I have been thinking about writing all the time, almost every day yet I just didn’t make the time until now. So we made it to Ontario. Currently I am sitting on my grandma’s deck, over looking Campbell bay in Lake Huron. All I hear is the wind, grasshoppers, a wind chime, and the waves… Seriously all my favorite things.
I love it here. I fit here. I am meant to be here. It’s my belonging place.
Yesterday on the way to the island we stopped into the Sault. I went to see my mom’s old house, my great grandma’s old house and then eventually her. I went to the cemetery and visited her grave.
There was a butterfly on her headstone; it was a simple marker nestled next to her husband who passed thirty years before her and her son that passed as a child. Only 7 years old. Imagine.
This woman has been on my mind so much in the last few months. I wish I could have known her better in life but I think in death I am going to get to know her through others that new her and loved her. She was an adventurer. She loved travel and people and really living. She was passionate and followed through. I want to be like that.
Today we are going to go for a walk I want to show Dd some of my childhood memories. The row of old apple trees, the sugar shack, old taps road. It’s really magical here – well to me it’s magical.
Peace & Prayers.
This is a poem my Great Grandma loved;
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!