Whirlwind

Well, we did it. We decided we were going to do it, and we did it. How, with a 3 year old, you ask? People have undertaken much more heroic and brave adventures than this, and with many more and younger children, dogs, chickens and suitcases than ours. Packing up our house in England and moving to Canada was the last thing I thought and said I'd ever do. But there were reasons - there they were, all shining at me from the table, and I couldn't argue with a single one. 

So we decided, one month before leaving for a holiday in Canada, that we would be extending our holiday into an immigration. Or is it emmigration? I never remember.  Who knows. Who cares? We're in Canada!

We are living with my elderly but fantastically wonderful parents. I've never in my life met two such dynamic, loving, caring, interesting, welcoming people. Barring my mum telling us the same thing two or three times in the same conversation and calling me by my sister's or my dad's name once or twice a day, they are just as sparky and inspirational as they were 3 years ago when I saw them last. 

My parents welcomed us into their tiny condo, constantly bending over backwards to give us the most comfortable and easy living space possible while we need it, to the point where they insisted we have their room and sleep in their expansive, luxurious bed and our 3 year old in a bed beside us, while they sleep in a slightly smaller and a little squashy den next door. They are true role models. 

Obviously the first thing I did when I arrived here was to contract covid at the airport or in the airplane, and consequently give it to everyone else before I knew I had it. So we spent around a week being deathly ill, all except my dad, who is a warrior and never gets ill. For the record...I only spent one day in bed and shirked my duty as a mother, while my wonderful family rallied around me and took Pickle for that day while I slept.

My 82 year old (but don't you DARE tell her I told you that!) mum went down about three days later, and was struck down with the most vicious form of the flu (she never checked for covid) I have encountered. She was delirious, coughing until she couldn't breathe, and refusing food for days at a time. She was too weak to walk or properly talk for about a week. She didn't get out of her bed for 3 weeks, and sank lower and lower until she, and all of us, thought these were her final days. 

Now, I am pleased to say, she has made a miraculous recovery. She is a little slower than I remember, but her sense of humour and sharp, shimmering eyes are back, and she is unstoppable. 

Things seems to all be falling into place, indicating to me that, once again, this was the right decision. 

At the moment, we are ferrying ourselves around from this place to that, as family dynamics and house guests dictate. Currently staying at an enormous and very gracious house belonging to our friends who have gone skiing, each floor has more floor space than our entire house in England. The lady of the house is German, and both her and her husband are academics. They have four children ranging in ages from 14 to 23. The Christmas tree has real candles on it, on every table and shelf there are handmade wreaths or woolen nativity scenes or wooden candle carousels and there is not a  TV in sight. So, you get it?

Pickle has been sleeping in her own room, another blessing for us, as for the past month at my parents she's been sleeping in our room and waking up 50 times a night trying to negotiate her way into our bed, inevitably ending with me wearily losing the battle and her crawling up between us with an extremely self satisfied expression on her face and then proceeding to kick, thrash and talk loudly about her dollies and the sun setting and who has hair and who doesn't for an hour before she decides that she's just not that comfortable and crawling back into her bed. At this point I generally breathe a sigh of relief and have just settled down again when "MAMMY! I NEED SOME MALK!!!!!!!!" Poor mammy.

I have never seen Pickle so happy. She's got Mummy, Daddy, Nonno and Grannie, and her Auntie at her beck and call, and she is utterly adored by each of them, full time. We have been taking her to the ubiquitous Vancouver Island beaches and playgrounds and she seems to have taken quite strongly to climbing on the rocks. This makes me really happy, as when I was small I loved, and still love to do this. It makes me feel alive, wild, free. At the moment she has no sense of danger and doesn't realise the concept of "slippery" quite yet, so excursions such as this do tend to be slightly fraught for me, especially when she tries to leap, legs akimbo, looking in the opposite direction, onto a very wet very shiny very pointy rock.

My evening walk today, the first time I've truly been alone since we arrived a month ago, along the beach took my breath away. Glittering snow sparkled on impossibly far away mountain peaks, the ranges framing the length of the horizon, evening light glinted on slate grey water in vast undulating mirrors, and the deep, deep ocean spirit that I've missed so much came gently up to the shore to greet me, stroking the pebbles, and washing my consciousness with a peace that spoke with a kindness, a familiarity, a gravity that I had almost, but not quite, forgotten about.

Happy new year one and all.

Thanks for reading x