Thanks to Mike at Enns Visuals for all the hard work.  Stay tuned!!!

On my half-light bicycle ride through the country, every now and then a mystical fragrance collided with my nostrils. In response to this oh-so-pleasant surprise, I would inhale deeply, expanding my lungs to maximum capacity, then hold, sweetening my body from the inside-out. I pictured the balmy aroma traveling in a yellow waft first to my lungs, then to my heart and veins, moving ever outward toward my finger tips.

Aromatherapy in it’s purest form. 

Eventually I had to let go and exhale (quick, quick!) because I wanted another taste of this sweet air – another deep inhalation before the moment passed – or before I passed by this Linden tree and it’s tiny yellow flowers, flitting and blossoming in the July air. This kind of lopsided breathing (breathing deeply, holding, then exhaling too fast) could be a bad thing, but with the scent of Linden filling the air, it’s hard to see how.

This tree blossomed regardless of audience or accolade. A rather unassuming tree with branches and leaves as common as can be and flowers dangling from the stems like tiny yellow stars.

It consumes me. 

Or rather, I consume it. Really, there is not getting enough.

I circled back for another taste. This is how I roll on my bicycle. There’s no race, no direct route, agenda or plan. If I am caught by a sight, I stop. I snap a photo. If the air smells sweet, I circle back. If there are cows, I stop to moo at them. (Last night I was zapped by an electric fence while saying ‘hello’ to a cow. True story).

They say memories are strongest and most vivid when triggered by scent. The Linden reminds me of being a child, of walking arm in arm with my mother. It brings me back to Eutin, a small village in Germany I’m very fond of. Maybe it’s genetic. This same tree used to make my mother stop in her tracks. She would breath deeply, inhaling more than exhaling. Just like me. I can’t help it.

I want to eat the air. 

I see sunshine yellow when I breath their scent. I think of Mimosa blossoms – those pretty little pom-pom puffs of joy. And I think of bee honey – unpasteurized. Ahh, but the strongest resemblance is the delicate vanilla scent of an oncidium orchid – frilly and hand-painted with cocoa, wine, butter and sweet cream. You must nearly bury your nose into the flower to find the scent, but afterward … oh…

You can’t imagine breathing regular air anymore. 

Chocolate oncidium orchids can ruin you for ordinary, everyday breathing.

So can the Linden tree. It can make you want to save your breathing for only the good stuff – exclusively for wafts of sweet chocolate, vanilla, honey and sunshine.

It’s not a short read. You will need about ten minutes to go from top to toe.

What I’m hoping for, as always, is to find a connection, and in that, uncover our collective commonness. For it’s in the sharing of stories that we have a unique and very personal opportunity to see each other, up close. And, I believe that, in sharing stories, even those most difficult of ones to speak out, we can learn how to love and forgive each other better, one narrative at a time.

I have heard it said that the one thing more important than actual forgiveness is to believe that one is forgivable. But it all starts with a story…

J.

I don’t know if anyone was more surprised by my Mother’s death than she was.

In the last week of Mommy’s life I recall one of those rare occasions when our eyes locked for a split second; my blue eyes met her green eyes. It was Easter Sunday twenty one years ago and she had a tube poked into to her side, brownish-yellow liquid mixed with air bubbles slowly seeping into the bag below. Propped up in the hospital bed, head leaning to one side, she said, “It’s not coming out as much as the doctor hoped.”  Her eyes told a story I wasn’t ready to hear.

My Mother’s left eye had a perpetual droop and for as long as I could remember it was always half closed. There were a few exceptions, the times when she’d force the muscles around her eye to lift it up, taking her eyebrows along for the ride, creating a sort of deer-in-the-headlights look for the camera. A second after the flash of the bulb and the click of the shutter, her eyelid would be back down again, resuming it’s natural position, cutting her vision by half. I was used to seeing my Mother that way – one eye closed – but I know it annoyed her to not only have her sight reduced, but also to have her image reduced … as in how people saw her.

My Mother was a beauty. This is what she told me more often than was probably necessary. She would have said it like this: “Your Mother used to be a beauty, you know!”  Perhaps she thought I was interested in who she used to be, but really, I think she was more interested in reminding herself of the times gone by when people would turn their heads – both the men and the women. I have had many people, not just my Mother, tell me that she was a very beautiful woman. Snappy!  is a word I’ve heard to describe her. But, by the time my sister and I arrived on the scene, she’d already lived three or four lifetimes and was worse for the wear.

When she was five, she (along with the rest of the Mennonites in South Russia) was expelled and sent on the trip of a lifetime. Trekking by foot and train, showered by snow, bombs and shells, chased by tanks and everything else symbolic of the Second World War, she was orphaned in a small town in Northern Germany where she didn’t belong. She was sent on a ship across the Atlantic, alone, ending up on farm in Grimsby, Ontario. She’d been excommunicated by half of that same family who had adopted her and the church where she had faithfully taught Sunday School. She birthed two babies, gained some baby fat and had both of her cancerous breasts removed before getting divorced. Her happiest moments were somewhere in the middle of all that … when she’d had freedom, an income and a body she could rely on.

On this day in my memory, both of her green eyes were wide open, a very rare sight so I paid extra attention.

Her body had been bloating up, gradually and steady. It’s hard to say exactly when I began to notice. Apple cider vinegar soothed her dry, itchy skin, so I learned to rub my Mother’s body with a cider soaked cloth so she would have some relief from time to time. Her skin was slowly stretching thin over a bag of water-logged flesh. What weight she was losing from the cancer, she was gaining in fluid, starting in her liver and gradually collecting at her extremities.

The fluid in her feet was the final straw.

On Good Friday, two days earlier, she could put her shoes on and went to an evening concert. Her date that night was Gladys Smith, the church pianist, who had arthritis so severe that her fingers were on 45 degree angles. Sideways. And still, bent fingers and all, she played the church piano as if it were her lover. The passion was a little much for our small conservative congregation. Often we were stunned into silence. Maybe we’d clap awkwardly afterward, feeling as though we’d just been witness to an R-rated scene that no one dared admit to watching. Gladys’ piano solos were like that. Passionate and yet unnerving. But beautiful. So beautiful.

Perhaps this is what Gladys and my Mother had in common. They were two ladies who never gave up. Gladys truly should not have been able to play the piano with her hands, ruined as they were, and yet, she continued to coax magic from those keys. She even crocheted. Borrowed time, perhaps. My Mother also lived on borrowed time, spending it recklessly as though it would never run out.

Gladys picked Mommy up and they went to the concert. Mommy wore shoes that night because she could. She also walked that night because she could.

On Saturday, she and I went for a slow stroll around the block. It was the day in between Good Friday and Easter Sunday; the cheese slice in an Easter sandwich. We managed to get around the small block with my arm around her arm, just like we used to do when I was a kid. Her small steps alarmed me. Once we had rounded the block she declared “Your Mother can still walk around the block!”. And then she reminded me, once again about not being a spring chicken any longer. She often referred to herself in the third person, using “Your Mother” in place of “Me” or “I”. She would have said, “Your Mother’s not a spring chicken, you know!”. 

Usually, when I’m confused, I have no words. I get so many thoughts, questions and feelings coming from behind me, up and over, covering my head and my eyes … they get all tangled and mixed and I am rendered speechless. On that day, my Mother was 56 years old and I believed she could do anything she set her mind to. She reminded me she wasn’t a spring chicken, but as far as I knew, if she really wanted to, she could climb a mountain or ride her bicycle across the city or build a rock garden any time she pleased. She could dig a hole in the ground like nobody’s business, move a bush from one side of the yard to the other and get anything unstuck saying “It just needed a little elbow grease. Your Mother still has some get-up-and-go!”  Mommy was stronger than me in every way I could imagine and yet here she was congratulating herself on simply walking around the block.

I was confused. And so, in typical teenage fashion, I dismissed it from my mind.

Probably four months before Easter, in or around autumn, my Mother declared that she was going to a healing service. She asked if I would come. By then, I had been to countless healing services and, frankly, my curiosity had worn off. They were all starting to look the same to me. Every one had a similar method to evoke the the spirit of God to descend and bless people with healing powers. But not everyone got blessed or slain in the spirit. Sometimes you had to repeat words or special phrases, other times just get oil put on your face. Occasionally, The KISS method was applied – as in Keep It Simple, Stupid. In those cases, simple prayer was the chosen method.  I began to strategize and wonder if it was most beneficial to be at the front of the line leading up to the stage, just in case the preacher’s anointing only lasted so long; I was worried that the healing mojo might run out by the time he got to my Mother.

Attending healing services began to seem a bit like playing Russian Roulette. If you went to enough of them and of many various varieties, surely one of those times healing would come your way. That is, if you had enough faith. I seriously doubted my Mother’s faith on this issue. Later, I began to doubt my own – as though, if I had enough faith, I could maybe have helped the cause. I also wondered if my own lack of faith was the bad apple in the bushel spoiling the whole bunch.

One healing service that stands out in my mind was held at Sir Winston Churchill High School in St. Catharines. As usual, Mommy and I went together. After the preaching was preached, it was time to put your faith to the test and line up for the healing. She left me alone in the nosebleed seats and walked down to the stage where we had seen a production of Pirates of Penzance a few years earlier (Incidentally, my first musical and a fantastic performance!). I watched as person after person fell to the ground, usually backward, but sometimes forward, after the healer gave them a small pat on the forehead. This was called the “Anointing of the Spirit”. Some went down easy and others needed a bit of a nudge or a second try. Once slain, they’d lay there. Some laid very still, while others convulsed or wept, but all eventually got up and exited stage right. I assumed, if they could walk, that they’d been healed from whatever their ailment was. This particular night, the healer/preacher was on a role, and now it was Mommy’s turn. Watching her, my heart thumped inside my bowels, nearly quaking my whole body. I grabbed the top of the seat in front of mine to find some balance while I tried to squash the hope rising in me.

She walked up, spoke quietly with the preacher and then he stood back, praying and calling on the Deity in the Lord’s Name, claiming the power of God and Jesus while casting out a few demons for good measure. When he moved his hand to my Mother’s forehead, I felt tingles run up and down my body. I imagined my Mother being filled with the Spirit and all of her insides being cleaned and renewed, the cancer cells vanishing into thin air. I imagined going home, celebrating and laughing at how we all thought she was going to die, but then she didn’t die after all. We’d talk about how we beat the system, consulted the right people and found the secret code all the while making sure we thanked the healer/preacher and God. What had been done could just as easily be reversed.

He continued in a loud and authoritative tone. I prayed, too, but with my eyes open.

Mommy looked small on the wide stage. I saw her one good eye close as his hand came forward.  She was trying her best to be submissive and to play the part of the receiver. His open hand rested on her forehead as he spoke and he applied more pressure. She leaned back under the weight, but she didn’t fall. He pushed harder. Her leg stretched back, bracing herself. The prayer continued. I began to pray that she would fall down like all the other parents had.

With a steady hand on my Mother’s head, the preacher gave a more aggressive push. Again nothing. There was a woman standing close by, ready to catch and lay her down as soon as she was successfully slain in the spirit. But now it was a battle of wills. My Mother was not an actor on a stage. If she was going down, it would be because she had no choice. Truly, if the Spirit could heal, the Spirit could also slay her without the help of a sickly middle-aged woman.

I gave the preacher an ‘ A’ for effort as I watched him increase in assertiveness and push my Mother’s forehead even harder. Tears streamed down my face. Healing or no healing, I just wished she would be slain already. My Mother took another step back and then another while the catcher kept pace in the rear and the preacher pushed onward. They were a conga line on a stage, my Mother leading from the centre with the other two dancers keeping pace and time at her front and back. The three of them, preacher, Mother and catcher, conga-lined all the way from centre stage to stage right, where the stairs were. The preacher prayed without ceasing, his hand firmly planted on my Mothers forehead. They would have toppled over the edge and into the crowd, if someone hadn’t given in.

Once stopped, my mother opened her eye, politely said thank you very much and didn’t have to walk far to get to the stairs as they now were right beside her.

She came back to her seat, her bangs slick with anointing oil. I couldn’t even look at her. In the car she said, “Well, that was interesting!” I was speechless and mortified as she went on to tell me “Your Mother was once the only person in a class to NOT get hypnotized!” Apparently hypnotism and healing services had something in common. She beamed with pride at her memory of being too head-strong to hypnotize. To me, there was nothing prideful about being the only one who didn’t get healed.

At another healing service which I didn’t go to, my Mother came back to announce that her eye had been healed! She went to the front, got prayed over, then her eye opened up without any effort at all. By the time she got home, the eyelid was already starting to wane. By morning it was nearly closed again. I suppose this was a temporary healing? This one confused me more than any of the others as I could see something HAD actually happened, but it wasn’t powerful enough to last. I truly wondered what that meant and what it meant for my Mother. It gave me just enough hope to keep believing she’d eventually be chosen and healed or hypnotized or whatever. And it was this hope that kept me blinded to the truth that was right in front of me on Easter Sunday morning when she couldn’t get her shoes on.

“Your Mother couldn’t get her shoes on” she said when I came home from church. “How can I go to church without shoes?” She was speaking in both third person and first person.  I followed along and tried to imagine her at church in bare feet or stockings and she was right, it couldn’t be done. At least not in early April when the ground hadn’t yet fully thawed. Shoes were an absolute must for going out. I hadn’t realized how important shoes were.

She showed me her bare feet which looked as if they belonged on one of those dolls made from panty hose, stuffed with cotton balls and pulled tight with thread at the joints. Hers were shockingly wide feet and very good for swimming. Not like mine, slender and elegant. Mommy was always jealous of my feet and often said so. I was always glad that she’d given those wide-foot genes to my sister and not to me. The two of them together were a pair of ducks.

Later, she called from the hospital to ask me to bring in the usuals; a pair of cotton underwear; her turquoise hair comb; nail file; reader’s digest; and cotton socks – the nice thick pair with the stripes at the top. By then I knew what to bring without her telling me. She’d been in and out of the hospital so many times, it was normal. I grabbed everything from her dresser and drove to the hospital.

Her feet were always cold. From time to time, she’d ask me to massage them for her, which I would do though I’d never had a massage before nor had ever seen one being given. I’d rub her toes and the balls of her heels and the tops of her feet and her ankles. What it was like to be cold and alone in a hospital bed, I hadn’t a clue. I now suspect that partly she had cold feet and partly she just wanted someone to touch her who wasn’t a doctor or nurse or preacher.

There was a time when she discovered hormones were released when you got a hug from someone. The hormone was called endorphins or something like that. “It’s good for healing the body”, she said. “Everyone needs seven meaningful touches a day and I’m not getting enough. How am I supposed to get better if I don’t get hugs? Your Mother needs a hug.” And so we would hug. (What happens if I didn’t really ‘mean’ the hug? Do you still get the endorphins if you are under the impression of “meaningful affection”? I hope she still got hormones she wished for, even though I was a reluctant hugger.)

Looking back, I can see the irony in this picture of a Mother and a daughter living together with the deafening tick-tock-tick of time signaling the impending end of the story. Both wanting so badly to be loved, but not knowing at all where to start or how to do it.

She trained me to have such a fierce independence and many useful and varied skills, that in the end, my self-sufficiency may have also caused her heartbreak.  Her daughter had no need for a Mother any longer and could actually get along alright without her, making what may have seemed a success into a colossal failure.

I often think about that one summer long ago when my Mother was on so many interesting and new drugs that she was undoubtedly high. And very happy. Perhaps that was as close as she got to being healed. Writing poetry and wearing a silk ribbon in her hair, both eyes opened wide to see the world and be seen. I think back to that time, when she was high and happy and full of life and laughter and I think, well, isn’t that what she wanted? Perhaps the solution had always been right in front of us in a pill bottle.

One week after our walk around the block, when my Mother reminded me she wasn’t a spring chicken any longer, I walked away from a hole in the ground at the Vineland cemetery.

My Mother died on the first Wednesday in April during winter’s last snow.

Each year that goes by I get a chance to reflect on these events that have left me with a lifetime of confusion and regret. Each year I’m also learning more about love and forgiveness.

J.

I decided to push myself into the crowd. To get closer to the feature at the front of the room which seemed to have such mystic and grand importance the term idol worship sprang to mind. There was a panicked sort of energy about the place. Perhaps even an anger residing below the surface like a river of lava under a volcano, getting ever hotter.

You’d think people would be excited, but I imagined this crowd had the potential –  just the right amount of volatility –  to turn itself into a violent mob like what I’d seen on stage in Les Miserables. We were in Paris after all … and I was at the Louvre.

Mona Lisa was watching us with that mischievous smirk on her face.

At first, the thick crowd in front of the famous Ms. Lisa repelled me  - as though it couldn’t possibly consider adding another body to itself. Then suddenly and swiftly it swallowed me up. Whole. Then there was no getting out – only going in. I looked over to Mark, who decided to stay safe on the sideline, as slick and shiny arms pressed up against mine, sliding and sticking, our sweaty liquids mixing on the surface of my skin. Panic rose in my throat. I pictured myself from above as though I was one of those grocery bags swirling in the middle of the ocean, stuck in a spiralling vortex of floating plastic. Just an oil-based product lost at sea.

My own insignificance overwhelmed me as I felt even smaller than I usually do.

Then a push from behind. A hand shoved against my back. My left foot stepped forward to stop the imbalance. A stranger’s sandalled foot under my shoe. A yell “Hey!” A woman’s angry face swivelled back at me. A sharp glare from her followed by an “I’m sorry” from my own small apologetic Canadian voice. Now, I had a strong sense of fear. Injustice. Me, shrinking … regretting, suddenly certain I didn’t care at all about Mona Lisa. What I cared about was my safety. Also, I wanted to hose down my arms. It was time to abandon the famed art and seek the exit.

Now, safely from the sidelines, I watched Mona and all her fans as the guards actively repeated the same phrases over and over again “Step back, Ma’am” and “Move this way, Mister”. Each person at the front of the crowd pressed up against the security rope, ipads and smartphones and cameras were frantically held up like torches to capture the momentous event. No one wanted to be robbed of the opportunity to record their experience. Equality was at stake.

Selfies of “Me and Mona” were documented and posted instantly to social media.

Mona Lisa fans

Did anybody care? Seriously? Actually?

I mean, I don’t even think I cared. Which is hard to admit since I love and appreciate art to a great extent. But it’s the truth. Before I came to the Louvre I spent no time at all thinking about Mona Lisa. Sure, I’ve seen copies of her painting countless times. I’ve studied her in art class. But it would make no difference to me if I never saw the painting in my lifetime. Anyway, the closest you could get to her was twenty feet… and even then she was behind a barrier of glass. A photocopy would reveal more detail.

And then there’s that other nagging question. Is it a replica?

Real or not, Mona was pummeled with a million-billion eyeballs from an unending, unrelenting and very thick crowd. But was anybody looking at her? Like, really looking at her. Or were they merely documenting their Mona moment with the snap of a camera – in a clinical and factual manor. Would anyone look at that photo later on and say, “Yes, that’s when I saw Mona Lisa – what a magical moment that I will forever cherish”. I doubt it.

It all makes me wonder … what was being documented if there was no real experience?

And, if there’s no experience, emotion or connection  -  then why take a photo?

At another place in the museum I overheard one woman say to another “What are you taking a photo of?” She answered “I don’t know, but everyone else is taking photos so I thought I should too.”

That’s the nail on the head.

And exactly what hype is. Hype ensures that we continue to chase dreams that belong to other people. Hype keeps us attempting to relive the love scenes from Paris – ones we’ve seen in romantic movies. It makes us go places and do things, seek out moments …  ever checking off the list.

But hype is empty.

Mona Lisa can only be viewed from 20 feet away and is probably a fake. The lineup to the famous cafe is two hours long. The Eiffel Tower is littered with pick-pocketers and guarded with machine guns. The quiet magical moment from the movie is now a cacophony of car horns, exhaust and tourists. The love-locks for the bridge are pushed by street vendors and a sense of cheapness has settled in. I commend the first romantic lovers that put a lock on the bridge. Great idea. Probably a really cool couple.

Graffiti on the bridge now says “Make Love, not Love Locks”. Unless making a love-lock means something to you, I guess.

The church pew in Notre Dame has become a refuge for exhausted tourists to rest their eyes in a “praying pose” after waiting in a skin-scorching, sunny lineup for several hours. Once inside the famed church, the interior of one’s own eyelids is more enticing than ancient stained glass, which is really unfortunate since the church is truly breathtaking, if you have the patience for it. For me, when I finally got to a pew, I wanted to take a nap. (that’s the sad truth)

Chasing hype is tiresome and therefore overrides the experience or any sense of “being in the moment”. The result is a grand series of underwhelming moments, few of which are meaningful. One can live a whole lifetime like that. In a sense, checking a list that the general public has hyped into existence.

It takes time, patience, curiosity and a great sense of risk-taking to discover ones own moments and to truly live in them. It also takes bravery to overlook the hype-list in favour of original discovery instead. In Paris, I was reminded to make my own memories and forgo the hype.

Here’s my moment:

It was the breeze, the way the sun was shining all dappled through the trees, the faint music in the distance, the fact that we were ready to take a break. It was the taste of the chocolate with that red wine. It was the mood we were in. The conversation. It was altogether nothing … and yet it was everything. 

It was a moment to pause. One to remember. Maybe even take a photograph. Funny thing, though… usually when I find myself in such a moment, I forget to take a picture.

I won’t tell you where our moment was. Just that it was somewhere in Paris. And it wasn’t on “the list”. I won’t tell you because I don’t want you to go there. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for any hype… and anyway, you should go and find your own moment.

Mark eating “the cake of his life”. A seriously special moment, indeed.

Make love, not love-locks

Vincent Van Gogh’s place.

At a safe distance from the road, with a grassy pasture and a long curved drive acting as a soft buffer, there appears to be a quiet horse farm of little note or concern. Upon superficial inspection, it’s idyllic … a perfect property, almost certainly not harbouring any ghosts.

The Estate was called Rothensande which translates to “Red Sands”. Upon arrival, I realized my mother had been here before. She’d taken a photo of this property on a visit to Eutin in the 1960’s. I had a copy of the photo on my phone. Up until that moment, I had thought the photo was of “nothing” – just a farm property of little consequence, a scenic place along the road she passed by when she was a kid. I had totally dismissed it.

Standing in the centre of the estate, reflecting on my mother’s description of this place, I was struck by a rather ominous feeling. She had said, “there were unhappy happenings” here. I’d never known what those words meant until I was standing in the same place as she had stood to capture her photograph. Then I “knew” without a doubt that she had taken that picture as more than just a memory.

She was dealing with ghosts from her past.

You’d have to know my mother to know what I knew. Let me try to explain. She was never one to let rules or formal barriers get in the way of a good picture. I’ve seen her climb over fences, trample into people’s yards and even stand on the edge of a steep cliff (with certain death at the bottom) – just to get “the shot”. She’d been hissed at by snakes and fallen down in craggy rocks, yelling “oooohhh!” all the way back, her knees bleeding, but she got that picture of the desert rose by the cactus – and it’s beautiful.  She’d even climbed through an electric fence to get farther back, trying to get the whole view of an alpine mountain into the frame of her camera. She would do just about anything or go anywhere to accomplish want she had on her mind.

Yet, for this picture, she didn’t get close at all.

The estate is in the distance. Small-looking. She could have climbed over the fence or gone down the drive just a bit to get a better vantage point if she’d wanted to. There were any number of ways to get a better picture. She didn’t even get the name of the estate in the frame – just a few buildings in the far-off distance. Not even a small attempt to get a picture of the big house which she lived in for a short time.

What I imagine, is a woman, so haunted by the ghosts of a place, that she dared not get any closer. She took a quick snapshot and kept on her way.

My mother’s photograph from 1968.

Not so long ago, Rothensande was an orphanage, but it has lived many lives both before and after that time. Perhaps most famously, in the 1950’s, (post-orphanage era) the property was used as the set for filming the “Gut Immenhof” series of movies – you might look at these films as the German equivalent of our Anne of Green Gables films. Rothensande was, and still seems an ideal piece of heaven, built for the purpose of luxury and enjoyment. Such was not my mother’s experience when she stayed there for a short time in 1948.

The Rothensande Mansion

I can only speculate now what those “unhappy happenings” were, but I do think it had my mother pretty rattled, emotionally speaking. So, now, when I think of her going back to that place called Rothensande, I see a broken woman, still sorting through a whole package of emotions. I imagine her circling back to the orphanage, not out of curiosity or fond feelings … but just to “deal’ with it.

I happened to talk to the man who runs the estate now. He said, from time to time, he hears stories from people who used to live there … former orphans who were sent off to South Africa and Canada. He relayed their tales of abuse and punishment to me. If there were any happy stories to tell, he didn’t hear them and he didn’t share any with me.  My mother said the couple who ran the orphanage were “strict”. I also know that my grandmother, lying in her hospital bed a few months from death, went to great lengths to get my mom out of the orphanage quickly. She, a Mennonite, even converted to Catholicism in an attempt to get a local Catholic family to adopt her daughter.

The orphanage had everyone rattled.

I can’t imagine anyone in this world more helpless than a child without a parent. As I was at Rothensande on a tour (they now give tours of the estate on Wednesdays and Saturdays, for the many fans of the Gut Immenhof Films) I noticed, among the group of people,  several small children. They had parents but as the children went off to play on their own, separating from the group, they began to look like orphans to me. I kept my distance and observed their innocence as they poked at the dirt and puddles in the pathway. Without a parent or anybody who cared even just a tiny little bit, these children were like sitting ducks, vulnerable to the slightest abuse. I remember when I was a child, how I relied on the adults in my life to care for me – I believed they had my safety and well-being in mind. That’s what makes children so beautiful and precious. Their blind trust and unspoiled attitude toward life should be guarded by the people around them.

As I watched the children at Rothensande, all I could hear were my mother’s words … “unhappy happenings”.   I saw the truth right in front of me. My heart broke a little bit for her.  I wanted to rush in and protect her from the pain of loneliness or abuse … or whatever happened at the orphanage, which I will never know.

I took some photos of the children as they played in the dirt. A girl, who I guessed to be about 8 years old, walked over to the water with a small stick in her hand. She had a long braid of red hair and a sun dress with one strap fallen off her shoulder. She intrigued me. I imagined she was my mother over 60 years ago.

Careful not to get caught, I photographed the little girl in the sundress, so I could remember the moment and all of the emotion that went along with it. I’m quite certain if her parents saw me stalking their daughter, it would’ve been a messy scene. But I wanted the shot … and so I took the risk.

Months later, I painted that little girl. She is looking out to her imaginary world on the water. As colourful brushstrokes danced on canvas, I thought of my mother and all the other orphans and all of their stories.

They were beautiful, innocent, vulnerable and lonely.

Rothensande was an interesting experience for me. It’s a place that opened my eyes and my heart to see my mother’s story in more than just black and white.  For that, I’m thankful.

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If you’re interested in seeing some Rothensande pictures backed by the Gut Immenhof soundtrack, take a look at the video below!

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Stories a property holds onto, buried under red sand, afloat on blue water or tucked away behind decades of floral wallpaper, layered on layers, will only ever be a kaleidoscope time capsule; fragments and flashes of colour without much order or sense; a curiosity to turn round and view from time to time.  

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A few days before visiting Rothensande, I had been searching through a series of giant books in the Eutin Archive for many hours, desperately scanning each page for two names, Monika Kröker or Maria Kröker. I was looking for any clue, no matter how slight, to unlock stories about my mother’s and grandmother’s lives from the time when they lived in Eutin and surrounding area. They were there during the influx of refugees and displaced persons (DPs) in the time after WW II. In the town of Eutin alone, the population doubled from 10,000 to 20,000 people in a matter of months in 1945. Searching in the DP-related archives was tedious work; many hours are spent for little to no reward. These documents were typed or hand-written in every size and style of paper – all in German – a language that, for the most part, I don’t understand. 
As I turned another page in the mountain of pages, there was a letter dated Sept 24, 1948 with my grandmother’s name in the subject line. I gasped out loud. This was the clue I’d been hoping to find. The letter was lengthy and roughly explained the reasoning for relocating my mother and grandmother from their current dwelling: My grandmother needed to go to a hospice on account of being very ill and my mother (having nowhere else to go to and no one to care for her) was sent to an orphanage. This letter told me the name of the orphanage I’d been hoping to track down. “Rothensande”, a very pretty name which means “Red Sands”.

I was in the waiting room, waiting. Across from me was a scruffy man, rather lanky yet muscular with rough and calloused hands. He had deep-set grooves in his face and a dark, thick-looking tan, the kind you would see on people in the Deep South. He and I were very different people. One thing I know about an emergency room – you need to make peace with the idea that you may be there for a while, so it’s best to make a few friends to help pass the time.

I asked the scruffy-faced man, so, what do you do

He was a Garbage Man.

I found out, first of all, it’s “Sanitation Engineer”, not Garbage Man. I said I was thrilled with the idea of having a conversation with an engineer. He laughed and rolled his eyes. “I still call myself a garbage man.” he said. I told him I was a “Botanical Engineer” but he could still call me a florist. We laughed about our titles and moved on. I asked him about the most interesting bit of garbage he’d put in his truck.

“The best stuff comes from Lakeshore Road by Lake Erie.”  How many times had he collected perfectly good toasters and other fine appliances from this stretch of road. “It’s a gold-mine down there”.

“Isn’t that stealing garbage?” I asked him. “I think that’s illegal”.

“Well, yes,” he said, “but there’s got to be something illegal about throwing out perfectly good stuff.” He told me what he doesn’t keep for himself he takes over to the pawn shop in Fort Erie and spends the cash at the local pub.  “No use throwing away good stuff” quietly adding “rich people” under his breath. I said there’s got to be some perks for such a hard occupation, so I guess there’s no harm, and yeah, I get it. Rich people. I hoped he didn’t think I was one of them.

He continued. “Aw, it’s not so bad. Mostly, it’s a good job, except for when you come across kitty litter. You can’t tell from the outside of the bag what’s inside the bag, and most of the time, garbage is garbage – it has a predictable weight. But, if there’s kitty litter in there, you won’t know until you’re grabbing the knot and go to heave it into the truck and it weighs a ton. If you get a tear in the bag, it’s goes spraying everywhere. I know guys who’ve hurt their shoulders from slinging kitty litter. So ya, I’d say, we have to look out for that, mostly. Everything else is just regular garbage.”

I told him I have a cat and put kitty litter out to the curb and from now on I will remember him when I do.

“There’s a woman on Lakeshore who won’t put out all of her garbage ahead of time. Not in the summer, anyway. She waits until the truck is on it’s way (you can hear it from pretty far-off) and makes us stand around while she saunters down the drive with a little bag in her hand. Normally, we’d just drive off, but this woman is worth the wait. She walks real slow in a bikini and high heels. We just stand and watch. It’s a nice little show for us. So that there’s a perk to the job, I’d say.”

Ever since that most-enlightening conversation with the Garbage Man Sanitation Engineer, I often wonder what stories are hidden in people, if only I asked. How many times have I been completely shocked at the assumptions I’ve made based on someone’s appearance or manner of speaking. At times, the most quiet and ordinary of people turn out to be the ones with the best stories. How many times have I simply “not asked”? Even my own family. You never know who somebody is or how interesting they are until you ask.

Hello! Who are you?

Wouldn’t it be great if we could skip the surface conversation and get right to the heart of the matter? I have always suffered from an immense aversion to smalltalk. How could I possibly truly care about how you are if I haven’t the slightest clue who you are?

One time I conducted an experiment and decided to answer the question “How are you?”  with raw, real honesty. For a short time I replied with a report on my emotional status, physical ailments and momentary state of mind. It went something like this:

“How are you?”

“I’m glad you asked. I’m feeling rather overwhelmed today. I was wondering what are the five stages of grief. Or is it seven? I can’t recall and it’s making me crazy. Also, I seem to have a bit of gout in my left foot which is causing me limp a bit. Although, it’s not too bad. I shouldn’t complain and yet, I do.

Responses were, at best, unsatisfying and, at worst, extremely awkward, usually ending abruptly with me asking the question I abhor “ And how are you?” Then we’d part ways, all parties feeling a little assaulted.

Perhaps it was unfair to conduct a social experiment in the first place. Perhaps I should start accepting the social norms of our society. I need to understand most people really don’t care about how other people are. “How are you?” is just an empty question which deserves an empty answer and that’s fine.  If this is how our society stays civil and keeps people from killing each other, I’m all in.

One time I heard a documentary featuring the author Charles Montgomery who wrote a book called “Happy City”. (http://www.cbc.ca/books/2014/09/happy-city-transforming-our-lives-through-urban-design.html) He talked about how cities can be designed to help us, as people, to be happy. Turns out the happiest neighbourhoods in the world all have one commonality. A town centre. A place where all the streets intersect. That’s all. Just a place for the community to wander in and out of on a daily basis, bumping into each other, asking each other questions such as “How are you Mrs. Smith? Oh, I’m just fine, thank you.” A place where you see familiar people every day and talk about nothing at all.

Apparently, that’s the secret to happiness.

I couldn’t be more unsettled about this bit of news; it seems as though happiness has nothing to do with depth of conversation, but everything to do with superficiality.

I’ve thought about this a bit (actually a lot) and haven’t come to any conclusion, but I wonder if a town centre helps you feel less invisible. Montgomery also talked about our need for community. I like to think that, in a community, a person can become known, mainly because you bump shoulders so often. With enough interactions, it’s possible to develop a depth of knowledge about the people around you. Not exactly intimate, but if you went missing or died in your sleep, people would notice and they might even know how to find you.

I met a man who told me it had been years since any of his family had asked him how his work was going or about anything else important in his life. He was saddened by their general lack of interest. He admitted there’d been nothing ground-breaking in a long while; work was steady. Nothing exciting enough to just blurt out. He doesn’t want to be a bore talking about himself, but yes, it would still be nice if someone showed interest.

I wonder if the man was sad because he felt unnoticed or maybe even invisible. He said it would be nice if someone asked him something, sometime. The solution seems so simple and straightforward.

Not that long ago I heard a great little phrase: To see is to love.

To see is to love. Could it be that to listen is to love? Or to ask a question is to love?

Opening ears and eyes and heart … is to love?

The pendulum swings wildly back and forth, creating extremes – always seeking a balance. It used to be that I didn’t speak at all. Perhaps I didn’t feel my voice had a place in the world.  Old habits, especially emotional ones, are hard to let go of. I, like the sad man, am still very sensitive to the horror of not being interesting. These days, I’m keenly aware of speaking too much. I’m exploding with bottled up questions and thoughts and stories.

I have to admit, I don’t know how to do this listening thing very well. Worse, is question-asking. More than anything, I want to be seen and known, to not be misunderstood.  I forget that everyone else around me is seeking the same outcome. We are all trying to explain ourselves to our world. I’m writing and talking and talking and explaining, almost frantically. The pendulum has swung very far.

I often forget there is a breathing out and a breathing in.

An exhale and an inhale. Speaking and listening. Expression and impression.

The Golden Rule is usually a reliable reminder of how to be. Treat others as you would wish to be treated. In other words, if I want to be listened to, I ought to listen to other people.

All this to say, I am trying to find a balance between speaking and listening.

Also, I’m trying to learn what it is to love, practically speaking. For now, I’m holding onto (and digging into … trying to understand) this beautiful phrase: to see is to love.

I’m also wishing Jordan Station had a Town Centre. We have the Post Office and that’s doing the job for now, but a Town Centre would be amazing. I think the orchard in the middle of town is for sale …

About the bee sting? It got better. I didn’t die. Thanks for asking!

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From the book “Happy City” by Charles Montgomery:

As much as we complain about other people, there is nothing worse for mental health than a social desert. The more connected we are to family and community, the less likely we are to experience heart attacks, strokes, cancer and depression. Connected people sleep better at night. They live longer. They consistently report being happier.

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P.S. Credit for the phrase “To see is to love” goes to Jack Gibb. (and Tim Arnold for bringing the phrase to my attention in the first place). Thanks!!!

“It takes a very long time to become young.” ~ Pablo Picasso.

The consensus among the educated seems to be this:  You must learn the rules first, then you may begin breaking the rules.

Pose this concept to an uneducated person and you will get an entirely different perspective on the matter. To the uneducated, the idea of postponing expression (particularly in the arts) until one is “sufficiently educated” sounds like the worst case of inequality. Essentially, the “education-first” concept grants an exclusive right of expression to the privileged of our society, and at the same time, puts a lid on expression for the rest of us common-folk. If you can afford an education, good for you, express all you want. Everyone else gets a muzzle.

I know it’s good to speak from experience, and I can assure you that this perspective is entirely first-hand. When I was a teenager, the only path I wanted to take with my life was to be an artist in some capacity. I dreamt of going to college or university to learn the art of the arts. My dreams were lofty. That was twenty years ago. A life-time has passed since.

The past two decades have been fine enough, so please don’t hear me complaining, that’s not what this is.  Many would view my previous title “Florist For Events” as a dream job … something to envy. A lot of people would like to believe I chose that line of work because I had a passion for it. While it’s true, I always had a certain passion for my work, I did not choose it. The simple fact is that I needed full-time work when I was 18. Working with flowers was my only prospect at the time … and I had bills to pay.

It’s been one year since I closed up shop and put my floral knife in the drawer, and I find myself in a curious situation; I’m not properly qualified for practicing any of my passions (according to the above rules, that is). Since I’m not big on rules, I do it anyway, posting on my blog and painting large pictures … but often with a sense of dread, as though I’m truly not allowed to be doing what I’m doing.

I have a secret to tell you … I haven’t learned the rules. But, you probably knew that already.

I take heart when I think of what Picasso said about it taking a very long time to become young. Sounds like Picasso had a whole bunch of unlearning to do.

Here’s a very big and scary question … what’s the value in learning rules in the first place if it takes a lifetime to unlearn them? 

I have another secret to tell you … I was never properly educated as a florist.

True, I took a few night courses and worked under a few mentors who taught me some valuable skills … but only for a short time. When I started my business, I hadn’t the slightest clue what to do and how to do it. But, I did it anyway and managed to create a thriving niche market business for 13 years. For the most part, I have been self-taught in every aspect of my floral career. Some may find this dirty little secret surprising. (Perhaps others saw through the veil the whole time). In any case, the point is this: at some point in practicing my floral career, I transformed from being “uneducated” to “experienced” and eventually (to my own surprise) became a leader in my field. No one has ever been more shocked about the “leader” bit than me.

This is the story I run in my head when I feel intimidated by my current amateur-ness. I tell myself the story about that time I began a career at the bottom rung, sweeping the floor and cleaning buckets … and eventually became an expert. All without school.

These days, I share my work publicly, even though I’m not a professional by any stretch, for two reasons.

The first is quite simple; I like to share ideas with people. Some artists create for themselves and don’t feel the need to share. I’m not like that. I create with a goal of sending my work out into the world. It’s how I’m wired. It’s my hope that, no matter what stage I’m at, it can bring some joy or positive thought to my community. I’m hoping for connection at some level, to not merely be some kind of entertainment in a Facebook feed.

The second reason for sharing my work is to inspire. In this time of editing on editing, we rarely get a glimpse of a person’s process. How often do you get to see behind the curtain? How rare is honesty? It’s my hope that, in sharing my amateur work, you might find a spark of inspiration and say to yourself “If she can do it, maybe I can too!”

In this world where one feels almost apologetic for embarking in a new direction, I hope you can hear me saying “Go for it. Just try.” These are words we would say to encourage a child.

Why on earth do these words disappear when we become all grown up? As though we don’t encouragement anymore.

Think about this for a moment. Lets say you and I decide not to create or express ourselves because we believe it’s a job for “professionals only”. What kind of world would this be without all that beauty in it?

When you start something new, whatever it is, you are like a child looking up at the clouds, a whole world of potential above you. Anything is possible. Success or failure. Like a child, I want to see my dreams soar into the boundless blue sky like a bunch of colourful balloons, just to see what will happen. They might just take me away.

I’d like to not be afraid of falling or failing. Instead, I’d like to just create.

Like a child.

That she had been there, too, struck me as both strange and beautiful, since none of it had been planned. The moment simply arrived, then fleeted away, leaving me with a deep impression of having travelled around a circle.

Since that moment, I have been reflecting on circles, in a neurotic, obsessive kind of manner. I’ve been writing about them and have started painting circles and swirls on very large canvases in my studio – sometimes in the middle of the night.

The circle has become my muse. No doubt about that.

I had been traveling around a circle, and only now saw it for the first time. Or had the circle had come to meet me, spinning and swirling, revealing all of my life, what had transpired, so far.

Now that it’s so clear, the circle, I mean, I see it everywhere – in the seasons as they spin round from year to year, faithfully returning.  I see the circle in the way the earth moves around the sun, bringing a new sunrise and sunset with each cycle. The moon, hiding and revealing, always circling.

Rainbows are circles, I saw one over a waterfall where the hoop of a rainbow came to meet me at my feet. Where did it begin and where did it end?

I thought of the garden, when a seed goes into the ground to die and becomes a new creation. Each ending is a new beginning. This is the circle of life.

I notice tracks all over these tangled, overlapping circles. I’m aware that I’ve become a part of another’s journey, not just my own. These familiar footprints are my mother’s, I’m sure of it. I see their shape revealed in the dirt, the sand and snow, in the garden, pressed into the green grass. In this way, we share the journey.  I follow, amused and curious to pick up the crumbs and clues she left along the way. But, she’s always one too many steps ahead. I fear I will never catch up.

I now look for her in these circles and wonder what is to be learned?  I feel my heart expanding as the universe does. Molecules moving outward, getting ever more spacious. I am struck with the notion of forgiveness in the stories I encounter along the way.

Circling, spinning, swirling … this is the motion of a circle. Going back, I move forward. Healing, always healing.

These old stories, dusty relics from the past, they offer an invitation.

And, so I open my ears and my heart.

I listen.

I revisit. I redo. I renew.

I circle.

Acadia University 2014

Acadia University 1965 (ish)

We were at Radio Shack, Mommy and I.

The clerk was handing her credit card back. “Sorry ma’am, it’s been declined.” 

“Oh!” Mommy exclaimed. She looked genuinely surprised. 

Not wanting to embarrass us, quite considerately the clerk kept her voice down as we discussed what to do next. I didn’t know much about credit cards, but was about to get a good lesson. I was 16.

Mommy took back the card and handed over a different one from her wallet, where she had plenty others to choose from. “That one should be fine”. I noticed the colour in her cheeks rise to a pretty shade of rose. Things weren’t fine and that was my clue.

Just that afternoon, Mommy declared that we would be getting a computer and would I come with her to the Pen Centre to pick it up? She was taking a business course and a home computer was a must. Us girls could use it for school and, also, she planned to write a book about her life.

The year was 1992 and computers were pretty much cutting edge technology. I thought they were for rich people only, which we were not. Money, or, rather, lack of it, didn’t stand in the way of my mother being an early adopter. She had a life to live, goals to accomplish!

It seemed as if the whole store had paused, listening and waiting, as Mommy’s second card was processed. She did her best to look casual and nonchalant with her square shoulders and proud back, but I could still see that tell-tale pink in her cheeks. Back then there was a lot to do in processing a credit card. In the early Nineties you had to stand and wait at the counter in painful agony as the clerk relayed your number on a landline, as if waiting for permission from the authorities in some far-off official boardroom. The unseen committee would then debate amongst themselves in sombre tones as to whether or not they would grant the money. Meanwhile, back at the store, your small life hung delicately in the balance.

The clerk hung up the phone for the second time and reported the news we’d all been waiting for. I felt the entire store turned their ears in our direction.

Mommy had a new silk scarf tied in her hair that day. Bright pink water colours in a hand-painted design. She’d picked it out at the Lincoln Mall one afternoon after getting her hair cut.  I remember seeing her walk out of the store, immediately tying it in a big bow over her hair, declaring “I’m going to wear silk scarfs from now on!  You should wear one, too, Jennifer. Which one do you want? Let’s pick one out.”

I chose a blue-washed scarf, even though I knew I didn’t need one. Mommy remarked at how it suited me so well. It matched my eyes and complimented my blond hair just right. We were a pair that day, walking out of the mall, each with a scarf in our hair.

She was wearing one of her silk scarfs when she made the declaration “I’ve decided to write poetry! You can illustrate. We’ll make a book together, Mother and Daughter.” I probably didn’t roll my eyes, even though I wanted to. She was so excited and sincere. And honestly, she hadn’t been that happy in well … ever. Truthfully, she had never been happier in my whole life. All her pain had been lifted and she was experiencing the summer of all her summers. I didn’t quite know what to do, except that I knew I wanted to see her stay that way. I agreed to illustrate her poetry.

And so, it was the summer of brightly coloured silk scarfs, poetry and spending money. It was the summer of being young again. It was the summer of sweet happiness.

Along with composing poetry, Mommy had recently written an enthusiastic letter to her oncology doctor thanking him profusely for the most recent concoction of drugs.  22 years later, I found the letter in a stack of memories. It explains so much that I didn’t understand at the time.

The second card was declined and the store fell into a hush. All ears were tuned in to hear what the clerk had to say next. I picture the Radio Shack store looking like that game where someone calls out “FREEZE!” and everyone stands as still as possible. The loser is the one who moves first.

Mommy handed over a third card.

Declined.

As this point, most people would give up. They would let go of  their dream and resign to continuing life they way it was before. The clerk suggested that we consider not getting the computer. To Mommy, stubborn to a fault and an excellent problem solver, this suggestion was ludicrous. Instead of backing down, she thrust all three cards back to the clerk. “Split it into three. That’ll work.”

And so it did.

Cheeks now fully crimson, we left the store with our arms full of boxes, the not-so-proud owners of a brand new computer.

That evening, while Mommy busied herself with setting up the computer, boxes all over the bedroom, M-M and I had a quick meeting by the picnic table in the back yard. Our voices quiet, we reported our latest observations. “Something’s not right” she said. “Yeah”, I said. “She’s been writing poetry and wearing silk scarves. Plus there’s the computer and the credit cards and also, she bought that humongous desk.”

Yeah, something wasn’t right.

Also, why was she so happy? It was all quite suspicious.

The credit cards were full and we had an inkling that the bank account was dry. Mommy was happy and pain free. The madness had to be stopped. After our conversation by the picnic table there were a few phone calls followed by a quick change in drugs.

As the leaves turned from summer green to various shades of orange and red, M-M and I went back to school and our household returned it’s unique state of normal. Bills arrived in the mail. Mommy’s white sweater with the brightly embroidered flowers grew a patch of brown on the front from the constant rub, rub, rub to relieve the pain in her chest.

Yes, everything was back to normal.

She stopped writing poetry.

I sometimes wonder if Mommy knew she was higher than a kite that summer. I’ll never know, but one thing I’m sure about is that, no matter the cost, it was probably worth it.

For her, it was a great summer. Probably the best.

A full lunar eclipse illuminated the Halifax sky on the night Sheri and David fell madly in love. Earlier, there was a cafe, two cups of tea, a mutual friend and words that would set the wheels of love and life into motion.

His words were, “I would change the course of my life for that woman”.

Later, under the light of the giant moon, there was a lazy stroll that lingered into the wee hours of a maritime morning. As the stars dimmed and the sun rose, sparks flew. As tumultuous love stories often go, the pair parted; he left for New York while she remained in Halifax.

Through mailed letters and a whirlwind wedding, Sheri and David managed to merge their separate paths into one, eventually planting roots in downtown Toronto.

Together. In love. Happily ever after.

This is the “Coles Notes” version of the almost unbelievable love story they shared with me.

Sheri and David are co-owners of Wildhagen Hat Shop, a wife and husband team with a love story to beat all AND the most fabulous creators of handmade hats.

You can find their shop tucked in amongst a flurry of fabrics and sewing machines on Queen St. West in Toronto. At the top of a tall flight of stairs, their loft-style studio has giant windows looking out to the busy street below. Every wall in the shop is adorned with rows of breathtaking hats with the best names, ever, by the way. Juniper, Chico, Belmondo, Skipper, Lupin, Cocteau Cloche, to name just a few. The hat I fell head-over-heels for goes by the name “Sandrine”.  Admittedly, I am weak when it comes to hats, so was easily smitten – especially when I was told I could choose any fabric and weave combination that I wished!

I was in hat heaven.

Together, Jess (my hat consultant) and I deliberated over the best combination of materials for my custom order. All decisions made, my heart was a-pitter-patter with excitement and anticipation.

Back in Niagara, waiting for my hat to be created, from time to time my mind would wander and day-dream about it a little bit. I thought about the brim which would be made of two fabrics: waxed, waterproof cotton on the top and a colourful striped English wool designed by Paul Smith  on the underside.  There would be a lovely band at the point where the crown meets the brim, made in a Danish wool, woven in two colours (referred to as having a ‘warp and weft’.)  My chosen wool warp and weft were in apricot and indigo. The crown would be Panama straw, hand-woven in Ecuador using a technique which will soon be Unesco protected. Finally, the band of ribbon on the inside would be from Mokuba, a tantalizing ribbon shop just one flight down from Wildhagen.

In the Wildhagen studio, a curtain was all that separated retail-space from work-space. A large, round hole was cut into the curtain and, whilst peering through, I was reminded of the Polka Dot Door. Through the magical hole and beyond the mysterious veil, all was revealed. Hat elves were working away! Sewing machines whirred, scissors snipped and the iron puffed out big clouds of hot steam.

In total, beyond the Polka Dot Hole, there were three elves. Sheri (pattern designer and developer, sewer and doer of extra complicated things), David (straw shaper, blocker and sometimes ironer), Jess (cutter, sewer and doer of a little bit of everything). These three rub shoulders (literally) in one of the most efficient work spaces I have seen. They work as a team, passing hats around like batons, communicating pertinent details along the way.

Hanging above Sheri’s sewing machine are two rows of original paper patterns. It’s an impressive array.  I paused to let the beauty of them sink in. I can’t even imagine the time it took to develop these.

I asked Sheri how this hat-making business got started, anyway.

One day 12 years ago, Sheri decided to make a hat. Just like that. While in New York, she had worked for Calvin Klein in the alterations department, which was basically boot-camp for all future endeavours involving fabric and pattern making. At the time that Sheri decided to try her hand at hat-making, there was little support or education for millinery so she went to the Toronto Public Library and educated herself. Then, as she told me “I decided to apply what I knew about textiles … to something I didn’t know anything about.” 

She has developed her extensive collection of patterns through the time-tested method of trial and error and has never been to “hat school”.  I think it’s precisely her “unschooling” which gives her patterns an originality that can’t be labelled.

I appreciate her fearlessness of stepping into an unknown world to just give it a whirl – to see what would happen.  Had she played by the rules or waited for a certificate of approval – some kind of permission – perhaps her designs would have been different or much less noteworthy. Perhaps she wouldn’t even have tried at all.

As I look at my new hat, I see reflections of Sheri’s former textile world. My Sandrine is sassy with a brim cocked out to the left as if to say “Yeah, I have some attitude!”  (At least that’s how I feel when I put it on!)

Sheri and David are an inspiring team. Married for 17 years now, the hat business is an equal joint venture, even though people still refer to it as “Sheri’s Hats”.

I am inspired by their mutual respect. It seems as the hat business grows, so does their love.

All photographs by Nataschia Wielink 

To visit Hat Heaven go to: Wildhagen Hats