Last Sunday was my birthday.

Although the number of years represented could not necessarily be described as a milestone, to me, it kind of felt like one. As I sat at the kitchen table with a cup of tea, jotting down brief notes to compose into longer sentences for my journal, I admitted that 55 felt rather fine. In addition to one of my out-of-town children surprising me with a birthday visit, great happiness also flowed from a surprisingly unexpected source.

After writing the blog post 'Thinking of the Woman In Nova Scotia' a couple of weeks ago, I took the initiative to send the piece out to other destinations. Firstly, it was sent to dear, local friends who once welcomed a newlywed couple (and, eventually, three lovely offspring) into their social circle back in 1994. It was these same friends that instantly appeared out of the shadows when I left my marriage, offering kindness, safety and support. Given that they all knew, for years, that something was amiss in my matrimonial relationship, I wanted to share my thoughts on someone else's domestically abusive situation.

Next in line was the local newspaper. Having regularly sent in photographs of natural local wonders, I knew the editor would recognize my name. I politely asked if my Nova Scotia-themed opinion piece would be of interest. It was. My words appeared in The Squamish Chief in the very next issue, in both the print and digital versions. Putting the word out publicly, amongst more of my local, hometown region, was a big step. Over the past five years, since being divorced, I've managed to gloss over the nitty-gritty, and avoid saying the more specific terms that accurately described what went on behind closed doors. 

How many people read my contribution, I have no idea. Incredibly encouraging and loving comments provided some form of feedback, but uncertainty remained as to exactly how many people I reached with my words.

But, it did not end there. Tossing about inside my head, and heart, was the notion that the job was not yet done; that a next step had to be taken. I had to submit the piece to a Nova Scotia newspaper so the true meaning of my words could hit home. An afternoon was spent at the computer googling newspapers across the country. My piece, subsequently, was submitted to the Chronicle-Herald, Dalhousie Gazette, Cape Breton Post and other non-Nova Scotia newspapers (The Squamish Chief said it was okay; they claimed no exclusive rights). The Chronicle-Herald replied. My contribution was published in the Opinion section on Saturday, May 16th, in the digital and print formats.

Later that Saturday afternoon, a friend texted to say that my submission was the 2nd most-read opinion piece that day. At that point, over 7,000 people had clicked and read it.  Seven thousand!  By the end of the weekend, over 10,000 people had likely read it; possibly more. I wrote to the editor afterwards, thanking him for the opportunity and asking if a total number of readers could possibly be provided. Rather than a number, he offered the insight that my piece held firmly in the Top 3 of the weekend's opinion pieces, and ranked in the Top 20 of all Chronicle articles clicked and read that weekend. Typically, news stories rank in the Top 20, not submissions to the Opinion section.  

With that knowledge, came overwhelming validation.

In what seems as 'one fall swoop', my thoughts captured the attention of a significantly-sized audience. Imagine that many people reading my memoir, once it is finally written, then published. Imagine that many people interested in the message I have to convey. For many years I was humbled by the ocean; now, I've been humbled by the impact of my own words.

To celebrate my birthday with two of my three children, and eat an abundance of chocolate cake, made my heart sing. The cherry on top of that wickedly delicious, frosting-laden, homemade devil's food cake, was the 5-digits representing the number of people who read my submission in the Chronicle-Herald's opinion section, for May 16, 2020.

​Happy Birthday, to me.

According to the calendar, tomorrow is Mother's Day. Since 1941, the second Sunday in May has been reserved for acknowledging and giving thanks to women who love, tend and care for others. North American tradition dictates flowers and cards to be bought, brunch to be shared, and time together to be spent with multi-generational family levels. Telephone lines predictably become jammed with the multitude of long distance calls from offspring reaching across the miles to mothers in other geographical locations. 

This year, in the unique time of Covid-19, such close-proximity traditions are likely to go unrealized. We all have heard the kindly worded reminders to keep our distance with those beyond our own household. Our proverbial 'bubbles' are not yet ready to expand, even in the name of Mother's Day.

Are such traditions, however, really necessary for one specific calendar day? Should not mothers be reminded on a much more regular basis of just how much they are loved? If not, then they should be!

I admit, for many years, there was little communication between my mother and myself. A once- or twice-a-year phone call, from some far off international locale, had me offering a quick greeting and vague update before signing off, sending her into yet another emotional tailspin. Extenuating circumstances aside, I am not proud of these actions. Great pain and emotional turmoil from my absence was, for years, inflicted on both my mother and father. They had, through no fault of their own, no clue what was really going on in my life, nor physically where I was; they were not allowed to have such personal information. Fortunately, times changed and I was offered the opportunity to begin rectifying the matter, and to prove that I most certainly did want my parents in my life. 

Since that time, I have cherished chatting on the phone and spending time together in either my home or, more frequently, their home. Mum and I have even travelled together, just the two of us, and got along famously! There has been no hesitation between Mum, Dad and myself to pick up, years later, right where we left off. My parents welcomed me back into the family fold without question, never demanding an explanation nor making me feel guilty for the past. All that mattered was the present, and the fact that my children and I were back in their lives. 

It is for that unquestioning love that I am eternally grateful. I do not require a specific day in May for which to tell my mother (or, a specific day in June to tell my father) just how much she means to me, and that I love her. I try to do that every time I call them, or see them. Of course, I will call tomorrow, on Mother's Day, but it will be more of a 'bonus' rather than a single once-a-year expression of love. 

Early yesterday morning, I got myself out of bed, out the front door and onto a rainy forest trail. The rain drizzled through the trees, while the wrens and thrushes filled the canopy with endless chirps and trills.

As I huffed and puffed upwards on the switchbacks, thoughts from last week returned to the forefront of my mind. The woman in Nova Scotia, along with the words written in the previous blog post, were, once more, monopolizing my brain waves. Even with the piece written, and emotions penned, agitation remained. I was not ready to let this matter rest. Surely there was something more I could do.

Perhaps it could be submitted to a newspaper, as a personal essay, or letter to the editor. The day before, I googled Nova Scotia newspapers. After briefly browsing through The Chronicle Herald's website, the matter was laid to rest for the evening. Did I really want to put this out into a public forum, for all to see my name attached to the word 'survivor'? Was I ready to do that?

For all the blog posts written over the past five years, and for all the posts on Facebook, I merely alluded to what I survived. Never did I explicitly say what I survived. Even in my memoir manuscript, I hesitated to use specific, clear-cut terms. Why I hesitated to employ the correct terminology is a separate matter for me to investigate. There are, obviously, deep-rooted emotions still to be acknowledged, examined and reconciled. If stumbling blocks existed about my own past, did it make sense to share my thoughts publicly? 

Within the comfort of the forest, I realized that rather than send my piece to the other side of the country, I should start closer to home. Baby steps, instead of giant leaps. Perhaps contacting my local newspaper made more sense. That in itself brought forth new questions, and new considerations. Friends in my home town know, essentially, how the past 25 years of my life unfolded, and why my life went off on its own path 5 years ago. The finer details of what exactly happened never really needed to be explained. Everyone knew something was amiss. No one, then, should be surprised to see my name attached to the submission that clearly states there is a common experience between myself and the Nova Scotia woman. (Do you see how I still hesitate to use concise language?!)

I came home from the forest walk and wrote an email to the lady editor of the Squamish Chief, my hometown's local newspaper. Having submitted many photographs to her (as other locals do), I felt there was a sense of familiarity and name recognition for this more unusual request. Once again, the connection with another woman proved invaluable. After several back and forth emails, she forwarded the piece to the legal department for review. I likely was not to hear anything back until Monday.

This is where the 'unexpected' entered my day. 

Whether or not it really mattered, I suddenly had the urge to wrap up, once and for all, the online presence of my past. With possibly putting my name out there (for anyone to Google), connections had to be broken with my former life. For years I found myself unable to delete a certain website and Facebook page; I was simply incapable of erasing either from the digital world. Goodness only knows whether it was a sense of nostalgia, or a reminder of all that was created and built. Maybe it was a combination of both. Either way, I simply wasn't ready to let it go, completely. That was, until yesterday afternoon. First, I copied and pasted the text and photos from the website onto a Word document (now filed in a folder on my computer). Then, in less than a minute, two delete commands were clicked. Both the website and Facebook page are no more. That digital part of my past is, once and for all, wrapped up. 

Who knew, heading out into the rain yesterday, that I'd reconcile yet another aspect of my past? That the time had come to tend to matters that I had not thought needed tending to. Isn't life curious? It lets you know when you are ready to deal with something, so that you can then move on. Deleting those items was not as hard as I thought it would be; it was, in fact, surprisingly easy.

Isn't it amazing what happens when you start your day off with a walk in the forest?

​Happy Sunday, everyone.