Cat Skinner Club

Morgan’s Point

The women in my family know heartbreak like the words to a favourite song. It seems to be written in our DNA, part of the marrow of our bones. So too is the ability to breathe in the beauty of each fragile moment. We are nature lovers who seek solace in our gardens, artists who make music, textile art, paintings and words. We love deeply, we fail spectacularly. We are caretakers and hard workers who make cozy, welcoming homes in any circumstance. We delight in family, and food, and gatherings. We raise babies, and we survive.

In this new life, I follow the path of my ancestors.

The other day, I drove 45 minutes to meet with a wedding couple at their home, where they are getting married in June. (Did you know that I’m a wedding officiant?). They just happened to live on the same road as my Aunt Jackie’s favourite house, and so after interviewing this very sweet pair (who met in later years through a match-making service #hope) I drove to the end of Morgan’s Point Road and walked down to the beach that is part of my aunt’s former property.

Jackie hosted us there over countless lazy weekends in the summer time. She held reunion barbecues, holiday gatherings, and parties on the regular because she was a spectacular cook who loved to entertain. Her home was full of exciting music, delicious smells, fresh flowers and light. I always had the sense that she felt a deep, spiritual connection with this place, overlooking the often turbulent Lake Erie. I slept in the hammock as a child with the warm summer breeze tickling my sunburned skin, listening to the crashing of the waves. Morgan’s Point was Jackie.

Morgan’s Point was also where her relationship came apart. Where she became a single mom to her son.

I don’t know what I was looking for, visiting the Point. A message from a relative I felt a strong connection to? Some reassurance that things would be okay? A ghostly encounter in the place where her ashes were scattered? I prowled the property line and snapped a few photos vaguely wondering what I might say to the owners if they discovered me in the bushes:

“My aunt used to live here.”

“My family spent one particularly warm Christmas here, shaking the house with our drumming and dancing around a raging bonfire like crazy pagans. I smoked pot with my cousins. Don’t tell my mom.”

“I ate shark for the first time on that back deck. I only did it to impress my cousin’s gorgeous half-brother. I still have a crush on him and it’s two decades later.”

“I just came here to know that I’m not going to die of a broken heart.”

Thankfully, there was nobody home.

I sat on the beach and took a half-assed selfie. I’m getting to the age where selfies feel foolish, but I know I must resist this feeling. Giving in would mean giving up. There were hundreds of little flies swarming the driftwood logs where I tried to sit for a moment of reflection. A moment of connection to Jackie, her essence. Sure, the lake was pretty, but in no more magical a way than any other lake. The flies felt like they were discovering a new home in the mess that was my hair. Finally, I selected a glittering black rock from the beach. Something to remember the moment. Or the complete lack of a moment.

Because a house is just a house. A beautiful property is just a piece of land. Home is made by people, connections, moments; the memories created behind the bricks and mortar. The imprints left by little feet racing across lawns and hurling rocks into the waves. Jackie wasn’t at the Point because we are not tied to places. Everything I need of Jackie is part of me already, courtesy of DNA and grey matter, where a thousand memories of her strength and beauty are stored. All I need to do is close my eyes and hear her wailing the chorus to ‘Blue Bayou’. When I was a girl, the way she sang that song made me burn to understand what it was all about.

I’ve always thought of myself as a nomad. This will sound preposterous to anyone who knows how much stuff I own, but it’s true. I can feel at home just about anywhere. So, I guess it’s time to purge and pack. To find a new place for memories and moments to play out. Time to start dreaming of a space to call my own, to live modestly and within my means while I repair and heal.

Still, Morgan’s Point is awfully pretty. You should visit it sometime if you can.

Full Moon in May

Mother Moon, do you recall at the beginning of this year, when I brought my children out into our snow-covered postage stamp backyard to meet you? We performed our first moon ritual as a family, with both mamas lending their feminine energy to our circle. Each of us wrote a full moon wish on a piece of paper (even little Noodle) and we burned our wishes as offerings before releasing the circle and heading inside for hot cocoa.

I asked you for the truth. You’ve delivered it in ways that have torn my very soul from my body.

Tonight’s moon is not to be taken lightly. It’s my first moon phase in this new life, and I’ve never felt more uncertain and unsteady. I realize now that I must be very careful about what I call towards me. You clearly don’t mess around.

Please grant me the ability to access love, even when I’m moved to feel hurt, anger, betrayal and fear.

Grant me the foresight to make careful, considered decisions for my own future and the future of my children.

Keep sending me moments of beauty and joy so that the moments of sorrow and grief do not cast such dark shadows.

Draw love to me in every form that you believe I can handle right now.

Continue revealing the truth. I will believe it, even if I don’t want to.

Protect my children. Help them see me, and see the love I have for them, and the gifts I have to bring to their lives.

Please grant me financial prosperity and continued success in my work. I need this stability desperately right now.

Send me breath when the sorrow feels too great. Show me there is more than just my suffering.

Help me build a home that is emotionally stable, safe, and a place where I can heal.

Bless all of the incredible friends and family, near and far, who have shown me that I am not alone and that I am worthy of love.

Let me turn this pain into beauty, and let that beauty help others move through their own suffering.

Guard my health so I may survive this time and benefit from the inevitable changes ahead.

As always, I am grateful for your light and divine feminine energy. I realize that even in the midst of this suffering I have an abundance of blessings. Underneath the heaviness, there is a part of me that is both curious and hopeful about where I will be at the end of this cycle. The path forward is unclear, but I will trust that I am exactly where I should be.

Getaway

Long before my life…what’s the phrase I want to use here? Caved in? Fell apart? Transformed? Long before everything changed, I’d agreed to house and pet sit for my dear friends Nat and Mike in the east end of Toronto. That’s where I am now; laying in their bed, the white noise of a little fan near the window drowning out all other sound. I’m up too early on a Sunday morning, but maybe I’ll nap after I write this.

I’ve been here since Wednesday, with Noodle at my side for three full days. I needed time, just the two of us, to have fun and go on city adventures. The first night we rolled in, we hit the beach for fish and chips, a first for him. He liked the food, but he liked the sand more, so it was up to me to finish our single serving. It was hard to convince myself to eat a pile of fried stuff while watching twenty-year-old women in bikinis playing beach volleyball. The seagulls were grateful for the fish and chips donation.

We trekked to the water’s edge. It’s remarkable how much time a young kid can spend throwing things into the water. I found an almost perfectly round white rock that reminded me of the full moon, and another tear-shaped rock with a stripe around the edges. I tucked these in my bag and then realized that I’ll need a nature table in my new home, wherever that may be. The beach was littered with gorgeous, fit bodies, couples in love, and young families with children. Why does heartbreak feel so much like panic? The worst has already happened, so what am I afraid of? I put my toes into the lake and with the shock of spring-cold water, asked for my pain to be taken away.

We noodled around on the playground. The sand was hot lava. Then we went to meet friends for ice cream. I drove to the wrong location, so by the time we finally sorted ourselves, I had a wired, tired five year old boy. He was like a shark in the way he couldn’t stop moving. And then, we added ice cream to his little body, which thankfully he barely touched. The Beaches are always bustling with people. Every time I’m there, I feel like I’m on a holiday. This time, I tried to take in all the sights and sounds while trying to keep my kid from picking things up off the city streets, listening to my friend try to make conversation, and most importantly, trying not collapse in a sobbing heap.

Home then for a quick walk with the dog and a bath to rinse out all the sand in Noah’s hair. He was beyond tired at this point, and I braced myself for the onslaught of emotion. Sure enough, he started sobbing. Homesick for the rest of his family, not completely sure if I’d brought him here because this was our new home, it was a mess. How do you console someone when they’re crying for the same things you are? I remained steady, and loving, and we moved through our routine for the rest of the night. Tears turned to giggles, we read the new Star Wars book my friends so sweetly left for him, and soon he was snoring. Not mommy though. I had to start my work day. I got in two solid hours before I began drooling on myself, and then was out cold as soon as the light was out. Hmm…maybe a new strategy for getting proper sleep? Work until I’m delirious, wake only when I have to. Nap if necessary. Repeat.

The next day we walked the dog, discovered a playground, and then Noah built an epic amusement park out of toddler-sized Lego bricks while I cracked my computer and got some more work in. Our afternoon destination was the Aquarium. He’s shark-crazy right now, so this first visit was sure to blow his mind. He fell asleep in the car, which was great because with a Jays game to compete with, there was no parking to be found. I drove around for an hour looking, reminiscent of the time I briefly lived in Manhattan. I decided to take my chances on a side street, where I was relatively sure I wouldn’t get towed. Surely, I wouldn’t get a  parking ticket on top of everything else? (I didn’t. Thank you parking gods!)

Noodle had to work himself up to go see the sharks. We cut our teeth on freshwater fish and octopus. This reminded me of when he was a baby, when he was OBSESSED with horses. He only had a few words, and one of those was ‘NeighNeigh’. We took him to the Royal Winter Fair, so he could see these great beasts up close, and he was terrified. I couldn’t understand how getting close to something you loved so much could be scary. I think I get it now. With enough distance, these creatures are alluring and magnificent. Close up, you realize they can kill you.

After lunch, and some indoor playground time, he was ready to take on the sharks. Noodle was delighted with how the tanks seemed to stretch on and on. He really took his time, searching for each species, and we read lots of the info cards. Impressive because I didn’t think his attention span was up for so much research. As we finally wrapped up, we visited the gift shop and chose a plastic shark head full of tiny aquatic creatures. These came in handy, because our next stop was with a warm and lovely couple who I’ll be uniting in marriage next month. Thankfully, they liked kids.

Then dinner in Kensington Market. A tired and overstimulated kid doesn’t care about exciting bustle and vibrant street life. They think it’s bullshit that we have to park so far from the place we’re supposed to be. We met my dear cousin for pho, and like so many of my nearest and dearest, all she could do was shake her head in bewilderment and shed some tears on my behalf. On our behalf. I get the same question over and over:

“What happened?”

I may never have the answer.

A spin around the block with the pooch and then we dropped into bed. This time Noodle tried to read the Star Wars book to me. My heart feels next to exploding with every new word he masters. He’s unlocking the universe, one syllable at a time. It occurs to me to make more space for pleasure reading, now that I’ll have more alone time. I slept that night like I had no worries in the world.

On our final day together, we use our ROM membership to visit our dino friends, see the animals, and of course, the mummy. We contemplate why there is an alarm in the mummy’s glass case. Is it climate control? Is it in case he gets up and wanders around after hours? Is it because treasure hunters may try to steal him and remove the ancient ruby hidden in his chest cavity? We eat lunch and split a chocolate croissant, choose a dino Lego set and matching moon and stars necklaces for his sisters, and then we head home. We take the dog to the playground at the end of the street and I make friends with my first single dad. He’s not my type, but I’m encouraged by how kids make the best of ice breakers. Maybe someday…

After some play time, we head to the beaches for dinner with Kathryn, one of my very best friends, and my dear, sweet Dave. Noodle is amused to learn that these people who he doesn’t recognize used to hold him and sing to him and sometimes even feed him while mommy was onstage, or when they came to our Toronto house to visit him. He cozies right up to both, as if he can sense that they are my lifeline right now. As if he loves them because they love me, complete with all my mess. They engage him until he’s too tired to chat, and then they hold him close while he amuses himself with a shark game on my phone. I’ve used up all my data this month trying to create distractions. Both for the boy, and for myself.

That night, I sleep as close as I can to my son, knowing it will be days and many miles before I see him again. I never dreamed I’d have to see him only fifty percent of the time. I never imagined being without him until he was grown and fending for himself. His sweaty head smells like summertime and his own unique delicious blend of earthy goodness. How do people do this? How do people move through this loss and still feel like their lives are full?

On Saturday, I delivered Noodle home to his dad. I painted on my mask, squeezed myself into a little dress and a pair of heels, curled my hair and headed off to marry a beautiful couple as their bridal party and I overlooked Niagara Falls.

“To find love, we must first take the chance of risking our heart to one another.
For it is only then, in the very act of offering ourselves, that true love is discovered.”

In this life I’ve taken so many chances. I think it’s time to fold for a while.

Lilac Wine

My grandmother had twelve children, eleven of whom survived through infancy. She lived with an alcoholic husband, and dealt with all of the hardships that come with such a life; poverty, violence, heartache, fear, before finally realizing her power. Each May, she’s in my thoughts. Her birthday was the 17th and her favourite flowers were lilacs. Even after the polar spring we had, the lilacs are bursting forth, and my heart is full of Grandmaman.

What would she say to me if she were here right now? She’d tell me to pray, because her faith was her shield. She’d tell me to take good care of my heart. Grandmaman would give me a crushing hug and her glasses would dig into the side of my face. She’d smell like garlic and brown sugar, Sunlight laundry detergent and that rich, earthy smell that was uniquely hers. She would tell me to never be sorry for trying to love someone.

There’s a shift in my turmoil. Each day presents a new version of moving through this pain. Now, when I’m suddenly hit with a wave of panic or despair, I take a moment and remind myself to breathe. I hold on to my love. I feel it so deeply and completely, and even though it’s not reciprocated, it’s mine. I am full of love. I don’t have to be ashamed of that, or try to stuff those emotions away. I feel love, and that love will shift and change. If I don’t bury it with anger, with questions I can never answer, with fear of what I do not know, it will remind me of all the reasons why I tried in the first place. It will heal me. It’s okay that I continue to feel this love. I just have to accept that it belongs to me now.

I can do this. I can put one foot in front of the next and re-invent myself. My grandmother got up again every time she got knocked down by life. What other choice do you have when you’ve got eleven kids? We are strong stock, the women of my family. We are survivors. I don’t pray, but I can accept that this is where I am right now. I can take back my power and move forward with grace.

I can sit in the food court of a sunny mall with my bestest besties and recognize the appreciative glances I receive. I can imagine a future me, sipping drinks on a patio with a handsome stranger while my shoulders collect more freckles. I can almost feel what it’s like to breathe and not battle tears.

After my grandfather died, my Grandmaman bought herself a new nose (she’d always hated hers), rented a tidy little apartment, and had a string of boyfriends to take her dancing until her dancing days were finally over. She wore heels until it was impossible, had her hair done every week, and never stopped flirting.

And each and every May, she filled her home with lilacs.

Single Mom, Day 1

Wednesday.

My first day back in the house, solo with the kids.

He was there. I hadn’t counted on that, and so I sat at the breakfast bar, head in my laptop, churning with a mixture of adoration and devastation. I held myself together until he walked out the door.

Then, after my second cry of the day, it was quiet. The house was spotless and this was nice to come home to. I threw a frozen pizza in the oven so lunches would be covered in the morning. I worked steadily until the bus came, and went to meet the kids at the stop. I even told the neighbour about our separation, and I managed not to cry.

With the kids home we settled into a peaceful after school routine. There were some simple chores, some games. I set aside my deadline so I could just focus on them. The girls retreated to their rooms for a bit. Noodle and I played cards and then we all worked together to get dinner on the table. We sat and shared a meal, with A as DJ on a quest to find the perfect iTunes dinner music mix, and I checked in with them about how they were feeling. My eldest daughter talked about the difficulty she was having telling her friends about the changes in our home. School felt normal still, and she just wanted to keep it that way for a little while longer.

As the girls loaded the dishwasher, I finished making lunches. Then we went for a walk to pick up the mail. We played some games outside together. I got creamed twice at red light/green light and then we headed home. Noodle showed the girls a new card game, and I watched them play together peacefully. I couldn’t have asked for a better homecoming. Then it was time to FaceTime daddy to say goodnight.

That was when it fell apart.

Noodle grew agitated and emotional. He seemed to want the phone all to himself, until we realized what he actually wanted was his daddy, at home. I realized he’d been waiting for everyone to come home from work, or shopping, in just the same way that I unconsciously was. He sobbed for his daddy to come back, and I tried to keep my own tears in check with little success. This isn’t what I want. How can this be better than the difficulties we were dealing with? How can this be a solution?

I finally passed the phone back to the girls who tucked themselves away in my eldest daughter’s bedroom to finish the call. I distracted my son with the dinosaurs we’d take up to the bath. He was smiling again in short order and I hugged him and told him that it was okay to cry, and to miss daddy. Partway through his bath, he started to whimper again.

“There aren’t enough people in the house. I want our old life back,” he said. Me too kiddo. Or at least, the life I thought we had. Of course I didn’t say this. I nodded my head slowly, trying to remember what I’m supposed to say in such moments. There was a blog post I’d read about this, wasn’t there?

When it’s not my turn with our kids, he gets two parents in the house. When it’s just me, well, it’s just me. There are echos of our old life everywhere around us, and it’s just me.

“I want you to go back to Grandmere’s house, so there will be more people at home with me,” he said.

My heart broke just a little bit more. I didn’t think that was possible.

“It’s okay to feel sad. These are really big changes, but all of your parents love you and want to spend time with you. Soon, this won’t feel so strange and you’ll enjoy your time with each of us.” I know I was trying to convince both of us.

How the hell am I going to get through this?

But I did. An after-bath massage and some dinosaur poems eased the hurt and soon he was snoring softly.

I moved to the girls, my midnight deadline for work still looming, but I had more important things to tend to. A sat with me in the living room as we tried to make Netflix work. H was in the shower getting ready for bed. My middle girl insisted that she was okay, and then decided to head off to sleep.

I texted my eldest when I heard the water stop running. I asked if she was okay, and she said ‘sort of’. I coaxed her out and she settled beside me on the couch. In her almost grown-up face, I could see the impish sweetness of her six-year-old self.

We talked about shadow feelings. Sadness, confusion, anger, grief. We talked about how these feelings must be honored and acknowledged. How they are just as precious and important as their sunny counterparts. We talked about the importance of reaching for other people when we are feeling broken. Of easing our expectations of ourselves when we are suffering. She talked, so much more than I could have hoped, and for a moment I realized that she shares things with me in a way that is completely unique to all her other relationships. I don’t tell her how she should feel. I just tell her to feel. These are the first healing seeds I am planting in this new life. She hugged me tight before she went to bed, and finally I could tuck myself beside my son, with only the glow of my laptop to illuminate us as I raced towards that midnight finish line. For a second, I wished I could return at the stroke of twelve to the mess I was before this transformation.

The work got done, the children slept, even I managed to sleep for a little while, and the next morning was easy, for the kids at least. There were smiles. My eldest told me she’d slept better than she had for days. Everyone was fed and clean and safe. I gave kisses and words of encouragement, and only fell to pieces once the bus turned the corner and rolled out of sight.