WATERMARK

WATERMARK - The evidence of over one foot of water flooding the basement

On August 9th, like hundreds of thousands of other people in Southern Quebec, my basement was flooded.

We had just finished eating dinner, and I stepped out onto the front porch. I had cooked, so Grant was cleaning up. As I scanned the view of my garden, I saw my neighbour next door carrying buckets of water and running back to pick up pail after pail of water. I asked her: What is going on? Do you have a flood? She shouted back: check your basement.

I  went back and glanced down the steps leading to the basement. There was water lapping at the top of the second step! Our neighbour’s son showed up at the door with a pump, and the water was out within half an hour. This young man then went to help every neighbour on our street pump water out of their basement. Incidents like this confirm that we live in an amazing community.

I won’t give you the blow-by-blow account of everything we did after that, but the outcome was a total loss of everything on the lower floor of the house. This was nearly one month ago.

The events of August 9th were the motive for a purge. I have lived here for forty years, raised two children, changed careers twice, and watched my husband shift from an employee to an entrepreneur, and now, a retiree, within these four decades. We had a lot of stuff!

Most of the items I threw out were things I had no need to keep. There was no emotional reaction to tossing soaked copies of paid bills, outdated instruction books to things I no longer has…. All my important documents now fit in one small plastic container. The only pile of reclaimed papers are things I cannot replace: deeds to the house, mortgage papers, certificates of eligibility, birth and marriage certificates. Dried and cured in the subsequent August sunshine, they are safely off the floor and out of the basement - forever!

Sifting through the boxes and bins of things in the basement awakened traces of feelings I thought I had dealt with. Seeing the evidence of unmet expectations and unfinished business brought back nostalgia, and triggered an emotion in which I don’t usually indulge - nostalgia. As I sorted and packed into bags the items I would now throw away, and deciding what to keep, I was reminded of dreams I had as a young mother. I had kept favorite toys and books, expecting my children to be attached to these items. I kept clothing my mother had sewn and knitted for my children, works of art I thought we could pass down to their children. I found dishes and utensils I intended to save for their first apartment. Report cards, school projects, crafts, mother’s day cards, Christmas ornaments, achievement certificates, soccer trophies, awards, all testaments to my children’s growing up years.

My children don’t want any of this. Soon after my son left home, he moved to Berlin. Soon after my daughter found her life partner, they moved to Lisbon. They have no desire to live the life they left behind here. The life I created for them to support their development. All I can make of it is this: the life I made to feed their early years fulfilled its role. They are mature, competent adults who have the confidence to fly on very strong wings.

These objects are relics of a life they left behind.

What are these to me? What place do they have in my life today? Am I the keeper of memories, or am I a different version of a mother with a different place in their lives?

When they were young, I was the hub of their lives. I orchestrated a symphony of nurturing, dream-building, growth-feeding instruments to support them, while still making room for my own aspirations. I really intended to help them become independent, confident, daring people who could create a life they loved.

Job done.

Now, as I watch them soar, I know I succeeded at helping them be people who had no need of me at all. Where do I fit here? Anywhere?

Certainly not in the middle; maybe on the edge of their orbit.

Most of the time, I have no problem being fully engaged in my own life. I am never without projects, and love pursuing my many interests. I paint, written, socialise, travel, constantly seeking connection to people and work that expand my horizons.

But somehow, the bond to my children keeps tugging at my heart. As much as I helped build those wings, I still yearn for a place in their hearts, a place in their lives.

I haven’t any clue what that is. Can these objects help me know?

Decisions must be made. What mattered, and what didn’t.

I chose a small plastic bin to keep samples of meaningful things: cards made just for me, and the beautiful clothing my mother made for them. Everything fit in one small bin.

Obviously, they would not need dishes or utensils, or outdated curtains. I packed theses up to donate, as they we stored high above the water mark. I threw out stuffed animals, macaroni covered candle sticks…

So what is the answer to my earlier question? I am not sure it is a question I will be able to answer. Our lives are a series of transitions, flowing through at their own pace. Maybe it is best to not seek an answer to this question, as it will be shifting as my life does, and as the life of my children does too.

Perhaps the answer is that there is no answer. Perhaps nostalgia is the product of a need for a clear answer that doesn’t exist. Perhaps if I let go of the need for an answer, I can live in the place where I am, in my life and theirs. A place that doesn’t require a name or an address. A place that transcends borders and time zones.

Just here and now.

N.B.: Soon after I wrote this, my son video called me from Mendoza, Argentina. He knows I am a geography and travel buff, so he called to show me the Andes. What can I say to that?