Driving to the island in the rain, I make the mistake of taking Nora’s Furby with me, out of kind consideration, this being her new toy. She is coming in the other car with the boys later. For those of you who don’t know what a Furby is, it’s a toy that talks to you in a loud obnoxious voice and it is stimulated by movement. There’s no real way to shut it off except to pull its tail for eight seconds and keep it still. This is what I didn’t think through. If you’re driving and have it in the front seat in the laundry basket, it doesn’t shut up.
There is nonstop chatter for my hour commute. I pull the tail and it farts and giggles and says “Waydo approves!” I pull up to Robson and Richards and it shouts, “oh yeah, baby, shake it to the left and shake it to the right! PAAAAAARTY!” My windows are open because of Tartuffe’s dog breath…a woman crossing the street stares at me strangely…I stop at a red light at Georgia and Thurlow and it shouts, “Poopootatty, break it DOWN baby!” I snake through Stanley Park and Waydo complains “I’m STARVING…Waydo wants to eat NOW!” Believe me, I wish I could feed it the strawberries it is riding beside just to shut it up. I have to laugh. I had always refused to get Nora this toy because of the annoying chatter. Someone on her Dad’s side got it for her and here I am, on a pleasure cruise with a garrulous hair ball.
The weekend is gorgeous. One of the kids has a birthday and I whip up a chocolate raspberry pavlova, (http://www.nigella.com/recipes/view/chocolate-raspberry-pavlova-200) the boys start the fire and we play game after game after game. We seem to have chosen right with our careful consideration of gifts. We hike to the top of the point and the kids scramble precariously down a cliff switchback while I look away and try to breathe. (I get unreasonably anxious about these things) Fellow chuckles at me. This is probably the best weekend we’ve had as a blended family. There are things of course I can’t write about that we’ve had to sort out and still sort, but there was ease. There was ease and lots of laughter. The kids kicked around a soccer ball while Fellow and I trimmed the trees in the yard and stomped around our property in rubber boots making plans for perma-farming and aqua-farming and rabbits and chickens and…I’m just glad if I get carrots and tomatoes to grow this year to be honest.
Once they all shipped off, I eagerly await the arrival of my dear college friend, Marie, from Rosebud. She wrote the music for my play, Holy Mo, and she was the first Bufoona. I’ve decided to fly her out here so we can work together and it is such a delight to see her. I am always surprised by how tiny she is. I forget. Her delicate fingers flutter as she chatters in the front seat, catching me up. We know what’s happening in my life, I blog! So I get to ask her 101 questions about her life. She is such a preferred companion to Furby. We dive in deep and it takes us about ten hours straight to get the basics covered. We stroll along the trees down to the beach and pray together, a rare pleasure. It immediately breaks me open. This intimacy. We ask for inspiration. We ask God to remove any crap we have pushed in the way of the Muse. We are twenty years older. Marie confesses, “I’m not the same believer that I was. In fact, my past self might well burn my current self at the stake.” Then clarifies. It isn’t a weaker faith, it’s grown, it’s different. It’s deeper.
I understand. I don’t have the same wide eyed idealistic simple faith I had. I have good reason to fear now. I have failed in all ways, very badly, by this time in my life. My God is not so much a generous personality who decides to grant me clear sailing and my heart’s desire when He deems it appropriate. No. My God is now a Being within and without my being who comes along this life with me. A wise and compassionate companion. Not a protector from this life, but a protector from my own despair. And if God is just an idea in my head I have created as a survival tool, I really don’t care. It doesn’t diminish the truth or power of Idea. Holy Idea.
Two little writers perched on the washed up logs on the beach. We are open. We are ready. We have a tight deadline if you please oh Divine Delight. Thank you very much. No pressure. But hey, take your time. We are here. Waiting. Please maximize this opportunity.
Once we are home, Marie sits down with some instrument that is as tiny as she. It’s a cross between a yukulele and a guitar. It’s marvellous and so is Marie. She makes a few fluttery disclaimers and then plays and sings what she has so far. I gape as she, unawares, sings out her hilarious, smart, deceivingly intricate songs. Of all the guitar guys I know, all those boys I dated all those years, some of them lovely, some of them absolute creeps, none of them hold a candle to what Marie can do. This humble chirpy mom of two with her tiny fingers moving rapidly over the strings. Her Edie B pitch perfect, sings with no pretension, all one hundred percent generosity. Then she stops. Abruptly. And apologizes for the material being so rough. I chuckle, “wait til you read my stuff”. And we grin. We know we’re on to something. Poopootatty, break it DOWN baby.
