Episode 4 - the final entry

The stop at the acreage in Bon Accord was crushing.  The place was unrecognisable; like the pea-cultivated lands of dad’s youth and my memories of running wild.  We drove past the place the first time.  Nothing was the same – or familiar enough to bring back memories of the place that meant so much to me. 

Nothing was recognisable.

The house was gone, the circle where we tried to grow roses was over grown by a large tree, and the forest had almost completely taken over the fields where we once baled hay.  The only parts I remember were the carpet of wild strawberry plants covering the entire back field and the purple flowers I loved to pick in the early days before I learned they were weeds. 

Maybe that is where the teachings are here:  the heart is in the soil and the foundation of what it taught me – of who it make me…created me to be…is in the soil.  the heart carries the lesson of the place, regardless of what the physical change may be and it will bear fruit in its season.  Nothing can uproot the memories of the place…it carries us even into the grasses an smallest, ground crawling plants…growing strong and resilient in spite of frost, heat, and being trampled by man, beast, and machine. 

I am reminded of the story of the heartberry (wild strawberry):  the broken hearted Iroquois mother, planting heartberries in her dead son’s body, to remind her of him and a gift of  forgiveness for her sons who were told to stop play fighting before one of them was hurt.

It was the perfect place to end the journey; I see now:  heartberries at my feet…the prayer of forgiveness echoed back to me as dad and I drove off into the Prairie sunset on our first night in Saskatchewan. 

And, as if to punctuate the teaching, I felt compelled to return to the Bow River in Cochrane, for river rocks, and to hear the water and remember the days when I forced myself to let the hurts go to make a peaceful, pure ending…shift to the earthly relationship with mom.

It makes sense now.  I feel the teachings now.

All I could see were wild strawberries under all of that forest and encroaching plant life.  All I could see were the tiny strawberry leaves and runner stems. I wanted the land to say my name – to remember me and I was angry it didn’t say my name the way I wanted it to say it: to scream out to me how it missed me and run to me, arms open – like my Aunty and Uncle did at the lake. 

I was angry and hurt – scorned that it didn’t remember me…but it did.

It held me close to it and whispered to me how it loved me and had forgiven me for leaving.  It carried me in its heart through those little, precious heartberries – that memoir whispered to me through out…I remembered the wild strawberries of that place, too.  The outward appearance, like those other places, had changed, but the soul of the place, the heart of the place, remembers and carries us all.

I am so profoundly grateful for these teachings.

Dad said, “it’s too bad we can’t put everything in a time capsule,” when we were driving away from the acreage.  I was sulking and angry with the place and silent.  I told him I was sad about the changes and he offered up that regret.

Perhaps the teaching here is that the time capsule is the heart.  Everything and everyoneis the same there – better than the same…the perfect version of the place, people, and pets we needed at the time.  Time freezes in perpetuity there.

Honestly, I am glad the land was left to run wild back to its original way.  The new owners love the land so much – they have raised children, are raising grandchildren, and inviting friends to the place to encourage them to love it like they do.  That makes me happy.  The land is loved very much there. 

At our old house on Fisher Street, a man was in the garage, working on a project and watering the plants in the front of the house.

At the house on James Cres, the owners painted the house, putting their mark on the place…loving it their way. 

But we are there, too:  in the layers of paint under it, in the soil particles once worked with our fingers or collected in the dust in between our toes.  We are there in the corners of the room or the running, tiny strawberry leaves.  We are there.  The wind whispers our wishes and the trees chatter with our laughter.

We are still there.

What a blessing to be gifted with this teaching.