Language is Belonging
/I’ve been walking to the beat of multiple languages this summer.
Read MoreI’ve been walking to the beat of multiple languages this summer.
Read MorePivot, I thought, belonged to the ballerinas. Like eight-year-old Beatrice on Sunday mornings, a pivot, and a pirouette down the aisles of our church during the last song; a ballerina must dance. Everything changed when the pirouette and pivot required a masque and a 6-meter rule keeping the dance within confines of a pew—loss, pain, and grief for many, inconvenience, and new discoveries for others.
During those long days with nowhere to go but out for essentials, I found myself lingering at the essential service 'pet shop.' I stared at caged birds, rabbits, Siamese cats, and puppies in the ghost town at the local strip mall. I bought, rather rescued, I told my friends, a blue Merkle Yorkie poo and named him Rufus. Later I found him a home with K & D, who turned his shag into a photoshop poodle with bows.
We lined up for seed in response to the flash ads, across the screen in between stats and case lists breaking the health care system in Canada. "Try chili seeds, "the clerk suggested keeping the squirrels from hoarding our feeders. When have we ever walked out of a store with too much bird food? "Stocking up" the hub said like Dr. Doolittle. I should have taken up dying, as in vegetable and indigo with flour and water for the paste. Today I would be wearing designer collection tees and boasting about it on Instagram.
We took a weekend road trip to the Laurentians, Mont Tremblant, and oops bought a cottage – chalet as the French call it. Afterward, we asked ourselves if this was a good way to pivot during a pandemic. The two-hour drive tuned into podcasts and playlists every other week through the landscape of country villages and stops at Jacques and Ginette's for pies and veggies kept us nourished in nature as much as the world discovered new life in the outdoors. But oops, I did it again with another rescue puppy in Tremblant. As I write this, Murphy is in a happy place with K & A, who keep me posted with updates.
The chalet purchase led to our cookie cutter townhouse for sale. Our agent and house stager took one look at our pallet of yellows, greens, and periwinkle blue walls and replaced them with a bland pale grey and faint blue. A week later, the 'vendu' shingle decorated the front snowbank. By the end of April, we'll pivot to the firs and pines in Tremblant, with pirouettes here and there in Ottawa and other parts of the country.
As we pull the plug on mandates like masks, travel requirements, and QR checks, I'm not sure if I can sing along with Dolly Parton's When life is good again, I'll be a better person/I'll open my heart and let the whole world in. I am, however, looking forward to watching all the ballerinas of the entire world pivot and pirouette on stage with no restrictions.
I became a believer during my acting debut at the age of nine. I was the angel in a Christmas pageant where I pronounced the words: "Do not be afraid; I bring you good news." There was no loud trumpet to play to the listening audience, but it was the defining moment when faith moved into my heart.
I think about the scene every December. Why do I still believe the words I so boldly proclaimed while some of my friends and family have let go of their faith or are, as they say, 'deconstructing their faith.' Was it the angel costume? Did I experience the presence of a holy moment with God? “Belief is a scary word,” writes Kathleen Norris in her book Amazing Grace. “At its Greek root, to believe simply means to give one's heart to." I have struggled to trust my beliefs. I took a quiz once— How Spiritual Are You? My overall score landed on 'average spirituality.' I was neither highly spiritual, a real mystic nor highly skeptical, or resistant to developing spiritual awareness.
One year the perplexities of faith brought me back to the scent of cedar on the way to St. Anthony's Church Vancouver on a Sunday morning. I was a pilgrim revisiting a place where I experienced a mix of good and bad religion. I followed the child dressed in convent colors of a gold blouse, brown tunic, and matching jacket, who boarded the bus in Burkeville, Sea Island, that crossed the bridge to the school run by the Sisters of Charity of the Immaculate Conception. I didn't know it at the time; this order of nuns originated in Saint John, New Brunswick, the city of my birth. The Sisters were most likely involved with lifting me from the arms of my biological mother. Nine years later, on the other side of the country in south Vancouver, the child shows up and learns the art of confession.
Unlike the years when I attended mass every morning, families filled the church this Sunday. The pews in my childhood were empty, except for a scant group of girls sitting in the front row squirming, barely able to follow the rhythm of the daily readings. I wasn't sure if the sanctuary had changed much; what details can a nine-year-old recall other than incense, the cedar, and the face of Sister Maria Virginia.
The service opened with the announcements, the upcoming youth tour at the CBC news center, a dinner and dance on Saturday, and a pancake breakfast the week after. Then the intro to Pastor Rev. Marin – what happened to the title Father? Pastor Marin came from Québec and spoke on persistence, prayer, and patience, with a heavy accent. The invitation to participate in the Eucharist drew a long line, including young children. Music flowed from the balcony. His hand is on my life; his hand has always been there. I listened to the youth sing the words and when it was over like a child, I wanted to shout – sing it again. My heart opened to believe in the reality of God’s transcendence, and it was not scary.
Every night I go to sleep to the sound of gurgling water. Twice a day I sit through the squeals and screams as the kids splash in joy. The neighbors have put in a pool. We join the parties without invites— a fence and a few trees between us. I bring my own favored pool; at Ottawa/Rockcliffe Air Base, long gone, never forgotten.
Argus eyed stargazer eager for sultry days
to waste in chlorine filled waters, green straw hair,
red swim suits and a freckled face boy.
Summer mornings spent learning
how to unlock our bodies with
a proper way to bring the arm forward
to avoid sinking or moving backwards.
It never worked at that age,
my friends and I were too giddy.
We laughed and filled the blanks
of our days with anything but reality
never would have imagined
the necessity to break into
the natural flow of things
like swimming through the water
to overtake the obstacles.
Years ago, I drove through Ottawa observing vacationers relaxing in their pleasure boats, cyclists peddling to their own music, and elephants trekking along the Rideau Canal. Yes, truly. Elephants. I was in one of those socially distant unsettled states of mind. Still, this unexpected siting helped me write a short essay - The Summer of My Burnout.
Later, while on a mission trip to Uganda, I listened to the trumping of an elephant during a morning coffee as he stood socially distanced from his herd. "He's misbehaved," my African friends said. I wanted to swim across the Nile to join him. The day before, I received an email from my husband, a minister saying he was moving to China. He resigned from our church and renounced his faith a few months previous. The unexpected scene of elephants gave momentum for the essay – Where does the Minister's Wife Go when the Minister Quits His Faith.
Next month I graduate with an MFA in Creative Non-Fiction. Whenever I tell someone about writing a memoir for the last two years, I watch as their eyes widen, head bends, and lips curl. How do you write so much about yourself?
Without the elephants, I couldn't 'fashion a text,' as Annie Dillard calls it. Creative non-fiction is not so much as the 'I' but the 'Eye' I discovered these past two years. The process of writing a spiritual memoir has opened a vast world of mystery and pleasure. I haven’t seen any elephants recently, but I keep a list of those out of the blue meanderings that open a memoir to a wider landscape.
Deborah A. M. Phillips (Lapointe) is the author of Argonauta, a novel set in Québec. She has published articles in both English and French. Deborah has a BA in Literature & Creative Writing from the University of British Columbia and an MFA from the University of King’s College at Dalhousie University in Halifax. Most of her writing life happens in Mont Tremblant, Québec.