At 23..."
I'm Score!
Musings and ramblings of a Pens-obsessed Newfoundland girl...
Thursday, September 19, 2024
Thinking out loud.
At 23..."
Sunday, September 8, 2024
Now that I've found you
Hello again, hive.
I know, I know.
I hit my writing vibe and stride once again and then I disappear.
Well, as I am sure most of you know, a lot has happened.
The days since July 25th have been an absolute whirlwind. I have not blogged about it but I have posted and expressed my utmost gratitude to our membership for putting their faith behind me to lead our Union into the future and to fix the wrongs, finally.
I am not sure I have come to terms with it, still.
But I am forever grateful.
I am grateful for those who helped me during my campaign, those who have always stood by me and helped, those who have taught me many lessons in this industry, and those who marked their X next to my name whether they knew me or had worked with me in these last 10 years.
So grateful.
These last 2.5 years have been utter misery but, I will be the first to admit, out of great tragedy is often forged a newfound hardiness, an armour, an ability to take a bullet and ask this universe, "Is that all you have?"
And, finally, though I had felt so defeated not so long ago and felt like all I had worked for and built up to then was for naught, there came a time a few short months ago when I woke up and realized the old person I had been was now dead.
And that was a good thing.
Who emerged out of that haze of smoke and debris was someone who could take a punch and still be left standing.
And at the same time, there he came.
"I'll take an ocean in my stride,
Steal the stars and hitch a ride,
To your door..."
I look back on what were 42 years of my life now, years of necessity and hard work, years of creation, destruction and rebuilding, and I ask how I ever did any of it without him.
Though I truly believe life is all a matter of timing and circumstance.
"And time builds a bridge through our bloodlines,
From the roots, we'll watch love rise,
Heaven knows how it grows..."
And it did.
Out of friendship, hardship, leaning on each other, life circumstance and learning to live again.
I realize now how much I have always cared about him and how important he was to me. Always genuine, caring, honest, open, a safe place.
Always.
And how I had always wanted to be the same for him, though back then he was just the beautiful friend with the kind heart who I felt so lucky to have in my life.
"I'll be branch that breaks your fall,
If you need me, make the call
I'll be there..."
I remember thinking one night how lucky the woman would be who got to love him. Never once did I think it could ever be me.
But here we are, and my life, the life that has come out of the damage and destruction, is more than I could have ever hoped or wished for.
Watching our favourite musicians, laughing, smiling, work dinners, phone calls, texts through the day and night, sleepy wake ups and shooting shit over breakfast - the things I never thought I would do.
I will not say "again," because these are things I never did. This has been, and continues to be, such an incredible thing.
And I am still in awe at every day.
"And I know it's late for lullabies,
But the future's yours and mine,
Now and for evermore..."
I find myself looking into the future now, each and every day, at what we have to look forward to - the exciting, the wild, also the mundane.
And every single day holds so much promise and growth.
My life - this collection of remnants of the before - is not the dread and lack of future I had anticipated; it is a timeline of promise, of beauty, of excitement - of love.
To resort to an old cliche, maybe love truly does set us free.
"Now that I've found you,
Now that I've found you,
I won't let go..."
I won't. There are days when I just cannot hold him tight enough because I know how lucky I am, how rare he is, how easily those special people can be ripped from your life in one fell swoop.
And so I hope I can show him every single day how much he is loved and appreciated for everything he is and everything he does.
"Let my love surround you,
Now that I've found you,
I can lay down with my ghost..."
The ghost of that person who I was.
I can finally be at peace with her, now.
I am not dismissing who she was or the work she put in.
But I love who I am now and what my life is.
Here we go.
"Now that I've found you, don't go..."
Saturday, July 20, 2024
Coming home.
Our province was built, and continues to exist, on the fishery.
Whether you live in Leading Tickles, Ramea or St. John's you are connected and the lifeblood that runs through the fabric of your community, and the economic survival of your community revolves and depends on the vast ocean resources we have as well as the hard work of those who put their lives and safety on the line to and raw material to the wharves.
On Thursday evening, as I sat here in this exact spot at the table, hammering out words on a blank page, my phone buzzed:
"Glenn's boat is missing."
And the terror, the anxiousness, the shaking hands and tightness in the throat felt by anyone who knows someone who puts their life on the line in this industry when they hear those words, sank in.
The familiar dread felt in 2001 when the phone rang and Peggy Lee said, "Darrell isn't home." And just like that two friends and their dad vanished into thin air like they had never existed on the vast expanse of Bonavista Bay.
The horror of the phone call in 2004 when dad turned back to the supper table and said, "The Ryans are in trouble off the Cape." And the next morning surveying the rubble on the beach that was left of a vessel that, when seen weeks earlier, seemed beautiful and invincible. Two men gone.
The anxiousness with another call in 2005 that gave the same story, as the Melina and Keith II went down, the unforgiving ocean swallowing four men so close to home.
All too familiar.
As the daughter of a fish harvester there is not one day when he goes to work that you are not aware that the phone may ring and this time it is not someone else who has been thrust into the waves.
It may not be another family sitting vigil and hoping against the odds that are undoubtedly stacked against any human who battles nature.
That on the other end of the phone there might be someone telling you there is no contact with the people most important to you on a vessel that, tied to the wharf, looms over her berth.
Yet, still not invincible to the force that is the Atlantic ocean.
Being fortunate to work with harvesters in the industry that has filled my heart and soul since the day I was born, and realized that everything we had came from the sea, unfortunately also comes with the tragedy and loss caused by the unforgiving sea.
So we sat vigil as a Union, as an industry, as a province, as the children and relatives and friends of fish harvesters.
The conversations were grim.
Videos and pictures were shared of young men singing and laughing on the deck of the vessel, working hardily as boxes of turbot sat around them.
"As they steam up the harbour,
You can see their masthead light..."
But there was no light.
There was no mayday.
No communication.
No sign.
Family members begged for dad, son, friend to come home; for captain Carter to bring them home as they knew he was capable.
Nearly every conversation had brought some mention of how dire each passing minute and second looked as there was no communication from the Elite Navigator.
And last night, into the early morning hours that I know everyone has spent awake since hearing the first reports, while chatting about diminishing hope, I opened Facebook and the first message I saw was, "All seven on the Navigator r safe."
Safe.
For moments I know everyone who saw that post sat in silence, shock, dismay.
Good news is not often heard in our industry when such tragedies strike.
Safe.
And since that moment small details have trickled in of a faint handheld red flare seen by the Canadian Coast Guard vessel Teleost who was then able to reach the life raft and bring all seven to safety.
Bravo Zulu.
This industry is full of disaster, heartbreak, and every ounce of anxiety and worry when a vessel is known to be in distress or overdue is felt in the souls of every person in this province.
We are the fishery.
Captain Carter brought his men home and the scene on the wharf in Valleyfield this afternoon will be one the ocean has stolen from so many - but the crew of the Elite Navigator are coming home.
Dads, sons, brothers, friends, are coming home.
And I know last evening the entire province breathed a united sigh of relief as the news circulated. The radio recording from the Placentia Coast Guard will never not give us chills and remind us that the ocean is unforgiving but unites us all, while reminding all of us that next time it could be us.
It will never be you until it is.
To the families and friends of the crew - I hope you could feel the arms of an entire province and industry around you as you waited with bated breath and dread.
Welcome home, boys.
"With their hardy crews and captains,
They're the finest fishermen.
And the girls are all excited,
The longliners are coming in..."
Thursday, July 18, 2024
Drive On.
In those first days, when everything was filtered through a lens of intense grief thicker than any shitty Instagram filter, I could not see anything past that exact moment.
No month later.
No six months later.
No five days later.
No later.
And as we filled the Rock House to Dave Whitty, Nick Earle and then the always incredible Matt Mays I still could not see tomorrow.
Matt belted out his usual hits and, like he had been able to hear me the day prior when I said into the empty car, "If he plays 'Drive On' I don't know how I'll get through it," the familiar chords came.
I will never forgot that moment.
Because, in that moment, he looked at me and sang directly, his words gentle but strong:
"There's no fear of losing,
The horizon holds the winning hand.
The rear view plays a movie
You never gotta see again..."
And later that night when I got the opportunity to talk to him, one-on-one, he said he did sing it directly and to me and hoped I would carry the message and live by it into the next days:
"Everybody seems to want the same thing,
Blinded by the light of a diamond ring.
Well look at you you've got too much to prove,
Too many songs to sing..."
There have been many song sang since.
A lot of laters that I did not anticipate, a lot of those movies in the rear view that I would argue I do have to sometimes see and mostly when I need a reminder.
It can be hard to even know where you are if you cannot see where you have come from, come back from.
And some of those rear view movies will keep repeating over and over because PTSD is a bitch and there is not much that can be done abut that other than to turn down the volume.
"There would be no good sunsets
If it wasn't for the rain.
You can't have true love
Without pain..."
There will always be pain, that ache that is chronic and only exists in those who know what it feels like to have your heart ripped out of your chest and be left with a gaping, open, empty chasm.
It is like the ache in that bone you broke when you were rolling down the hill at age six and now, 36 years later you know when it is about to rain.
Dull, deep, faint but there.
"So you drive a little faster,
'Cause you don't even have a place to go.
You breathe a quiet Hallelujah,
And let it all fall..."
But, I have learned it is possible to live both with that ache and to harness it; to carry it but also use loss and grief as a driver to ensure what you do have - these new, good sunsets - are appreciated and never taken for granted.
Sunrises, sunsets and all of the days to come are visible now - all of the things that seemed so impossible, out of reach - the "never agains."
There are still never agains - but that is okay. There are now soons, eventuallys and whens.
And all of those nevers I declared so defiantly have shrunken into maybes.
With one big change of mind and heart.
"Organically," he said when describing how it grew.
I like that.
Beautifully, as well.
Beauty out of destruction and devastation.
So many songs to sing, right, Matt?
"So drive on into the moonless night,
And just for a second everything is alright.
Drive on and give it all away,
You've got to trust yourself..."
And, for the first time in a long time I trusted myself and I am so, so thankful I did.
Because these last few months and the days, months, years, every single second left to come indicate something great; something grown from the devastation left by others.
"Let yourself turn into something else,
Feel yourself fall into the great white open..."
I am liking who I feel I have, and am, turning into.
I love the person he makes me feel I am and can be.
I am glad I shook away the nevers.
So, as I sit here watching the clouds darken the room, eyes open and the chasm in my chest a little more fuller every day, thanks Matt.
Thanks for the advice and the lessons.
And I will continue to do exactly that.
Drive on.
Wednesday, July 17, 2024
The Story.
Tell you the story of who I am..."
If you've got no one to tell them to,
It's true..."
It's hiding the words that don't come out..."
That I was made for you..."
Tuesday, July 16, 2024
I'm here.
It has been a while, hive.
The therapeutic space where I could write, open my wounds and let them bleed, became a target, as most things do these days.
And so I bled in silence, for the most part of the past year or more.
Thank you to everyone who continued to reach out. Your messages always let me know that in the dismal reality that is every day on this cesspool we call social media there also exist many lights who shine through the cracks and keep breath in struggling lungs, at times when we feel like we are drowning.
So, here I am again -
Eyes open, wounds cauterized, a semblance of the person I used to be but, given what I know now about grief, loss, recovery and love - I do not want the person I was back.
And I am beginning to love who the woman is who emerged from the rubble, the one who was collateral damage.
"Nothing is the same, everything is a better change,
Sometimes I see silence in your eyes..."
Change.
That taboo concept that everyone both dreads and welcomes in the same breath.
So much has changed.
So many walls have come down.
"Let it all crash down,
When it ends, it begins with you..."
And when your eyes open for what feels like the first time in 2.5 years, there stands the person who helped carry you along more than he will ever know, even through his own hurt.
There for the beginning, the end and the new beginning.
Constant.
In retrospect, life is funny, that.
The kind, gentle soul who was always there to chat, laugh, talk about life and always try to help.
He helped and helps more than I can even put into text on this page.
I see a road forward now - a beaten pathway lined with the remnants of a fight to survive and be, cut through with pain and anger, and pure spite.
And it looks long but, in the grand scheme of things, it is but another trail to conquer.
I know we can and we will.
This world seems a bit clearer now; the days brighter, the night times not so scary.
The monsters are no longer at the door.
And there is hope.
Every day I breathe it in and am thankful for having him in my life; not just for now, but for the years prior and for the years to come.
My bright light.
And in his eyes, his smile, his arms there is so much promise, so much to come.
So much love.
I am sitting in this airport, the one where the worst moment on my life happened, and I feel peace.
Finally.
Finally.
These past few months have been a whirlwind and the days continue to be. When the dust settles, there he is.
"You took my life, turned it around,
You put my feet back on the ground.
I owe you, eternally..."
And this love - born from pain, hurt and pure devastation - means more to me than anything in the world.
I will make sure he knows every day.
Monday, April 3, 2023
1 year.
1 year.
12:05.
1 year since the metal hit the glass.
40 minutes from when I landed and texted you, "Yay ground!"
And you didn't reply.
45 minutes from when I stepped off the plane and you weren't there.
55 minutes from opening Twitter to see there had been an accident.
57 minutes from texting a friend in media to ask if he had seen you there.
97 minutes from driving past a burned out truck on Pitts Memorial and realizing it wasn't our car.
4 hours from when the officer came to the house to tell us you were gone.
And nothing has been even remotely close to normal since.
Walking into that room at Barrett's as "Joe Batt's Arm Longliners:" played, your dad and your uncle Tony crooning the lyrics we had sang on Sundays as you asked me if I knew every fish harvester mentioned in the song.
"Justin and the Endeavour! With Billy Burke as mate!"
Looking at your cold, still face, a face that was always so animated and held so much love.
Cold.
Still.
Your hands covered in those white gloves because they were too beaten up to not have them covering the injuries.
I fixed your hair.
You never parted it the way they had.
Now begin the seconds.
All of the firsts have happened.
The birthdays, the Xmas, the Halloween and Trick or Treating, the Easter, the Burger Battle, the hockey, the tournament, the...everything.
The immense loss of what we saw of the future.
Our little family.
Our future.
1 whole year.
The house, the painting, the furniture, the renovations, the loss.
The secondary losses.
I miss you and I miss him.
I miss Vinny and wonder how he is.
The changes.
I have tried to channel it all into good energy to do what I know you would want me to continue doing.
Work.
The house.
Volunteering.
The message.
Doing good in your name and feeling your love push me through.
I have met some beautiful people - tied together in our loss, the grief, the pain.
Nobody really understands this loss unless you have been there - and I understand that.
I do not expect anyone to be able to fathom the shock, the loss, the emptiness and the way the world feels so hollow now.
Stanley came.
I am still convinced you had sent him.
He knows when I need him and that funny little boy breathes new life into me every single day.
And in two days I will step on a plane and head to the same meeting I was gone for when you were taken on your way to pick me up.
Life comes full circle that way.
How has a year gone by?
How has life changed so much in such a short time yet it has felt like an eternity?
I hope you see that I have amazing friends, amazing coworkers, an amazing support system that carries me through even on the darkest of days.
So much has changed yet so much remains the same.
Last night we had our league banquet and when Barbie played "Sonny's Dream" and asked me to join her in singing my heart caught in my throat and I could only sing quietly.
The last time I heard it was at your funeral, when we all clapped, celebrating your life and the difference you have made in this world.
"Sonny, don't go away, I am here all alone..."
I will always, always continue to try and do good in your name.
You were too good for this world.
And on the 18th I will once again enter that court room.
"And I'm feeling so tired, I'm not all that strong..."
Everything takes so much more energy these days than it ever did.
So many have left and thrown me aside in all of this.
I wish it didn't have to be that way.
It wasn't supposed to be this way.
But I feel you with me, guiding me, telling me to suck it up and do what you always felt I was capable of doing.
"Don't ever assume anyone is your friend. Push, work hard and keep doing what you do," you would say.
And I will.
1 year.
1 whole year without you, without my home despite this house that now has become my sanctuary.
You were my home.
1 whole year without your smile, your hug, your reassurance, your presence.
1 year.
1 year without that forehead kiss every single day.
Without your dance before bed, telling me I could stay on the couch then scooping me up and running into our room as we both laughed.
I remember the first day when I kept asking myself how I would make it through that day, how I would get through a week, a month, six months.
I could not see any way I could possibly go on and find the fortitude to carry on.
All of those days are a blur now.
I swear I barely remember one - noen of the visits, none of the days of Stef being home to be there for me, none of those who came to the visitation minus my hockey teams.
I just kept apologizing to everyone else for not being present.
But you helped.
I feel you in everything I do, in every day and every moment.
I'm okay, Brad.
I'm as okay as I ever will be without you.
I will do big things, just as you had told me I would.
I just hope that wherever you are you are okay too.
I miss you.
And I'll miss you until my dying days.
"Whisper words of wisdom, let it be..."