Through Spanish Eyes...

I have brown eyes. I come from a British/German Mennonite heritage. None of those people have brown eyes...they're always blue or green. I have brown eyes, because, somewhere back in my mother's British gene pool, a Spaniard snuck in. You have to watch those sneaky Spaniards. According to my grandmother, Spaniards were always thought of as pirates. Ahhhhharrrr!!!! Pass the rum, Matey!

So, a sneaky Spanish pirate surreptitiously dove into my gene pool and did the backstroke all over future generations. We have never been the same since. The British blood in our family has been trying to strangle the Spanish blood for generations...but the Spanish blood, even watered down, will not be annihilated!

My family is fucked up. My family's almost Victorian communication style and emotional unavailability have screwed over generations of children who have grown into adults who screw over children. It's not that they don't love their children, it's that they can't tell them. They can't hug them. They can't tell them they are proud of them. They can't even cry for the most part. Anytime I have witnessed my parents cry I have gone into panic mode...it took me until my mid 30's to get over that and play the role of grown-up...'cause normally I am not allowed to.

I often wonder how I became so different. I cry at sad movies, I feel other people's pain to a degree that often becomes detrimental to my own health. I love to hug and kiss people and hold them when they are sad or traumatized. I tell people I am proud of them and I try to never miss an opportunity to tell someone why they are great or why they are beautiful. There was never enough of that in my world.

Somebody who knows my family thinks they are liars. I think he is right...but more so liars by omission than commission. There must always be a smile on one's face and a meal on the table and no one ever commits the sin of anger...I guess there is something to be said for stoicism. Kinda like Queen Elizabeth when Diana died. There is something sickly laudable about lying like a freaking sidewalk about things emotional. Emotions and passions are shameful things to be hidden in the back of dusty closets along with the gay members of one's family. I realized, with a start, that I surround myself with honest people...sometimes brutally so...and I never made the connection why until I contemplated his thoughts on family dishonesty. Without even understanding why, I knew I needed something different.

So, I am going to Spain...I leave in three days. Spain. The place my eyes call home. Some people say it is a past life for me...or maybe even a case of cellular memory. I don't know what it is, but I know I need to go.

Ya see...I have a thing for Spanish stuff. I even lived with Spanish-speaking girls for a while. I love the language...I think it is the sexiest language alive. I love the primal emotion of the music. I love the passion of people who speak that language. I love that life is about dancing, wine, art, sunsets, food, making love, yelling if you want to, crying if you want to...and passionate honesty. Life is to be experienced, not watched from the sidelines and I have unhappily warmed a chair in that location for too long. I want to give up my seat...it has a great view. Any takers? I should warn you, you can feel like you are suffocating sometimes. Like you are Dorothy living the black and white version of her Iowa farm life and the dust from the tornadoes is weighing heavily in your lungs.

I choose to live my life in technicolor. Funny how the thought actually terrifies me, but I am damn well going to give it my best shot. So, if you happen to be in Spain and you see an odd Canadian woman of Uptight Heritage sporting a bottle of vino blanco dancing to Shakira across the meseta, chances are pretty good it's me. The hell if my British blood is going to strangle my Spanish blood. Fuck you Queen Vickie. I am going to see the world through Spanish eyes. Mine.

Marking Milestones...

So, I was sitting on my partner's steps, thinking. I know...a very unusual pastime for me. I was thinking over all the changes I have made in my life and the things I have gotten through and found myself wishing that we could earn something like Girl Guide Badges for everything. Wouldn't that be great?! It would be one way of acknowledging and rewarding ourselves for work well-done, or at least completed if nothing else. A marker of milestones.

Like why couldn't we have a sash, or some reasonable facsimile thereof, and hang it on our fridge or on the bedroom door, or something? Company could come over and we could say, "Hey! That's right! I was cheated on and survived! See? I earned the badge!" Or, "Yep! I got my gallbladder removed!"

Your friends (or family if you are really brave) could file by and catch up with what's been going on in your world. "Oh look! She finally managed to beat that yeast infection -- note the Loaf of Bread badge!"

The possibilities for badges are almost endless. There would be the Loss of Virginity badge, the Marriage badge, the I Survived Childbirth badge, and then the Realizing You are a Lesbian badge, the Announcing it to Your Husband, Surviving Telling Your Kids and Telling Your Parents badges and then, of course, the whole Losing Your Lesbian Virginity badge. Oh! Did you earn the Lesbian Virginity badge before you earned the Announcing it to Your Husband badge? Well, just leave a space for it until after you've done the other steps!

Or how about the Beating Depression badge? Moving Past Mid Life Crisis badge? First Grey Pubic Hair badge? Bifocals? Polyamory? (Oh, sorry! Was that just MY experiment? Well, hey! Believe me, I EARNED the badge!)

Yes. I think there are tremendous possibilities here.

My Aunt Margaret...

Do you have family members that you really don't know from Adam? Or Eve? I have very little knowledge of my father's side of the family. I don't really know why.

Growing up, we were quite close to my mother's side of the family and I can only remember two visits to anyone in my dad's family. One to Tofino, B.C. to visit my dad's sister and one to my dad's other sister Margaret's in Glaslyn, Saskatchewan. Margaret was married to Leslie...Leslie was loud, colorful and tickled me too much. I hate tickling and Leslie is responsible for that. Leslie used to bring us farm cream...I loved farm cream. And once he brought us baby chicks to see and pet.

Margaret. Margaret never said much. Margaret had thinning hair, was kinda butchy but wore tent dresses, didn't shave her legs and wore rubber boots with any outfit. Margaret had this pervasive aura of sadness around her...like she really died years before and was coincidentally still standing. I liked Margaret. Margaret, despite her challenges had the kindest eyes.

I always thought Margaret was a lesbian. She had that kind of energy. A lesbian, with three children and a husband she likely felt obligated to sleep with. I wondered if that was the root of her unhappiness.

My parents sent me a picture of my father's whole family. After spotting my father, I looked immediately for Margaret. I found her. She was standing there looking quite beautiful and I found myself wondering when she stopped feeling beautiful.

My father called me yesterday and asked me if I remembered my aunt Margaret. I said, "Of course, Dad!" He told me she was in intensive care in a Saskatoon Hospital. She is dying. I felt really sad, wondering if the woman ever had fun. If she ever crushed on anyone. If she ever just sat still and basked in the beauty of a sunset. Did she ever feel close to God in an orgasm with someone she didn't want to let go of, afterwards?

I think of Margaret and I think about passion. And what happens to people who don't live life with passion. They wither and die, while standing.

So, Margaret...I raise my glass to you and I send you my sincere thanks for your message. I hope you will soon be in a place with color, love...and passion. It's your turn.

*R.I.P Aunt Margaret who passed on this morning at 5:30 a.m. May there be no weeds in your new Garden.