourself important. Vanity, as a mode of pride, implies that my world and all of the people in it are important to me.

As we all know, Grandma would not be seen without her hair in perfect form and her outfit wonderfully coordinated. I adored this about her. When you care about yourself, you are open to caring about others.

I also heard that it managed to garner the attention of a few men around the Trent Valley Lodge. A boyfriend at the age of 89? A woman of my own heart.

Lesson #3: Solitude.

Grandma taught me the difference between loneliness and solitude. She showed me that the path to inner strength is found within the courage to be alone.

After more than seven decades, filled with the noise, chaos and comfort of family, she lived alone for almost two more decades. She lived alone and she appreciated it. She grew to love, to need and to be sustained by it.

Most people fear being alone because they understand only loneliness. Grandma taught me that solitude is the joy of being alone, while loneliness is imposed on you by others.

Loneliness is small; solitude is large. Loneliness closes in around you; solitude expands toward the infinite. Loneliness has its roots in words, in an internal conversation that nobody answers; solitude has its roots in the great silence of eternity.

Grandma recognized this and knew how important solitude is to our morality, integrity, and ability to love.

My grandmother allowed me a sense of place within solitude. I find that solitude in nature. In the forest, along streams and riverbanks, on the top of cliffs and in the ground cover of the forest floor. She led me there and she walks with me there.

Lesson #4: Privacy.

This was perhaps the hardest and most elusive of all the lessons.

Many of us have experienced the frustration of inquiring about the days of her life, when we were not witness. Often, the questions would go unanswered.

While initially, I internalized this and found myself not worthy of the answers, I came to see it differently and accept it as one of the greatest lessons anyone has ever taught me.

She taught me that every form of happiness and every experience have within it; it’s own boundaries and a need for it’s own privacy.

Our greatest moments are personal, self-motivated, and not to be touched or judged by others. The things that are sacred or precious to us are the very things we are allowed to keep to ourselves and can withdraw from promiscuous sharing. Those personal moments, experiences and choices that we all have, are ours alone. To be shared only at our discretion.

I also found within this lesson that I don’t need the linear details of a person’s life to love, respect and understand them. I knew the woman that she was. The events that shaped her character and fed the depths of her soul, made her exactly who she was, and that was the mother, grandmother and friend that we all admire.

For these four lessons, I will be eternally grateful and through them, I grow more and more each day.

It is also through the wisdom and strength that she has provided that I am able to find peace today. That I am able to accept that death can be as beautiful as life itself. That it is in fact a well deserved rest. That it is, most importantly, comfortable and without pain.

Everyone has a different vision of heaven. Based on your beliefs, your desires and your aspirations, heaven takes on a different meaning and different face for everyone. Yet, in all of these heavens, we find reconciliation and divine comfort.

Please know that when you close your eyes and travel to your heaven, she is there. In the recesses of our minds, she is in all of our heavens.

In my heaven, she is dancing with my grandfather.

Following the service today, and again as each winter approaches, I will invite family and friends to gather together and light four candles in the memory of Irene Hamilton.

Four candles that she will be able to see and feel the warmth of, from all of our heavens.

The first candle represents our grief. The pain of losing you is intense. It reminds us of the depth of our love for you.

The second candle represents our courage. To confront our sorrow, to comfort each other and to change our lives.

The third candle we will light in your memory. For the times we laughed, the times we cried, the times we were angry with each other. It is for all of the silly things you did and said, and for the caring and joy you gave to each of us.

The fourth candle we light for our love. We light this candle so that your light will always shine. As we enter this holiday season and share this moment of remembrance with our family and friends, we cherish the special place in our hearts that will always be reserved for you.

We will light these four candles to thank you for the gift your living brought to each of us.

I will leave you with one last thought today. A very close friend of mine blessed my life with a beautiful story that I want to share with you.

As I mentioned earlier, Grandma believed and held faith that God would help her climb the highest mountains. This story brings me comfort through my grief, and lets me see that today, Grandma is on the top of that mountain and has found her wings.

How often have you stood on a cliff’s edge to watch a bird soar below you? We all know that we can’t fly, but everyone has had a thought at one’s cliffs edge at one point in his or her life that “maybe I can fly”

Are these little twitches just meaningless glitches in an otherwise clear understanding? We laugh, shake it off and continue to play out what we know is real and true. We can’t fly. Our whole world is based on what we know and hold to be true, that WE CAN”T FLY.

We can’t until something pulls or pushes you over that ledge and the wind picks up your very soul, carrying and cradling you to the fundamental truth that, in fact, we can never come back down.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A gift for Luke

Inukshuk, are stone monuments erected by the Inuit, that have been used for centuries to guide them across one of the world's most desolate landscapes. The Inukshuk serves as a navigational guide, leading weary travellers home.

Each stone is a separate entity; each supports, and is supported by, the one above and the one below it. The strength lies in its unity. Its significance comes from its meaning as a whole. The stones, which make up the Inukshuk, are secured through balance. They are chosen for how well they fit together.

I was eleven years old when I built my first Inukshuk. It was in the middle of the summer, at the back of my parent’s property, along the creek and under a willow tree. I had seen a special on television about aboriginal heritage and was fascinated.

It took me hours to find just the right rocks from the creek bed. I also fought an intense battle against my new foes, balance and gravity. But I was determined. I became completely  absorbed in the process and all sense of time was lost. I remember placing that last rock and tiptoeing away from it really slowly afraid that all of my hard work would crumble.

Then I climbed the willow tree and waited. You see, I thought with all the wisdom of an eleven year old, that the animals and birds would come around to see it.  So, I waited and while I waited, I thought about the places I would go once I was old enough to make my own rules and chart my own course. I imagined the freedom I would have and the journeys I would take. Mostly, I realized then that although I wanted to, I didn’t need to see the rest of the world, to love where I was. This is the day my patriotism was born.

This was also the first of many, many Inukshuks that I have built. Along portages, on moonlight beaches and deep in the heart of the Algonquin forest; I have built them every year since I was eleven, with the same determination and sense of pride in my country. I spent twenty five years building them for myself. Now, for the rest of my life, I am going to build them for you, Luke.  

On trails and cliff tops, on beaches and docks, and on that same sunny spot where the willow tree once stood, I will build them for you. I will build one each year in recognition and appreciation for all that you are and for all that you have done for me. Each individual rock will symbolize a specific moment, memory or gift that you have given me. As a whole, they will symbolize a love that is eternal, the specific love a mother holds for her son.  

Sense of Place - Bon Echo Provincial Park

I have always been deeply affected by the natural environment in which I exist; only I failed to cognitively make that connection until recent years. I recall a very specific moment wherein I peered across a flat, desolate field being prepared for residential development and felt utterly uninspired.  My mind then succumbed to its natural inclination to reflect on what does offer inspiration. The strength and courage of the people that surround me.  My adoration for the written word and respect for the lyrical genius of others.  The relentless desire a child holds to please their parents. The inborn need of a parent to protect their child. Yet, while inspiration is found in many places, nothing influences my actions or motivates me in a way that the natural landscape does. It speaks to me intimately and engagingly, teasing and soothing concurrently. 

When I summon up memories and revel in recollections, it is never without a beautifully illustrated backdrop. The colours, the textures, the contours are often more prominent than the moments themselves. When I need to escape the tedious details and obligations of life, I place myself upon the lakes of Algonquin, atop Bon Echo Rock or travelling along the dusty rural back roads of Eastern Ontario.

I fully understand my attachment to and affection for Bon Echo. Situated on the Canadian Shield, this provincial park is where I spent every year of my childhood and willingly return to each year as an adult. Dominated by the mixed deciduous and coniferous forest common to much of central Ontario, the park's most notable feature is Bon Echo rock, a huge granite cliff rising 90 metres above Mazinaw Lake. Arousing the creative inclinations of artists and poets alike for over a century, its face bears a captivating memorial to the late Walt Whitman, while the frequent rock outcroppings and mixed forests shelter the spiritual importance of its aboriginal etchings.

I derive profound comfort from the knowledge that aside from the Great Lakes, Mazinaw is the deepest lake in Ontario. Contemplating the depths of the lake and the life found within never fails to fill me with a sense of childlike wonder.  Each summer I can be found at least once, with my canoe floating effortlessly across the gentle waves, my paddle still, as I lean over the gunwale and try to see the bottom of the lake. I stare intently as life moves below me and conjure up all kinds of stories of the treasures that lie along the floor, of the many lives that have been taken by the lake’s wrath, of the many tears that have been shed into the waters by forsaken lovers. 

My adoration of this wonderful expanse of tranquility in southeastern Ontario began as my life did. The cries of my infancy echoed amongst the same forest that now echoes equally my adult laughter and my moments of silent contemplation. Here, I am at peace. A peace that knows me and welcomes me back each season.

Algonquin owns a part of me.

The draw of Algonquin Provincial Park, the constant pulling on my mind, my soul, my emotions, runs deeper than that which is comprehensible. It is not something I know or understand, it is something I feel. I wake often in the midnight of an urban winter to the sound of the frosted winter wind blowing through the barren trees atop Booth’s Rock. I hear the crack of the ice atop Whitefish Lake as it succumbs to thermal stresses. I feel the icy touch of the Algonquin wind as it dances across my bare shoulders. While wrapped in a cocoon of cotton and sheltered by the sturdy walls of my home that contain forced heat, I long for the deep cold of Algonquin.

Algonquin fills me with desire. The desire to play amongst Algonquin forests, to paddle its sweet, sweet lake waters and swim from its Islands. Not a day passes where my mind doesn’t travel down Highway 60, past the gates that mark the entrance to heaven on earth and into a place of profound comfort. A place where the world simply feels right. A place where the stars align to guide weary travellers.

A dark, star filled sky is how I describe Algonquin to those never welcomed to its bosom. A black canvas on which constellations dance to the haunting, romantic wail of the master of the northern waters. The vocal blessings of the loon accompanied by the chorus of the forest, the aria of the wilderness. This beautiful song that is the spirited call of the Loon echoes the call of my soul to the heart of the universe. A beckoning for understanding and forgiveness of self.

I vividly recall the first loon I heard in Algonquin. I remember how dark and still and silent the night was, a storm approaching, the forest ill at ease. The scent of imminent rains carried on the winds of warning. Algonquin is no stranger to violently destructive windstorms and can sense the approach of this acquaintance as much as you or I would a stranger at our door. All things wild brace themselves and scurry into their shelters for protection. The loon however, sailed across the blackened sky, singing. The flight of a loon is decidedly distinctive, strong, direct and rapid.

It’s song even more so.

The scream of the loon, uttered at evening, or on the approach of a storm, has to my ear, an unearthly and mournful tone resembling somewhat the distant howl of a wolf. It is a penetrating note, loud and weird, delivered with a prolonged rising inflection, dropping at the end.

Hi Ho, Hi Ho..It's off to work I go. Soon.

In 13 working days, I'll be back at it. Out of the house, away from my baby, focusing my energy on raising money for environmental conservation instead of attempting to raise a well adapted and well rounded child.

To say I have mixed feelings is an understatement. My mind is a veritable blender. While I look forward to swapping my Mom clothes (yoga pants & a hoodie) for high heels and clothes that at least appear that I haven't completely given up on myself, aesthetic indulgence is such a silly thing to anticipate. Mind you I think there is something deliciously sublime about trading in the diaper bag for a purse. Ahhh, a purse that won't leave crumbs under my nails each time I reach into it. Life's simple pleasures.

The only other thing I look forward to is being able to eat my lunch. Uninterrupted. Warm. In a seated position. At a dignified human pace.

That's about it. Well, I suppose the pay cheque will be nice too. However, I have become accustomed to the dreaded act of budgeting and the even more sinister act of "retail restraint".

So what do high heels, a purse, a good lunch and more money add up to? Not enough. A meagre sum when compared to the endless moments with my baby. The ability to stay in my pj's and play stack the blocks all day long. The freedom that exists every day upon waking and thinking "hmmmm, what shall we do today?" The times spent with old friends and those spent with some new, wonderful friends (that will someday be old friends). The chance to witness in real time, every "first". The chance to be the first to kiss the bumps and bruises and to cuddle away the crankies. The time. Simply, the time.

The next 13 days better go slowly, very, very slowly. I'm still comfortable in my yoga pants.

A mother's imagination.

I never imagined that motherhood would involve forcibly holding your child down while nurses sedate him. Or that it would entail watching his tiny little body disappear into a seemingly enormous CAT Scan machine. A bedtime bath that focused not on playing and splashing, but on removing the post EEG grime from his hair. Sitting beside his crib while he naps, just to make sure the meds don't cause respiratory complications. Not knowing why his brain is misfiring and wreaking havoc on his little body.

I imagined finding new recipes for him as he discovers the wonders of food. Watching him smile, roll over, crawl, cruise and take that first tentative step. Finding new ways to bring out that deep belly laugh. Playing for endless hours on the floor with him. Walking for even more hours than that, deep in the woods, introducing him to nature's playground. I have all of this, but I also have so much more.

I research epilepsy and paediatric brain disorders. I force him to take his anti-convulsant medicine everyday. I watch him closely and obsessively for any sign of a seizure. I worry endlessly that he may develop a fever that will lead to more seizure activity. I rush him to the hospital whenever something doesn't seem right. I worry constantly about his development.

I also love him more than I have ever loved. I have prayed for him more than all of my past prayers combined. I hold him closer and tighter and more often than I ever touched another person, and when he falls asleep in my arms, I keep him there.

I never imagined that motherhood would bring with it this much fear, but I also never realized that a 10 month old baby can own you. That he can make you feel more alive, more grateful, more joyful and more fulfilled then ever imagined.