What is the good of your stars and trees, your sunrise and the wind, if they do not enter into our daily lives? E. M. Forster

I can’t recall another time in my adult life that I’ve gone for a long walk, every – single – day in January. In Winnipeg might I add; but that’s exactly what I’ve managed to do this year. No matter the weather, and some days were definitely bone chilling, I bundled up and headed east. I’ve seen every sunrise of 2021 so far.

Part of what made this possible, is that I’m a creature of habit. Even if the commitment is one I’ve made only to myself, my word is my bond, and I feel very compelled to fulfill it.

Obsessive compulsions aside, the honest reason why I held steady in my effort to greet the rising sun was that I needed the tranquility I believed it would offer me. Turns out, I was right. You see, it takes me fifteen to twenty minutes to walk to the bridge where I get my first glimpse of the far off horizon. It instantly calms my soul. From there, no longer feeling hurried, I backtrack a few hundred feet to a staircase, one that cascades down to meet a winding path. I take each step slowly , I don’t rush, I don’t clutter my mind with what I need to get done that day, I am simply present in the moment.

The path curves under the bridge, a bridge constructed in 1995 as I can see from the concrete plaque on its side. ‘This was here before my mother died, she drove across this bridge’, the thought has occurred to me on many mornings, at times stopping me as I’ve stood there looking at the date stamp.

Before the path can lead me under the bridge, I step off it, always in the same spot, retracing the footprints I and perhaps others have beaten into the snow, through the tall prairie grass to the bank of the frozen river.

I take the same route, much like a ritual, every day, so much so that I no longer give it any thought but allow my body’s memory to carry me. The tranquility I’ve discovered lives in part in allowing myself to be carried by another force, to trust that I will be alright, and that I’ll arrive safely where I am intending to go.

Not since I’ve been sixteen years old have I let go for long enough and trusted someone or something else to carry me. Silly as it might sound, I needed the sun to rebuild that trust. That’s because the sun is constant. No matter what happens in life, it is there. Every day it has greeted me back. Yes, there have been cloudy days and gloomy skies, but she was still there, I could see her across the entire shadowy canvas even if I couldn’t make out a single brush stroke of cloud or beam of light.

There’s a large rock that protrudes from the river where I’ve sat every single day. The view is magnificent; the meandering river, the tree and sky lines, and the occasional flock of birds that takes to the heavens from one side of the river and almost effortlessly glides to the other. I admit that I smile at these sights; no matter how many times I’ve seen them, they make me so happy.

It’s in this spot that I also speak with my mother and or my grandmother; almost as though they are leaning against the rock beside me, the three of us watching the rising sun as we talk through whatever is on our hearts.   

‘What will my kids inherit from me?’, I said aloud this morning, in conversation with my invisible but ever present mothers. ‘What will I have given them; what will they remember of me, the good and the less good?’

My question had nothing to do with material things; I have no particular infatuation with stuff, I have what I have because it’s needed for life. I don’t understand the words ‘retail therapy’ and I don’t understand how anyone feels better accumulating things, although I know the emotional high some people get when they finally get something they’ve coveted.  (Okay, okay…. in full transparency, I like spoons. Yes, spoons, teaspoons to be specific. I genuinely like them. My teaspoons might end up amongst the few earthly goods I will thoughtfully gift to my children, with a small note attached to each, sharing its story. My teaspoons have stories. I’ll explain more another day.)

The question was brought on by re-reading several of my late mother’s letters recently. A year before she died she wrote to her best friend Grace ‘I’ve started buying the girls various household items. A bit of a preparation – when they move away they’ll have something to start with.’ It was true, she had done that. By the time I was sixteen and she was gone I had a set of kitchen towels, a large table cloth, and a set of cutlery for four. My sisters had amassed more for their first homes; they were older and had already ‘enjoyed’ several years of disappointing birthday and Christmas gifts.

But I wasn’t concerned with what stuff my kids would get, I was concerned with which aspects of my character they’d inherit, or rather, what characteristics I was nurturing in them. It’s not to say that I, and I alone shape them, far from it, they are very much their own persons, molded by their dad, each other, their friends, teachers, our neighbours; everyone in their lives. Which was also where part of my concern lay; what kind of world was I contributing to, equally by the things I was doing, and the things I was failing to do.  

Neither the spirits of my mother and grandmother nor I answered the questions I had cast into the open. These were sobering thoughts. After a minute, I got up and ‘we’ started to walk and talk. My feelings of worry continued; I wondered if I hadn’t done enough. I’m quite sure most parents have had that feeling at one point or another. I started rambling off the things I had done okay, ‘I’ve taught them to be strong, more independent. Resilient, they’re resilient and thoughtful, compassionate, concerned about social justice. I’ve taught them to be grateful, well, I’ve tried, maybe gratitude comes with age. They’re curious because of me, rather resourceful, clever, and definitely sneaky.’

That list was quite easy to recite.

What had I failed to do? What had I failed to teach?

I stopped walking just as I was under the bridge, when my eyes caught sight of a deep, running crack in the ice. I didn’t panic. I knew there were inches and inches of ice beneath me. Judging by the wide wheel tracks in the snow, I knew so piece of heavy machinery had driven over the spot and even that didn’t break the ice. And yet, seeing the crack reminded me just how fragile even the strongest things were. And that no matter how much snow would fall or how the temperature would drop, nothing would close that crack; nothing would bring back together those two massive sheets of frozen water; at least not this in season.

‘Can this be mended?’, I wondered as I walked beside the jagged sliver of space created by a break in something that once had been whole.

I didn’t know and so I emptied my mind. I couldn’t bring myself to think about how I had fallen short as a mother or how some things, once they were broken, could never be repaired. I skipped the melancholy song playing in my ears. The next one was full of energy, happy, I needed that rhythm. Quick exhale, I started to dance out the heaviness. Thank goodness for no morning audiences.

Orange, brown, copper leaves hung against a grey wood. I felt peace again.

There would surely be another time, many more times that I’d return and ponder these existential dilemmas. It wasn’t necessary to figure it all out in one day.

I got home and started baking a cake. Weekend desserts, this was something I had learned from my mother. Not that in the times of COVID one might have unexpected guests, but even if just for the kids, it was worth the effort. I liked keeping my hands busy; it gave my mind time to reminisce. This cake in particular didn’t require any focus; I could probably make it in my sleep. Six eggs, six tablespoons of flour… a few minutes later, it was in the oven. I wiped the counters, and then sat down at the kitchenette to do some sewing.    

‘Thank goodness for those morning walks’, I thought, ‘if I don’t manage to get out of the house again today, I’ve already had some fresh air and a bit of exercise.’ Yes, if I ended up going from baking to sewing to laundry and cleaning, my sunrise walk would be my bit of ‘stolen’ me time.

The rising sun…. a constant friend. What a gift it is to have had the freedom to welcome each day such as I’ve been able to do.