Tag Archives: Faith

Thanksgiving

It’s always kind of weird to come back to where I grew up. I’ve been back in S. Park the past few days for a mini vacation due to Thanksgiving, and sitting here in my childhood bedroom, I’m struck by how many memories this one room holds for me. The walls are bright blue and green, a testament to my teenage taste and personality, the furniture maple-toned, matching the hardwood floor that runs throughout the house. It isn’t a large room, but yet the furniture fits comfortably, the single bed marking that period in my life where I wanted as much floor space as possible so I could stretch undisturbed (though how often I actually did that is debatable). If I think about the walls and furniture, though, I must remember that they weren’t always that way, not when I was in my prima ballerina faze and white furniture handed down from my mother stood in the room, softer pinks, blues and greens dominating my décor. Yet even before then, as a small child, primary colours chosen by my mother were all the rage, stuffed animals my most intimate friends and devoted company.

I look back at the walls and notice that though the colour is bright it sometimes is hard to make out due to how many objects cover them, from ceiling to floor. The objects on the wall document everything from festivals and performances I participated in, to past travels, accomplishments, birthday parties, and art projects. They range in age, some dating back to the last few months of the 80s, others to just a few years ago, a timeline of the most important events within my past 26 years: a photo of my first Christmas, a poster of my first semi-professional Ukrainian dance tour, spoons from various places I’ve traveled, my university degree. Every object tells a story, hearkens back to the fleshed-out moment it now symbolizes.

The books do the same. Stacks upon stacks of books are piled into every nook and cranny, books I haven’t finished, books I’ve read once or twice, and books that have been supremely loved over the years. Each book, each photo album, each journal and notebook represents a part of me, my interests (whether they remain the same or have changed), my story, another timeline. The old school binders tell an even more specific story as they showcase the work I actually did, the subjects I excelled in and those that provided an intellectual struggle (whether I wanted to admit it or not).

Most important, though, of all these things I find in my room are the little secret things hidden in cracks and at the back of drawers, the sneakiest places in the closet. The paper notes my friends and I passed in class (before anyone had a cellphone); the ticket stubs of movies and shows I’d seen; the paint chips I saved in anticipation of having my own house; the musings I wrote down before I started a blog. When I read those notes and take out the ticket stubs and paint chips and travel back to each moment in time, I can see that I truly have lived. I had opinions and feelings in each of those moments, and those opinions and feelings motivated me to write that note or see that film or dream about what was yet to come and put those thoughts on paper. And looking back to then from now, I can see how this girl who is myself has grown from the person I was to the person I am, never changing completely, but rather becoming more and more me as each day passes.

You may be wondering what the point of this post is. I’m not sure I truly know myself. All I know is that for the past hour or so I’ve sat here in silence, taking the time to appreciate the experiences I’ve had while anticipating those to come, something I hardly ever do.

I think I’ve just had Thanksgiving.

Joyanne 😀

 

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From Death to Eternal Life

I had this dream while I was napping:

I was at my Baba and Dido’s house in Two Hills. My Baba was sitting in the green armchair Dido always used to sit in, but it was in the bedroom I always sleep in. She was hooked up to a heart monitor. Suddenly, the heart monitor registered she was going into cardiac arrest. I called out to my Mom, who was in the next room. I turned back to my Baba, but it was too late; in the blink of an eye, she was gone. I sobbed. I couldn’t believe she was gone.

I turned to my Dido, who had just appeared. And in that moment, as quickly as she was gone, my Baba was alive again. I went to her and I said, “Baba, you just died,” to which she responded with something like, “Oh, that’s why I feel like something weird happened.” The doctor checked her out (I think the doctor was my Dad) and said she was fine, me adding, “Except for old age,” as my Dido looked on in a concerned manner.

I think it’s interesting I had this dream today, on Easter Sunday. My Baba passed away 4 years ago the week before Easter, my Dido leaving the earth 7 years before. I’m not a dream analyst, but I can tell you what this dream means to me, in the context of this great day: they are alive. My grandparents are alive. I witnessed my Baba die again in my dream, but I also witnessed her wake back up again, just like Peter and the other Apostles witnessed Jesus rise from death. My Dido’s concern is nothing more than making sure my Baba got through the passageway okay, and according to the doctor, she did. Where my “Except for old age” remark fits in, I have no idea. But maybe it has something to do with my lack of enlightenment, my lack of understanding of what had truly taken place before me. I thought Baba was still the same as she was before she died, but in reality she had just become immortal.

Well, there are my two cents this Easter Sunday. I hope you have the chance to celebrate this greatest of feast days with your family and friends, sharing in fabulous food, conversation, and prayer.

God bless, Khrystos Voskres, Christ is Risen, Happy Easter!

Joyanne 😀

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