The glory before the collapse

We have this great plan

I hope it will carry me
Doll buggy breaks down.

(Photo: Kim, Karen, and Lia, 1959, Caracas Venezuela)

All dolled up

Behind the fence, the tortoise says, "Look at the three creatures all dolled up." It wanders over, "Will they give me some lettuce leaves? No, they are all chatter and no food."

(Photo: Kim, Karen, and Lia, 1959, Venezuela)

Another year gone by

Where are you today?
Hanging out with a new crowd?
Or just sitting contentedly in
The quiet of your own company?
 
Did you take over
The spirit of an old Arab
Whose wisdom and kindness
Weaves deeply into the hearts
Of a large, chaotic family
Who are scattered everywhere
Across the globe, yet…
When anyone thinks of family
They are sitting right next to you
With smiles painted
Broadly across their faces
And a tenderness of mind.
 
Or, did you quickly manage
To return as that bright
And brilliant Hollywood star,
Standing on a stage
At an awards ceremony
Talking of your greatness
And half believing
This is absolutely true.
And half believing
It is only a bad joke,
And wondering why
Everyone is upset about
Your audacity to speak out loud
What they covet so dearly.
 
Could you be spending
The eternity since your leaving
Recklessly riding the tops of waves,
Breaking across the decks
Of massive vessels whose
Crews bow to you in wonder
And fright, knowing
How precarious their lives are.

Yet, also knowing so well
The bliss of surrender.
 
I know you are here, but
Still do not know where here is.
Even after all this time,
Sometimes, talking to you
In my thoughts, does nothing
But mask the loss, the absence
You cleaved out of our lives
With the passing of yours.

Timeless play in paradise

Well over half a century ago, three little girls played on Grand Anse Beach. There were no tourists then on the beach, only the occasional passerby who would inevitably wander over and tease them in one manner or another.

They dug a hole to China. Built a castle until a wave came and tore the walls down. Chattered excitedly about fanciful sea monsters crawling up and grabbing their legs. Bickered when the cloak of boredom smothered their imaginations.

They ran from all that fun when their stomachs cried out in hunger, and with the sudden realisation struck them that they were alone. They scattered up the beach, soft sand breaking between their toes, towards the shaded terrace where their mother and other women were luxuriating in amiable conversation, seemingly oblivious to the charge of the cavalry racing their way.

(Photo: Lia, Karen, and Kim, 1958, Venezuela)

Proud to be Grenadian

Listening to this speech by Jumaane Williams, who comes from the Williams family of St. Andrew, made me think of Pat and how proud she would have been to be Grenadian, listening to his moving words.

She only became Grenadian at the end of her nearly forty years there. She did so as a symbol of her gratitude for the country and the deep love she felt for the people who held her hands all those years. 

A house, remembered

This piece is about the Buckley grandparents' home. It differs considerably from the piece I wrote about the Hadley grandparents' house. It is easy to see the difference in the home's atmosphere through the lens of my childhood memories.

It could be that the main difference is that Pat, John, and Peter were raised in this house, whereas the house where the Grandparents lived was bought after Dave, Barbara, and Gordon had already left home. The stories Pat and Peter told me about their childhood and the strictness or tyranny of their father have also seeped into my memories.

What remains

I’ve been revisiting a place that no longer exists in the way it once did: my grandparents’ house, set back from a quiet road in rural Ontario, with a river at the edge of the garden and a rhythm that belonged to another time. (Link to document.)

Writing these memories wasn’t about reconstructing the past accurately, or even chronologically. It was about noticing what has endured. Not the large events, but the smaller ones: how light moved through rooms, how time stretched in childhood, how care was expressed through routine rather than words.

I’ve come to believe that memory doesn’t preserve everything evenly. It keeps what mattered, often without explaining why. What remains are fragments: sounds, gestures, objects shaped by hand, and the feeling of being held within an ordered, attentive world.

This piece is a gathering of those fragments. It’s written for family, but also for anyone who carries a place within them that continues to inform how they see, move, and care.

Some houses disappear. Others remain, quietly, in the way we remember how to be.

Adieu to a dear friend

Dearest Maria,
 
As I light candles for my morning meditation, I’m thinking of you and all the light you brought into my life. In these last years, my daily prayer was more of a plea for mercy: “God, have mercy and allow Maria to stay one day longer.” For life without you seemed unimaginable. Yet, as is so often the case, the universe has grander plans for you than any of us individuals. So now you have been released from your burdens and suffering. I’m so glad you believe in heaven, though I may not, for surely you will be joyfully happy there.
 
And you have left your family and friends with a difficult task: we are to be happy that you have found peace and tranquility. We must celebrate your light, the courage you have shown, and most particularly, those endless acts of human kindness you gifted each and every one of us. Your ability to love and be loved, no matter what our flaws are, has been a constant inspiration to me.
 
What I learnt from you is how life, in all its fullness, is both of everything: sadness and happiness, doubt and certainty, responsibility and freedom, and lastly, sickness and health. Your ability to embrace the positive while acknowledging the struggles was a lifelong practice of patience.
 
I remember the countless times when visiting, how you managed somehow to sail through all the chaos to get the girls off to school, Helmut to work, and you as well. You were the pivot point of turning every potential meltdown into something that could be fixed right then and there.
 
No matter what was going on, there was harmony in the chaos of daily goings-on. It was so endearing to see how Helmut, muffled in pragmatism, managed to weather the storms of female unpredictability. How you would calmly be packing lunch boxes and running downstairs with a load of laundry and then going out to quickly water the garden. All the while the family would running up or down the stairs, shouting or singing the anthem which is uniquely that of the Wittmann–Speber household.
 
Your girls have always been the treasure and pride of your life. They have grown into women with unmistakably unique skills and big hearts. You and Helmut gave them constancy in love. They move with confidence as adults that has grown from the knowledge they are deeply loved.
 
Even though we only saw each other once or twice a year, your family has always been part of the Hadley/Cavallaro family. Our children more like cousins than the children of a friend of their mother. How precious this was for them. May Anna, Fee, and Lisi and Helmut know they can always count on us if they are in need of solace.
 
So, the moment has come to pass forward the light of your loving being. May we all take dear, dear care to share it with our loved ones, as well as with strangers.
 
Winter is here, and I know I am going to miss you so intensely, be sad, and even feel diminished in my spiritual core. That is what happens when best friends part ways. Yet spring will come, won’t it, Maria? Surely there will come a time when I can think of you without tears. I can talk to you without having to lift up the phone. We met as young women and became kindred souls, sharing all the sorrows and joys that made our lives so grand. Thank you. I love you.
 
Love and affection,

Your Lia

The heartbreak of watching from the sidelines

 It is hard to watch someone you love diminish in health and mental sharpness. I saw it first with my grandparents, then again with my own parents as they neared the end of their lives. What I found hardest was not being able to help them make wise decisions about how to care for themselves. Especially when it came to where and how to live in a way that would make their final years safer, more supported, and less worrying for everyone involved.
 
Being excluded from any decision-making is painful.
 
In my experience, the successful move from a home to an assisted living complex or a senior citizen residence depends on a multitude of factors. Today, I want to focus on just one of these factors: time.
 
To move somewhere of your own choosing, before it becomes absolutely necessary, can give you a new lease on life. My grandmother reluctantly moved out of the home that she and her husband had lived in for over 45 years. She held onto the past: her church ladies, her neighbours, and all the memories that filled every corner of the house. But it became clear she could no longer take care of the housecleaning and daily chores, either physically or mentally. So, with great hesitation, she moved into a small one-bedroom apartment in an assisted living complex.
 
Her life changed almost immediately. She befriended her neighbour down the hall, Barbra. She was given a small garden plot, where she could grow her favourite flowers. She could take a bus to the local shopping centre every week and enjoy people-watching and window shopping. She was able to go to Sunday mass regularly.
 
These were activities she had not done in the years before she moved. The ease of taking care of herself, compared to managing a large house, gave her years of unexpected joy. The fact that she moved while she could still do a bit of gardening and had curiosity about new friendships made all the difference. It gave her the strength to build a new life.
 
Choosing to move, or allowing yourself to be gently encouraged, does not mean life is over. It does not have to signal decline.
 
Over the past forty years, I have seen again and again how the decision to move “while we have the energy” can create a surprising sense of renewal. I have also seen the opposite: aging parents who absolutely refuse to consider a different facility, no matter how burdensome their current situation has become. In many of these cases, the emotional, physical, and financial toll affects everyone around them.
 
Knowing when to move feels like it should be a shared decision.
 
That said, I realise it is ultimately up to each individual to decide when and where to move. But how much better it would be to involve family and trusted friends in the process. To have the conversation early on, even years before the decision has to be made. To listen to each other. To leave enough space for new ideas to settle and grow.
 
There is a particular kind of sadness in being asked for advice when it is already too late. The decision has been made, the lease is signed, and there is nothing left to say. A shared decision gives everyone a voice. It allows time for doubt, for resistance, and for slowly leaning towards what is wise rather than what is convenient.
 
My mother-in-law is steadily moving towards a decision that we fear may not serve her well. She wants to transfer from one assisted living complex to another because she believes the new one will be better than the one where she currently lives. But it is not close to any shops. There is only one bus per hour. It will be difficult for any of us to visit regularly.
 
She wants a solution that suits her needs today. We are hoping for a solution that supports her well into the future. One that allows her to receive more care if she needs it and makes it easier for family to stop by without planning far in advance. We are thinking of what is to come. She is thinking of what is immediate.
 
Because she is someone who has always had to make hard decisions on her own (mother of nine, non-contributing and often violent husband, worked until she was 70 on a production line) , we can only watch from the sidelines. That is what we had to do with my parents as well. In this situation, we have not been invited to the table. We have not been asked to dance.
 
Perhaps that is the quiet heartbreak of it all: standing on the platform, watching someone you love board a train you would not have chosen, knowing it may not take them where they truly need to go. But loving someone, especially as they grow older, means letting go of control while remaining close. Even if we cannot steer the decision, we can stay nearby. Ready to visit. Ready to listen. And, if the door opens, ready to walk alongside them.

Ode to Kim's life in Gibbson

Early morning. The bunk at the bow of the boat is warm and cozy, as long as she doesn’t touch the inner wall of the hull. Her sleepy eyes refuse to open. Her tired brain tries to stay in the land of dreams. Unwillingly, she sighs, admitting the loud stranger of awakeness.

It tangles her legs in the sleeping bag and fills her bladder to bursting point. Groaning, she scissors-kicks her legs out of the bag and over the side of the bunk. She stumbles her way to the head (toilet), jars her knee on the handle of the pump, and plomps down on the wiggling toilet seat. What she wouldn’t give for a proper self-flushing toilet.

She hears her sister stomping about on deck, lowering the kayak and pushing off for her morning paddle.

After putting on some water to boil, she returns to the forward cabin and slips on numerous layers of clothes. The inner layer is newly laundered; the outer is from yesterday and does not smell so fresh. She heads back to the galley and makes herself a cup of tea. It’s a large cup, purchased at a local artisan fair from a potter who obviously embodies the Japanese aesthetic of wabi-sabi.

Teetering up the steep ladder into the cockpit, the full teacup miraculously doesn’t spill. She looks out at the water, its mist blurring the details of the shoreline but not the sounds of birdlife and birdsong all around. This is the perfect moment of the day: alone, except for her sister in the kayak farther away, the water, and some still unclear ideas about how they might fill the day.

Beautiful sounds: Giui snoring

The sonic sawing through your early morning dreams, trying to navigate a path around the persisting "It's time to get up" chorus in your brain.

Sara: The Northern Star of My Life

When a child comes into your life, you are overwhelmed with joy and curiosity—eager to discover who they are and why they chose to be a part of your family. Very early in my pregnancy, I knew you were going to be someone truly special.

The last three months of my pregnancy were spent in bed, with two hospital stays just in case you decided to arrive early. Every day, I talked to you, reassuring you that you could take your time. The world outside was marvellous, but there was no rush.

Fortunately, you listened and were born on March 6, 1995. From the moment you came home, you became the shining star of our family.

In celebration of your 30^th birthday, I am writing down a list of “30 Things I Love About You...”. (The list is written in no chronological order.)

1. Your ability to defy gravity

As a child, you could jump into the water without getting your face wet. The moment your feet touched the surface; you’d do this incredible kick that kept your head bobbing above the water.

2. Your talent for languages

Raising a multilingual child comes with worries—are we doing it right? But with you, it became immediately clear that we were on the right track. Whether it was the classic "furious fours" temper tantrum you threw on a flight to Montreal—perfectly expressing your discontent in both English and German—or your insistence on playing "Grandma and Me at the Beach" in Japanese, you never gave us reason to doubt your linguistic abilities. And let’s not forget your obsession with Gloria Estefan’s Spanish music videos!

3. Your love of children's books and audiobooks

It takes a special child to truly feel the magic of stories. There were so many books that shaped you, but a few stand out: Winnie the Pooh, Sleeping Dragons Everywhere, Jim Knopf und Lukas der Lokomotivführer, Käpt’n Blaubär, Bibi Blocksberg, TKKG, Die Drei???, and A Series of Unfortunate Events.

4. Your ability to keep us on schedule

Ever since you were little—and even now—no one gets the family dressed and out the door as efficiently as you do.

5. Your talent for organizing people

This goes beyond getting us out the door on time. Since grade school, you’ve had an innate ability to bring people together, making them feel like joining in some project as if it was entirely their idea.

6. Your bathroom concerts

Whenever you were in the bathroom—whether to pee or to primp—you always sang a song.

7. Your gift for friendship
As a child, you didn’t always choose the best friends (that is, except for Pia, of course). Not that they were bad people, but they weren’t always kind to you. I remember a conversation we had before you left for Edinburgh, when you told me you were going to take your time finding friends. That made me so happy, for right from the beginning, you’ve always believed that friendships were something forever.

You inherently knew that friends weave different colours into the tapestry of your life. You and Matthias have done something special over the last ten years—maintaining individual friendships, shared friendships, and being a part of wonderful dynamic groups of friends. In your short adult life, you have found a treasure trove of friendships to brighten and enrich your world.

8. Your distinct sense of fashion

“Keine Applikationen!” Oh, those early years—every shopping trip was a battle of wills. You knew what you wanted, and if a store didn’t have it, we moved on. At the time, it felt like torture, but now I admire your tenacity.

Even today, you can glance at a clothing rack and instantly know if something suits your wardrobe, body type, and taste—almost like a superpower. This seems to me to be a talent you got from some sort of alien. Though, most probably, you sought out advice from friends and YouTubers over the years. You certainly did not get it from our household of fashion-muggles.

9. Your ability to laugh and cry in the same breath

I call this your Irish roots—one moment you’re laughing, caught up in the beauty of connection, and the next, you’re teary-eyed, your face all wobbly because you have to say goodbye. Or vice versa—you’d be crying in sadness, anger, or fear, and some silly comment would make you laugh through the tears. A doctor friend of mine says that this is why women live longer; we are able to cry. 

It certainly is the case with women living long on our side of the family.

10. Your beautiful singing voice

Even as a child, when most kids sing off-key, you always sang on pitch. Wouldn’t it be lovely if you started singing again?

11. Your big heart

Your heart is boundless, always extending kindness to those around you. Remember Johanna showing up at our apartment every day before school because she was scared to go alone and you patiently accompanying her—that was because of your boundless kindness. 

12. Your willingness to give second (or third) chances
Your friendship with Jonas exemplifies this. He bullied you in the early years of high school. Maybe it was competitiveness—he wanted to be Mr. Cool, and you were Miss Goodie-Two-Shoes. He teased you relentlessly, made up silly poems about you, and was even involved in some questionable incidents. The worst? Holding you around the neck and swinging you around. 

After that incident, I asked you if I could speak to your homeroom teacher. You agreed. Ms. von Ameluxen handled the situation with care and fairness, and Jonas changed overnight. By the time you played in Big Band together, you were inseparable. You remain close to this day.

It took me longer to forgive his previous behaviour. It wasn’t until you told me that Jonas, or Jonas and some of his friends, always walked you home from the disco, that I realised what a truly loyal soul he is.)

13. Your ability to face possible failure head-on

Most people—children and adults alike—live in denial about failure. They don’t see it coming. Surely some miracle will happen, and they can avoid disaster. But not you, you measure risk and probability with an eagle’s eye.

Do you remember when you couldn’t complete the 2000-meter run in time required for the Bundesjugendspiele? You asked me to take you to the track every day for two weeks. The first day, you ran 400 meters before walking the rest. I (inwardly) shook my head, 400 meters seemed far away from 2000 meters, but you persisted. Day after day, you trained—and in the end, you earned your Bundesjugendspiele sport certificate.

14. Your search for True Self

“Find out who you are and do it on purpose.” – Dolly Parton

You’ve always questioned who you really are, and I love that about you.

15. Your dedication to your well-being

Tammy once said, “The body has its own language that takes a lifetime to learn.” You listen to yours well. Ever since you had mono, when you were forced to listen to what your body was saying, you consider intensely the partnership between your body and mind. You look at what you feed your body or how you keep it in motion, without dogmatic restrictions – more with a sense of exploration.

16. Our differences

You remember everyone’s birthday, bake beautifully, shop efficiently, and like walking hours up a mountain path. I, on the other hand, do not.

17. Our similarities

We share a love of family and friends, helping those in need, books (Jane Austen especially), ballet, music of all kinds, eating food from different countries, and travel.

18. You are a hiker through and through

I knew it. All those years ago, when you were probably about five years old, we went on a hike with Maria, Helmut, and the girls, and all the neighbours. Going for a hike in the Fränkischen Schweiz was a tradition they did the day after their summer street party.

You and Julien charged up and over all the obstacles we faced in the wooded area. Sometimes, it was a fallen tree you had to scale. Other times, it was skipping on stones across a stream. It was as if you had channelled your inner Franken. How you did this remains a mystery to me.

Over the last 10 years, hiking is just something you do; alone with Matthias, with Torsten and Beate and friends, or with the motley crew from the Jacob’s days. It has become such an intrinsic part of your life. 

How amazing is that?

19. Your determination and tenacity

Whether earning your Bachelor’s, Master’s, or PhD, you are The Little Engine That Could. The road has been steep, filled with challenges and doubt, yet you keep pushing forward. Your resilience isn’t just about hard work—it’s about believing in yourself, adapting, and never backing down. No matter how uncertain the path, you keep going, and that is truly remarkable.

20. Choosing a super cool profession

You work in space security—who would have guessed?

On your first day of high school, you turned to me with tears in your eyes, saying, “I’m the smallest!” I reassured you, “But you have the biggest heart and brain—they’ll soon know.” And they did. You found your footing among towering Nordic teenagers and made your presence known.

You explored so many career ideas—ballet dancer, singer, urban planner, diplomat—before landing in a field you didn’t even know existed when you started your studies. And yet, you are exactly where you are meant to be. When you sent the photo of you and the other colleagues (including astronauts), I remember back to that day at OzD. You are standing on the stage with the other students and beaming.

21. Your terrible sense of direction (and how you fixed it)

You have to picture this… you were about five years old, and we were flying to Grenada. It was the first time I let you go to the bathroom on a plane alone. We were sitting about three rows behind the toilets.

About ten minutes later, you come running down the aisle and rushed into my arms. “I got lost. I couldn’t find you! I thought I had got out on the wrong plane.”, was your sorrowful cry.

I held you tight and reproached myself for having passed on my “no sense of direction” genes. Yet, you found a way to overcome this deficit. You’ve inspired me to find my own method of navigation. If you can, so can I!

Having people like Julien and Dave—who can find their way anywhere—once made me feel inferior. Now, I see it differently.

22. Your quirky aversion to knees and feet
The young Sara hated hated feet. You especially disliked seeing men exposing their bare feet in summertime. Yuck to men wearing flipflops! (Mind you, I agree with you on that one.) You thought feet ugly and completely useless. When asked how you would like people to look like, you thought we would be fine if we were all cut-off at the ankles.

Then there was that one afternoon in summer, when I asked you why you were wearing your leggings when it was so hot outside. It would be better to wear shorts. You confessed that you thought your knees were ugly. Instead of trying to reassure you that you knees were beautiful, which is what I thought, I took another strategy. I said, you didn’t have to worry, everyone’s knees were ugly. Just think of Grumpy’s knees. Topic over.

23. Your ability to work a room

I’ll never forget Andrea’s 50th birthday. You were 14 or 15, and after settling me into a corner seat, you kindly offered to get me a plate of food. What should have been a quick trip to the kitchen, turned into a much longer absence. When you finally returned, you simply shrugged and said you’d been talking to people—strangers, adults, and everyone in between. 

You weren’t just making small talk; you were genuinely engaged, enjoying the conversations, and leaving an impression. Even at that age, you had a natural ease in social settings—a gift for connecting, for making people feel seen, for turning any gathering into a warm and welcoming space.

24. The artist in you

Among all the Hadley cousins, you embody the artistic spirit most profoundly—the creative blood inherited from your great-grandmothers. Everything you touch, whether song, music, drawing, photography, sewing, or cooking, carries your elegant touch.

Life is busy, filled with adventures and obligations. But if I could offer one piece of advice, it’s this—make time for artistic pursuits. Those stolen moments of creativity will serve you well throughout your life’s journey.

25. It’s not over until it’s over

Your unwavering persistence is a defining strength, evident in so many aspects of your life. You respectfully persist in discussing a topic until you reach a better or deeper understanding. You continue a task until you achieve a satisfactory result. It could be debating social political topics like feminism or LGBTQA+ rights years ago when you and Matthias first got together. Or, as we discussed recently, the differences in our approaches in adopting AI technology. Or, you ensuring that Giui and I schedule regular doctor’s appointments—something we now do, thanks to your gentle, but persistent reminders. (Know that while you don’t have to remind us, we truly appreciate it when you do.)

You do not leave a conversation just because ideas have temporarily run out. It’s never over until it’s over.

26. You are a gifted editor

You have a remarkable talent as an editor. Whenever someone needs help with a CV or an application form, you are the person to turn to. Your insights are invaluable. Sometimes, I like to think you inherited this skill from me, but in truth, if anyone passed it down to you, it was Pat. She had an uncanny ability to see the polished sculpture within the block of stone. Likewise, you refine ideas and words, chiselling away until everything falls into place.

27. You are a master project manager

Poor you—born the daughter of a third-generation engineer! As a child, one of your most passionate objections was “No project!” Any plan that involved preparation, implementation, or improvement, you instinctively resisted. You were a tiny force of nature, shouting “I hate collaboration!” from the top of your lungs.

That all changed when you were twelve. We went to buy you a new bicycle. None of the lightweight, sleek models appealed to you. Instead, you fell in love with an old, dilapidated Hollandrad.

A fierce debate ensued—I would buy the bicycle, but only if the store put it through a safety test first and then, after that, you were to restore it some semblance of beauty. If I recall correctly, you sought Claudia’s advice on how to make the bike more visually appealing.

And voila! You sanded down the frame, painted it blue, and delicately painted a twisting vine of flowers on the crossbar. You attached a basket to the front and wove plastic flowers along the rim. How proud you were of your creation!

28. A reluctant fan of Quiet Hour

Oh, quiet hour
Grenada sun shines so high
Time to play and read.

29. Being the best possible sister

I remember how upset you were when you learned that, technically, you were Julien’s half‑sister—just like Jérôme and Helen. In your heart, you assumed you were something more. Admittedly, you had not met them yet and only knew them as people Julien spent every second weekend with.

No matter what I told you, you insisted that you and Julien were “real” sister and brother. You were, in your mind, the Only and Most Important Sister in his life.

Well, even though eventually, you recognised that Jérôme and Helen were also Family, you have never lost the crown of being the best possible sister to him.

30. Your part in our family constellation

In our family, Julien is the Big Dipper, offering balance and steadiness no matter the situation. Giui is Orion, who provides and protects us with great care. I am the Seven Sisters, bringing liveliness and laughter into our family. And you, Sara, are our Northern Star—shining brilliantly, guiding us through love and loss, quiet and chaos, health and happiness. Always.

The road ahead

As you step into this new decade, Sara, I hope you carry all these gifts, experiences, and qualities with you. Thirty is a wonderful age—it is the moment when the pieces of who you are truly begin to settle, when confidence takes deeper root, and when the dreams of your younger self start blossoming into the reality you’ve built with care and determination.

You have always been a force of nature—a seeker, a thinker, a creator, and above all, a person who loves deeply and lives fully. It has been my greatest privilege to watch you grow into the woman you are today. And while thirty marks a milestone, I know this is just another beginning. There are still mountains to climb, books to read, songs to sing, and adventures waiting for you.

So, here’s to you, my Northern Star. May this next chapter be filled with laughter, love, and the kind of joy that makes your heart race. May you continue to walk through life with your trademark determination, boundless curiosity, and kindness that makes the world a better place. And may you always know—wherever you go, whatever you do—you are deeply loved.

Happy 30th birthday, my dear Sara. The best is yet to come.

With all my love and affection,

Lia

The lunchtime conversation that changed my life

I had lived and breathed ballet since I was a child. It wasn’t just a passion—it was my identity. By my late teens - early twenties, I was already a professional ballet dancer, but for reasons I still can’t fully explain, I knew I couldn’t go on.

Walking away from something that had defined me for so long wasn’t easy. I felt lost, unsure of who I was without ballet, and with no idea of what to do next. Academically, I’d always been a mediocre to poor student, except for one subject: math. This was the only subject I genuinely enjoyed and felt confident in, so I decided to study it, even though I had no clear plan for what I would do with it.
 
In my confusion, I turned to my father, Dave. He was busy running his telecommunications company, but when I asked him to meet me for lunch, he didn’t hesitate. I’d never made such a request before, so I imagine he knew it was serious. Over that lunch, I laid it all out: my decision to leave ballet, my uncertainty about the future, and my vague plan to study math.
 
His response wasn’t what I expected. He didn’t pity me or make me feel as though I’d wasted the last decade of my life. Instead, he reassured me that my years in ballet would someday serve me, even in ways I couldn’t yet see. But then he did something that caught me off guard: he challenged me.
 
“Why math?” he asked, his tone direct. “What will you do with it? End up in the long line of unemployed math teachers?”
 
It stung, but he wasn’t being cruel—just realistic. At first, I fumbled to explain. Math was the only thing I felt good at, the only thing I enjoyed. But he wasn’t satisfied with that answer. Then he said something that would stay with me forever: “Instead of focusing on what you’re good at, why don’t you think about the kind of life you want to live?”
 
I sat back, stunned. It was such a simple question, but it opened a floodgate of thoughts and emotions. What kind of life did I want? I wanted freedom—freedom to choose my job, to live wherever I wanted, and to be judged on my skills, not my physical performance. I wanted to travel, to explore the world, to work with great people, and to do something meaningful.
 
Dave smiled knowingly as I poured this all out. Then he shared something about his own life. His career had given him those exact opportunities—to travel, to collaborate with talented people, and to shape his life the way he wanted. And then, in the same breath, he gave me a suggestion I never saw coming: “Why not try electrical engineering?”

Engineering? For a former ballet dancer, it felt absurd. But Dave laid it out logically. Engineering would challenge me, involve the math I loved, and—most importantly—open doors to the kind of life I wanted. It was a practical path to my dreams.
 
At the time, his advice felt revolutionary. Most people assumed I’d become a ballet teacher or take a "safe" job until marriage. But Dave saw something else for me. He saw potential, not limitations. He saw engineering not just as a career, but as a tool to create the life I envisioned.
 
That lunchtime conversation changed everything. It gave me clarity and direction, but more than that, it gave me permission to dream. I went on to study engineering, and while the path wasn’t always easy, it gave me the freedom and opportunities I’d once only imagined.
 
Looking back, I realize how rare and precious Dave’s advice was. He didn’t give me a map or a checklist—he gave me a framework for thinking about my life. Start with the life you want to live. Then figure out how to make it happen.
 
To this day, that advice guides me. And for that one lunchtime conversation, I’ll always be grateful. 

Waiting for Christmas to come

My family still sleeps 
Church steeples covered in fog 
A hot cup of tea. 

#artists I have known: Grandma Buckley

Grandma Buckley belonged to a generation of women who mastered handicrafts at an extraordinary level. Knitting, crocheting, rug-making—these were just the beginning. In her childhood, nothing was store-bought if it could be made by industrious hands. Girls were taught from a young age to avoid the shame of "idle hands, idle thoughts." Beyond practicality, there were specific handicrafts every young lady learned to prepare a proper dowry.

Grandma’s talents went far beyond the expected. She painted delicate porcelain, crafted intricate bobbin lace, embroidered detailed flowers and landscapes, quilted, and hemstitched napkins and tablecloths. Her home was a gallery of her handiwork, her cupboards brimming with treasures. Despite only completing a grade-six education, she carried herself with the grace and refinement of a true gentlewoman.

She was also a woman of profound faith. Grandma attended mass daily, sometimes more often on special holidays. Her faith was intertwined with her creativity—she was always crafting mittens, Christmas wreaths, quilts, jams, jellies, and baked goods to sell at church bazaars. At her funeral, an old friend shared a remarkable story: Grandma’s handmade goods were so admired at these events that they outshone all others. Initially, each woman had her own table or designated spot, but buyers flocked to Grandma’s wares, clearing her table within the first thirty minutes. To avoid embarrassment for the other contributors, the organizers eventually began spreading Grandma’s creations among the other displays, ensuring fairness in the sales.

What has always puzzled me is why Grandma’s artistry was never truly acknowledged, even within our family. She never sought praise and rarely received it. Was it because she was a woman, living in a time when only men were considered artists? Or was it because traditional handicrafts were dismissed as mere domestic labor rather than actual art?

Later in life, Peter became a remarkable writer and even rediscovered his love for playing Bach on the piano. Grandma’s creative spirit skipped over Pat and John but found it in Karen, Kim, D., and me. Without fanfare or formal lessons, she inspired us simply by living her art. Her gentle persistence as a role model shaped our lives in ways she likely never imagined.

Grandma Buckley may not have been celebrated as an artist in her time, but her legacy of creativity lives on in all of us who were touched by her life and work. 

#artists I have known: Uncle Peter

When we think of artists, we often picture painters, musicians, actors, or dancers. Rarely do we consider journalists. But Peter was an artist in every sense of the word—a wordsmith and a storyteller of truth.

He belonged to the Old School of Journalism, a generation of writers/journalists who believed what they did was for the betterment of society. In speech, as on paper, his deep intellect and insatiable curiosity found expression in their barest form. He made each word and each sentence count. He avoided unnecessary flourishes, letting the power of simplicity do the heavy lifting.

I was too young to read his articles when they were first published, but his legacy spoke for itself. Younger journalists who had worked with him at the Canadian Press spoke of him with reverence. They credited Peter with setting the gold standard for journalism—a benchmark that influenced not only his peers but also the generations that followed.

On a personal level, Peter was one of the few adults who encouraged my budding love for writing. At first, I was hesitant to tell him about my passion, especially for poetry. I assumed he might scoff at my efforts as the indulgences of a teenager. How wrong I was. Not only did he take my interest seriously, but he also welcomed me into his world of creative thought. Our conversations about writing were inspiring, and I was flattered that someone of his stature would take my ideas seriously.

Peter believed deeply in the transformative power of words. He understood that language can bridge gaps, ignite passions, or offer solace in times of sorrow. He taught me that a well-chosen word could change a person’s perspective. And he didn’t draw lines between the “big” world of global events and the smaller, intimate worlds we live in. To him, both were equally deserving of attention, honesty, and care.

Looking back, I realize how profoundly Peter influenced me. He showed me that writing isn’t just an act of expression; it’s an act of connection. He believed in the power of the written word to make the world a better place.

To my dearest, Karen

My older sister
Comes to life a younger self
With so much laughter. 

Finally someone rang our doorbell

Giui always buys sweets to give out on Halloween, even though we do not get any visitors. We live in the middle of the city and so most parents bring their children to the suburbs to trick or treat. 

Can you imagine our surprise, when our doorbell rang last night? It was Limo and Wian. Wian with a very small bag, half-filled with candy. She delicately choose one candy from our meager selection. What a dear-heart.

What a delight!

I am... a sailor (lessons 8)

Lesson 8: be aware of the 150% - 100% divide

When you are on a boat for an extended period of time, you get to know things about the other crew members that even their friends and family do not know. Being in a small space in the middle of a vast ocean exposes foibles as well as strengths. Not everyone likes to become aware of the edges of their personalities, nor do they always find the patience to deal with those of others. Nowhere is this impatience more noticeable than in how willing each crew member is to do their "fair share." 

The harmony of the boat can rest on completing your tasks and responsibilities correctly and in a timely manner. Things like:

• showing up 20 minutes before your watch begins
• cleaning up the galley directly after you have made a sandwich or snack for yourself (i. e. even before you eat it!)
• wipe down the head after showering or shaving
• don't leave any books, clothes, or clutter in the main cabin
• wash the dishes and clean up the galley directly after dinner is finished and before the evening activities (e.g. playing cards or stargazing)
• occasionally ask the others on watch if you can make them a cup of coffee or a snack
• clean up the cabin you are sharing with some other crew member
• occasionally clean up the main cabin
• occasionally sweep and wash the floors
• if needed, pump out the bilge water
• occasionally wash out the cockpit
• take the empty coffee cups and wash and put them away
• make sure all the lines are properly coiled

Actually, the list is endless. Generally, you need to:

1. listen to the captain's instructions

2. make sure the boat is always tip-top

3. Think about what you can do to make the crew happy

4. make sure you are doing your allocated tasks properly

On the surface, you are there to have fun and enjoy yourself. On another level, you have to be diligent and follow the four points in the order in which they are presented. Dave said that you have to do 150% of what you think fair is your share for others to think you have done 100%.

Conclusion: when cohabitating with others, keep working 

I am... a sailor (lessons 7)

Lesson 7: always welcome New Blood
 
I could never figure out whether Dave's way of inviting people to come sailing was of design or out of laziness. Whether it was a Sunday sail or a stretch on a long-distance voyage, the mix of people invited to come on the boat was a random mix of new and old.
 
Weirdly, the mix-and-match of the crews did work for the most part. This is why I think it might have been by design.
 
Though knowing Dave, it could have been out of laziness or disregard of how human dynamics can affect how much pleasure shared company contributes to the sailing experience. He always seemed to take people at face value.
 
I never saw him annoyed with the behaviour or predilections of the crew members. Yet, he had little patience in hearing me complain about certain people who got on my nerves. It was as if the whole art of creating a good crew was in the mix, and introducing a wild card  (someone new) was the hot sauce on top.
 
Conclusion: stay true to your beliefs