Erin's Journals

Just a thought… Tattoos are the stories in your heart written on your skin. [Charles de Lint]

Our thoughts go back to a day 22 years ago; most of us remember where we were, and for some, their lives were altered in the worst of ways, forever. As we remember 9/11, we send love to those families who mourn today and always.

If you’ve suffered any kind of significant loss in your own life – and really, at this point, if you haven’t, you are among the extremely fortunate few – you have learned to live with the impact of that day that divides your existence between before and after.

Anyone who has been here with me knows our event, our loss, our own dividing line. And as we’ve travelled together, many of us, for all of this time, you’ve seen or read of our moments of remembrance: a bench bearing a plaque with our daughter’s name at a local park, a tree planted in a park in Ontario by a kind listener, a brick donated by a journal reader in a wall in Orillia. And, of course, there’s Mourning Has Broken, a book written, not just about our loss, but about surviving and finding our way to joy again, as best we can. The ripples of how this story has helped others continue to be felt, and I am grateful.

So it took me these eight long years to make up my mind as to how I wanted to remember Lauren, not just with words or actions, but on my body.

Last Tuesday, I spent two hours in a chair in Kelowna. Not a manicurist’s or a dentist’s, but a tattoo artist’s. As you know, this is a big decision and one that a person doesn’t take on lightly. After all, it should be with me for all of my days.

I knew I wanted Lauren’s name on me, but didn’t want to hurt every time I saw it. And it has taken this amount of time to feel like that wouldn’t be the undesired effect of having a tattoo. After all, it’s not like it would remind me of the loss; that’s already etched on my soul. But I wanted her beautiful memory to be symbolized by something lovely.

My initial choice consisted of simple lines and three hearts (Rob’s, mine and Lauren’s). I asked my sister Leslie to find the right person at the place to which she has gone. Then, just three days before the appointment, I found the design that resonated with me: an infinity sign, a feather and a name. Her name.

Why a feather? Why not? Some believe it is the lightest, easiest way for spirits to let us know they are with us. Others shrug and say that a bird has simply lost its feather. Perhaps both can be true; whatever fluffs your feathers.

At 9 am Tuesday, Leslie drove her shaky sister to the shop in West Kelowna, a sparkling clean place decked out in biker chic decor called Steel Works.

My artist was kind, gentle and had a lovely, patient manner. A trained electrician who came to Canada from India and met his dental assistant wife in northern BC, he moved to West Kelowna for a better job at Walmart, which he has since left and is now well on his way to running his own shop one day. His wife, meantime, is studying to become a dentist. I loved listening to his story while he etched a part of mine into my left forearm.

Before we began, we had gone over the photo I sent him of another person’s tattoo, and he altered it to suit my needs; using an iPad, he deftly created and illustrated what mine would look like.

As he talked, inked and swiped, I felt so peaceful that I almost fell asleep. The pain was minimal; I had taken Tylenol in preparation and perhaps that was it, or that my high pain tolerance came through once again, but it was really nothing to complain about. Not like the lip colour tattoo I’d received years back. Nuh-uh. Never again.

After adding my requested touches of blue and his own lines of white for highlighting, it was done.

Today, the protective tape is off, and now I’m cleaning and moisturizing twice a day for the next few months. The tattoed area feels like it’s slightly sunburned, but appears to be healing well. Overall, I’m delighted with how it came out, although the spacing inside the “r” is not perfect; I guess that’s something my little OCD mind is going to have to get used to.

Am I glad I have done this, at long last? Absolutely! I’m grateful not to have leapt into it earlier, and to have taken my time and had someone I could trust to do it for me.

My friend and podcast partner Lisa Brandt has far more experience with tattoos than I, and we’ll be talking about it this Thursday on our Gracefully and Frankly podcast. If you haven’t listened yet, please just dive right in and join us for a half hour of real girl (okay, Queenager) talk, with laughter, love and just the kind of conversation you’d want to be part of (or listening in on) every morning. We do it once a week and it’s free to you, thanks to our friends at enVypillow.com. Please give it a listen – we promise you’ll enjoy it – and if you could, take a moment and rate it as well. Every star helps us find a wider audience of friends.

Thank you for being here and coming along for this ride. I wish you a peaceful week.

Just a thought… Music, when soft voices die, vibrates in the memory. [Percy Bysshe Shelley]

Hello to you today from cloudy West Kelowna, BC, where I’m staying with my sister, her family of four, plus our dad and three dogs (along with one really vocal cat) until this Thursday, when I fly back to the sweet sanity of home!

Today, our grandson Colin’s back to school, starting an hour or so of Grade 4 (?!?) with all of those exciting new experiences that we so loved: a few new outfits, a backpack and lunchbox (which probably won’t be put to use ’til later this week) and, of course, the chance to catch up with friends and find out who his new teacher will be.

Here at my sister Leslie’s (where we’re on a boil water order due to recent wildfires), it’s the first year in decades that she doesn’t have a child going back to class. But, of course, as her two children share an apartment downstairs, there’s another, older and less-independent generation on the main floor for whom she’s caring, and doing an exceptional job, despite some daunting and sometimes humorous challenges.

Last week I posted on social media that Dad saw this Minigo cup and was absolutely convinced that he was being fed cat food!

There were some hilarious and touching experiences shared on my Facebook page, and I’m grateful to you every time you open your heart to me and for sharing that page.

Of course, there are tears as well: after playing some tracks of Lauren singing with her high school band, Dad asked how old she is now and I told her that she died when she was 24. He began to sob, and I was immediately sorry for telling him; I’m usually good at fudging stories (the “where’s Mom?” question is answered with “she’s away visiting our sister Cindy in Mexico”). But after a nap, the memory of our daughter’s passing had faded entirely, as we knew it would. Dementia does comes with the tiniest gifts.

Another rare plus that accompanies this dreadful disease is that he remembers so many of the songs he enjoyed and would sing as a barbershopper. So I was fortunate to capture a little bit of video as we sat out on my sister’s deck on an uncharacteristically cool day, with a little bit of a favourite of his.

It’s a feeling of harmony and the peace that comes in those rare moments of normalcy: watching the Jays, often in frustration (must be September), and enjoying meals and memories.

As we head “back to” everything on what for me always feels like the real New Year’s Day, I hope you’ll return to Drift with Erin Davis sleep stories tonight and a new one called The Goose Girl, a sweet story of a princess whose identity is stolen, but who gets help from the most unlikely source: a king!

And Lisa Brandt and I will bring you a brand new Episode 36 of Gracefully and Frankly, recorded in a tiny trailer here in West Kelowna. Ah, life on the road is SO glam! Be well, my friend. 

Just a thought… Beware of Destination Addiction: a preoccupation with the idea that happiness is in the next place, the next job and with the next partner. Until you give up the idea that happiness is somewhere else, it will never be where you are. [Robert Holden]

Perhaps this is a bookend to the blog I wrote a few weeks ago about our right to death. Read on! This one isn’t dark, I promise. But it came to me, as I sat outside on a glorious August weekend, that truly we are in the Labour Day portion of our lives, many of us.

You’ll perhaps recognize yourself in this: if our lives are the seasons – spring when we arrive and grow and then summer when we sink into the fullness of what we have sown and the warming comfort of watching it all come to full height and fruition – then this point now is when we start to get that feeling.

So here’s the question: what are you going to do about it?

When he was a bit sharper, my dad regularly used a witty comeback when I’d ask, “How are you today?” and that was, “Well, I don’t know, I’ve never been here before!”

It’s true; none of us has, unless we have past life memories. But we have choices. We can complain about August coming to an end and dwell on what we’ll miss, or we can embrace what’s here in our hands.

Thanks to a message from Facebook visitor Richard T., I did a bit of digging and came across this piece on Psychology Today‘s website about something called Destination Addiction. I saw myself in nearly every word. Here’s a bit of what Robert Holden wrote:

People who suffer from Destination Addiction believe that success is a destination. They are addicted to the idea that the future is where success is, happiness is, and heaven is. Each passing moment is merely a ticket to get to the future. They live in the ‘not now,’ they are psychologically absent, and they disregard everything they have. Destination Addiction is a preoccupation with the idea that happiness is somewhere else. We suffer, literally, from the pursuit of happiness. We are always on the run, on the move, and on the go. Our goal is not to enjoy the day, it is to get through the day. We have always to get to somewhere else first before we can relax and before we can savor the moment. But we never get there. There is no point of arrival. We are permanently dissatisfied. The feeling of success is continually deferred. We live in hot pursuit of some extraordinary bliss we have no idea how to find.

It was not lost on me that this post was sent to me as I was online seeking a last minute refuge to go to this week, feeling the “back to school” urge to get a few more days away. It never fades, does it? (Anyone else feel the need to go buy new pencil crayons and Duotang folders these days?)

But as I consider this article (and I’ll link below) I know that if I’m not happy in my home, in my heart, I won’t find it in the next podcast, voice job, emcee booking or getaway. I’m going to work on this.

Instead of lamenting the impending end of August, I need to remind myself that even as they roll out Halloween decorations (or Christmas ones at Costco) and pumpkin-spice-everything, it’s up to us to enjoy the presents that come with the present, immersing ourselves in the fullness of what surrounds us now – the bounty of the harvest – with gratitude and perhaps a bit of serenity. I’ll try if you do.

Have a lovely long Labour Day weekend and I’ll be back with you next Tuesday. In the meantime, please do continue to enjoy gentle sleep stories on Drift with Erin Davis (available free wherever you download podcasts) and, of course, this Thursday, Lisa Brandt and I will have a brand new Gracefully and Frankly podcast for you to listen to as you walk, drive or just sit and talk back to us. I promise it’s worth your time, and I’m grateful for every minute of it you share with me, with us.

And here’s a link to that article that gave me so much food for thought; perhaps it will you, too. 

Just a thought… All things are connected like the blood that unites us. We do not weave the web of life, we are merely a strand in it. Whatever we do to the web, we do to ourselves. [Chief Seattle]

This is not my story to tell, but the person who should tell it asked me to do so instead. It’s but one family’s experience in the West Kelowna wildfires: a story of terror and timing, uncertainty and unwavering stoicism. And about family – above all, family.

I know there are other fires elsewhere, and each is equally tragic to those affected. This is my younger sister’s story.

Leslie (who you may recall visited me with her grandson last month) lives in the Shannon Lake area of West Kelowna. On Thursday, Leslie and my dad (who you may also recall is 90 and in the strengthening grips of dementia) sat on her deck and watched brave men and women in helicopters trying to fight the towering flames that were ravaging a mountain only one other mountain away from them. Here’s what they saw.

As Les got Dad to bed and the smudgy sun set, the flames grew. She and I sat talking on FB ’til after 1 am while she shared with me what she was watching. She could clearly see where the flames were flaring up and how they were approaching her neighbourhood.

Earlier that same evening, Leslie was alerted to a bear on her sidewalk while out with her dog, who barked at the mama (and also her cub, they later learned); the animals were but two of countless sheep, deer, birds, rabbits and other inhabitants of the forest inferno trying to find their way to safety.

After a night where her adult son kept watch, both on social media and on the deck, the family of five adults and four pets awoke Friday to a pending sense of doom: winds were picking up and the flames showed no signs of slowing as they bore down on them.

As her three worried sisters urged her to evacuate before the knock at the door came, Leslie and her family got their orders in place. She gathered their passports, insurance forms and other vital papers, all the while holding down the sense of panic that was as thick in the air as the acrid smoke from the hectares-wide fire that was showing no sign of slowing.

A helpful stranger came by; he was one of several who selflessly answered an online plea to tow away the small teardrop-shaped trailer housed cosily in their garage, to a safer place (it’s new and Leslie and her husband have no tow hitch). Then the family loaded up and moved across a snail-slow bridge linking West Kelowna to Kelowna.

By now, my older sister’s house in Kelowna wasn’t as safe a refuge as it had first appeared: remarkably – and tragically – flames carried on gale-force winds had jumped Okanagan Lake and were now igniting the other side’s tinder-dry shores. But Leslie and family settled in, putting Dad in Heather and her husband Bob’s bed, with Leslie and the kids trying to sleep wherever there was a flat surface, including in that little trailer that now rested in the driveway of Heather’s home. She and her husband stayed in her downtown office on a pull-out couch. With a coffee maker, a kettle and a bathroom, they seemed well set-up for however long they needed to stay there with their two kitties. 

Dad didn’t understand any of what was going on. How could he? No one did, when you think of it. Several times that first night, he arose and asked where they were. But we were fortunate to have him in Leslie’s care; any seniors’ facilities that might have had room for him were either being evacuated themselves, or filled with patients from the Northwest Territories. Again, as the family hunkered down and watched the news, they counted their blessings. As is almost always the case, no matter how bad things are, someone has it worse. (scroll on…)

Above is a picture taken on Friday of the house at which Rob and I stayed as VRBO guests in June. We sent our condolences to our hostess (tearfully and gratefully received), but haven’t had the heart to ask if it’s gone. Like so many homes, it probably is.

Yesterday, Leslie, Dad and the family returned home; they have no running water. Those who are being allowed to go home and who do have water have a ‘Do Not Consume’ order. No exceptions except to flush.

Thick smoke made it impossible for them to see first-hand the destruction in streets tiered above them. She’s already feeling deep sorrow for the people to whom they deliver with their concierge service; they knew so many whose homes are in ashes. Who knows how long the effects of this disaster will echo for everyone?

I have so many other stories to tell you, and there will be some on Thursday’s discussion with Lisa Brandt in our Gracefully & Frankly podcast.

But Leslie and I want to leave you with this: we often hear that disasters can bring out the very best and worst in people. For the worst, you need only go online and see anonymous idiots continuing to suggest that lasers from the sky caused this, the NWT and Maui fires. Or that Trudeau made it happen on purpose. Or that because it’s arson (of which there is no proof in the case of West Kelowna) it cannot possibly be linked to climate change, as if conditions that have made many parts of our country tinder try (or conversely, deadly wet) aren’t a sign of what we were warned about decades ago. It is clear the climate is changing. If we’re not in the “it’s too late” stage, we’re getting pretty damned close. ALL OF US.

The best in people was witnessed personally in those strangers who reached out and answered Leslie’s trailer plea and were also offering to transport animals, if needed. The kind agent Naomi at WestJet who cancelled my ticket there (I was supposed to be arriving for a four-day visit today) and gave me a credit, then offered her condolences to my family for being evacuated. The best is seen in the people who are giving and donating to food banks that need it, as we most certainly will. Click here if you want to help. It’s evident in those who are putting aside their politics and doing their duty well above and beyond.

Like AM 1150 radio host Phil Johnson, who came back from his vacation and was on the air morning ’til night on Friday. Leslie was nearly in tears when she said to me, “It sounds silly, but when we were in the car, I just turned on the radio and his voice immediately calmed me. I knew that everything was going to be okay.” She wanted to reach out to Phil but couldn’t find a way, so I’m doing that now.

You see, my friend, THAT is what connection is about and especially what radio is for, in the long, torturous hours of crisis. I am not familiar with his usual work or leanings, but it doesn’t matter. On Friday, Mr. Johnson’s was a voice of calm and caring in his community, and he stepped up in a way that I would hope anyone with a microphone, a website or a chance to be of assistance would do. Thank you to all of the broadcasters and website minders who had the greater good in their hearts.

Although mine goes out to every person who is still worried for their loved ones or their houses, or in mourning for the loss of their homes, I can speak for Leslie when I say thank you to the helpers. The heroes in the air and on the ground running (and flying) towards dangers while others – including their own families – fled.

My stomach is in less of a fist today because of them, because Leslie and her family went home yesterday and it was still there. I know my sister, and going forward, she will be doing everything she can to help those who were not so fortunate.

Because the best in us needs to be shared.

There’s a brand new story awaiting you tomorrow at Drift with Erin Davis. It’s Man May Love from a Life magazine short story contest over a century ago. Or you can choose to enjoy more than 100 tales to lull you to sleep with a meditation and soft music, a story I’ve rewritten and narrated, and then gentle waves. It’s free (thanks to enVypillow.com), and I’m grateful to say our sleep community continues to grow worldwide. So thank you, you sleeping beauty, you!

Just a thought… Give the sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o’er wrought heart and bids it break. [William Shakespeare, Macbeth]

A few thoughts today about Lahaina, on the island of Maui in Hawaii, and more to the point, which words I’m glad I didn’t use – but might well have – with the best of intentions.

As you’ve heard by now, there’s been a horrific loss of lives (more than 90 as of Sunday evening) in the beautiful, historic and vibrant town on the west coast of what has always been, to residents and visitors alike, a piece of paradise. Little wonder it was the seat of the Hawai’ian Islands’ royalty in years past.

Razed by a firestorm fuelled by the effects of hurricane winds offshore and the ongoing drought that the island is experiencing, the images of devastation are almost too much to take in. It has become the deadliest natural disaster in US history.

For those of us who have had the great fortune to visit Lahaina, the memories of times spent there are indelible. As news spread of loss and devastation, many people went online to share their thoughts and grief upon seeing images of such a precious place reduced to burnt timbers and ashes.

What surprised me was the backlash from residents of Lahaina and its surrounding areas. People who responded to the hashtag of the town’s name lashed out (understandably in their anger and grief over incalculable personal losses) at those who had posted their memories and sentiments.

Some said words to the effect of, “How dare you make this about you when we have lost everything?” All told tourists to stay the hell away (often in much stronger terms), let unhoused residents take accommodations that visitors had reserved, and just steer clear of the island in general.

The Lahaina disaster has given voice to an already-existing low-key sentiment that hums deep and strong amidst all of the spirit of Aloha! that welcomes you to Hawaii. That is, “Stay Home.” Like so many of our ancestors before us, tourists and settlers (kūwaho, or the stronger pejorative haole) have arrived and spoiled an untouched paradise for the indigenous people of these islands.

It’s not gone unmentioned that so many of the grasses and trees (such as the highly flammable eucalyptus) were brought in and are not native to the area; although climate change has wrought conditions ideal for such a horrific tragedy, there were other man-made elements that added to the potential for the fires to destroy. Many say the islands are now over-developed and the cost of living for those who have called them home for centuries has made even having a roof over their heads nearly impossible.

One may be tempted to say, “But – but – our money is helping your economy!” and although in some ways that is indeed true, this is not the time (if there ever is one) to argue with their anger and anguish. The best thing we can do is give in every way that we can: spatially, financially and with the utmost compassion.

This weekend I learned a word from a friend (Medium Cyndi Tryon) that is about healing, about forgiveness, about acceptance. I’m investigating it more deeply, but this I know: practising it allows us to go back to any transgressions our ancestors may have committed against the ancestors of others or their land, in order to make things right in the here-and-now. It’s Hoʻoponopono – an ancient Hawaiian spiritual practice that involves learning to heal all things by accepting ‘total responsibility’ for everything that surrounds us: confession, repentance, and reconciliation.

As a protocol, Hoʻoponopono is used to squash contention and disputes in a manner that is respectful and thoughtful for all involved parties. This engagement provides an opportunity to acknowledge and take ownership of one’s actions/behaviours so the participants can move forward with honour and integrity. (courtesy University of Hawaii)

In the meantime, CBS News’ website, lists some places, including the US Red Cross, Maui Food Bank and United way, all with links, that will gladly accept our financial support, above and beyond good memories, prayers and well-wishes. You can also donate by visiting the Canadian Red Cross website.

May you have a gentle week.