Dawning On Us

Deb: In the continuing theme of “Spring Posing as Fall”, the wonderful celebrations and encounters continue to mount. I had a perfect lunch with an old friend a few days ago, which really changed the way I was thinking about a number of things—for the better. Colin and I went to see Louis C.K. whom we love and who was doing all new material. Is there anything, I mean anything like laughing your guts out for two hours? Man! Barb, our friend Cheryl, and our dogs started a just-for-fun dog agility program and small breed off-lead day at a wonderful place in Toronto called Pawsway, and that was sweet and fun, and again with the laughter! Barb and I spent Saturday night at Nuit Blanche and, as Barb put it, it’s always one of the highlights of the year. More on that from Barb this week. I am about to embark on a trip to NYC this week with my husband and six other friends to celebrate two of our friends’ milestone birthdays. It is the autumn/spring that just keeps on giving and teaching and renewing. 

What could possibly top that you might ask? Well, something did. And it was certainly not a trip or a huge art event, but rather a small, casual lunch with a very special gal. We met Dawn! Yes, Dawn. Dawn from the blog, Dawn with the quiet wit and the always interesting intelligent point of view. Dawn was in town to see three Who’s Live shows that were in the surrounding areas of Toronto. I said to her that I thought it was amazing that she should design her hobby and travel for laughs. Dawn travels for laughs. She is a laugh collector. But like a lawyer with just one client, Dawn collects her laughs from one main source. Who’s Line and its improvisers. Not that she needed to prove her devotion to all things Who’s Line, but we walked her to her car at the end of the lunch to see her bumper stickers and her very special license plate. It is a combination of Mochrie and Sherwood and she came up with the perfect mash up: MOCHWD! MOCHWOOD. Dawn, don’t tell Brad that Colin got top billing! And in the continuing theme of laughter, Dawn had a bumper sticker that killed us. It says: “Save the trees. Wipe your ass with an owl!”

I was enthralled with Dawn’s Boston accent, one of my favourites. I collect accents as a hobby for trying out in the shower, and Dawn’s was perfect Bostonian. At discovering my passion for the accent, Dawn said, “What do you guys call a pair of green pants that aren’t jeans?” We said, “Khakis”. She said, “No,” reaching into her purse and pulling out her car keys, “these are Khakis!”  We laughed so hard. Try it. If you say khakis when describing your car keys, you have begun to master your Boston accent.

The visit with Dawn also inspired an idea for Barb and I to go to Boston and D.C. with our husbands in the spring and we will see Dawn then. We didn’t talk about anything too deep and the lunch was wayyyyyyyy too short, much like the coffee we had with Kate some months back, but it did its job. We connected. We wanted to spend more time with her and we will. She is a very special gal. And when we go to Boston, we will most certainly not lack for a parking space. After all, we can “pak a’ ca’ in the Hava’d ya’d!”

Thanks, Dawn, for being exactly who you are. It was our honour and pleasure.

Barbara: Now, I know you guys aren’t asking why our lunch with Dawn was so short, but I’m gonna tell you anyway. You know when you look forward to something special and you’re planning your day around that thing and then other non-negotiable things begin to pop up to sort of squish the first thing—the special one—like egg salad in a sandwich? Well, that happened to Dawn and us. First, there was the particular timing of the Pawsway schedule which meant we had to leave Dawn at 2pm. Then I got an audition at 2:45 for which I needed to drop Deb off and get to the middle of the city, which meant we now had to leave at 1:30. And then I got another audition right before our lunch, which almost threatened to compromise our start time! I’m telling you all this because normally this kind of loaded day would stress the hell out of me, but meeting Dawn was so … comfortable. Really, it felt like we’d done this a million times before. And maybe because we kinda have, communing every day on every kind of subject here on the blog. I want to thank you too, Dawn, for the talk, the laughs, and the friendship!

Showing Up

Deb: Barbara and I spent the better part of a day with a darling friend who is in considerable pain right now. She is faced with her sister’s sudden and advanced cancer. The hope the doctors are offering is minimal at best. It seems to be untreatable and inoperable. Our friend is shocked and sad. Or, I should say, profoundly shocked and sad. She is feeling her sister being ripped from her, and her sister I think is feeling the same way towards her entire world. Yesterday we set out to have an oasis day. The three of us got together to do something delightful. And it was the best thing we could have done.

I worried that the day would be a mirage rather than an oasis. I worried that she would want to enjoy the day but would not be able to, as thoughts would creep in to invade this fertile place of friendship. I mainly worried because we are not old friends, we three. We do not know her sister, nor do we have the history of their family to call upon. We cannot console her with lively memories and great stories. We cannot speak to her sister’s courage or resolve because we simply do not know her. We can’t reassure her in any specific way at all because we don’t have the background of their family.

And yet, as we walked along, into this beautiful September day, we took solace in just being there. The three of us. We were there just to be with her and she was there just to be with us. There was no mandate. We talked about it, we didn’t talk about it. We were just there. It wasn’t even about conscious support. We were just letting the day unfold into the lovely day our friend needed and that we also needed in the face of her sadness.

And it made me think about pain and suffering and even death, and the handling of these things. Often I am asked when someone is going into a hospital room or a funeral parlour, “What do I say, what should I do?” My answer always, after too much experience in this area, is simply ... to go. Show up. Be there. Arrive and be counted. That is it. That is all someone needs. You showed up. The same applies to the person who is the eye of that storm, experiencing that saddest, most painful part of life. They give themselves a huge gift when they choose life in the midst of pain, or fear of death, or death. And it isn’t easy to pull those covers off of your head and get out in the world when you are in pain. I have said before on this blog that I tend to hide out when I am sad or depressed. But our friend chose life and forward movement in the middle of her tragedy. She chose to counter the stall that she and her family is up against and come out into the sun. When you are faced with little or no hope it takes huge strength and fortitude to enable you to march out to find some sun, somewhere.

The day with our new and already beloved friend was neither maudlin nor depressing. Conversely, the situation she is facing is both, in spades. But our time together was a great example of putting one foot in front of the other. It didn’t take away her pain. We certainly didn’t NOT think about it. But it was lovely nonetheless. It was a few hours in the bosom of new friendship and life affirming activity. As we walked in the park, our conversation leapt and hopped, her sister’s situation not far from our minds. But the thing is, it did not negate what we were doing at all. It was an example of living. Living no matter what. As we strolled along, we three were beginning something in the face of that which is ending. Although we are new friends, I feel we will become fast friends.

And come what may, we will never forget this day that we all just showed up.

Barbara: Well, I couldn’t have said it better myself. You know it’s funny—I find that the older I get (maybe because I am more experienced in these things, maybe because I have learned so much myself about “letting go”) the less I worry about the support I am offering a beloved in pain. What I mean by this is: I am not analyzing my own support as I try to give it, wondering if it is helping, if I’m saying the right thing. I’m no longer, in effect, making my needs paramount, as I often—unintentionally—did in the past without realizing it. I mean, what is a worry about how well you’re supporting someone if not a worry about your own needs??? Instead, I am now just being. Being there. Being in the moment. Allowing the flow of conversation and love and support to, well, flow as it does and as it will. I am moved beyond words to look back on this precious day and see that we all—somehow—did exactly that: we flowed. As you say, Deb, the miracle, the grace, is in the living.

Deb: In case our friend reads this post, please accept this bouquet from us, as an example of our friendship and the loveliest of life.

Agree To Agree

Deb: Barb and I, upon the founding of this blog, claimed in our tagline that we were different women, with different husbands and different opinions. We are different women with different husbands, to be sure. We have never crossed that line. Although those of you who are in the know are aware that during a ski trip some years back, I did accidentally fondle Barb’s husband Phil with both my husband and all our children looking on. Desirous of my plan to be a stealth fondler, I acted in haste and paid the price. For those of you not in the know, lest I seem like a middle-aged Angelina, I thought the area I was tapping into belonged to my own legal husband. Thank heaven the kids were old enough to laugh with us!

Riffing off Phil’s crotch (thank you Phil), and back to Barb and I, we have lately begun to question the validity of our tagline. The area we have clearly failed at, the area in which we have let you down, dear readers, is the claim that we have “different opinions”. Because we mostly don’t. And we don’t “don’t” on purpose. We simply put our opinions out there and, as it turns out, most of the time, we agree ... with each other anyway. We sure didn’t plan it that way, but as it turns out ... we agree. After two-and-a-half years blogging, this is becoming painfully clear. Or in this case, happily clear. We are not good cop bad cop, nor are we Betty and Veronica. We are kind of two sides of the same coin. Actually we are not really two sides. We are both crammed into “heads”, leaving the blog without a “tails”.  A great example of this is that Barbara thought it was hilarious that I mistook her husband for mine on that fateful grabby ski trip. See? We cannot not agree!

So here’s the question. Why? What is it? We come from different backgrounds and have a big gap in age. Born 9 years and one day apart. But we are sister thinkers. Sister feelers. Fellow Cancerians.  We are not alike in outward personality at all. But wow, we are SO alike in our deep chocolaty centres.

Before writing this post, I went through our relationship in my mind, fast forwarding and rewinding, and what I found was that we have indeed disagreed in the course of our friendship. The reason it doesn’t stand out as disagreement is that it is dealt with so swiftly and fairly that it evaporates almost immediately. Both of us have been on the receiving end of disrespect in our individual work environments in the past.  Both of us are people-pleasing, non-confrontational gals. So when we do disagree about a thought or a direction, we really truly go as far as we can to see the other person’s point of view. We agreed at the beginning of our working relationship that we would always go a mile in each direction of two ideas until we came to the outcome of each. Then we would examine them equally and let the winning idea present itself on merit. And it always has. Every time we have done that exercise we have both jumped on the winning idea no matter which of us was the instigator. I think that’s how we treat our friendship too. We are always there to bail the other out no matter what. We never seek to blame, as we are too busy seeking solutions. Are we lucky? Yes, we are. But, like our marriages, we work at it. Because the friendship is worth it.

Here are some things I would like to disagree with Barb on. I would like to disagree if she didn’t want to travel with me. I would love to disagree if she didn’t want to write with me. I would like to disagree if she ever says we should stop being friends.

So we agree to agree. But you can feel free to agree to agree, or agree to disagree, or just disagree. I’m fine with that. Apparently, we both are.  And for our part, maybe once a month we should get all in each other’s faces. Hmmmm ... no, we’d just end up crying! Or maybe we should change our tagline because we are clearly not living up to our claim:

“different ages, different husbands, different underwear”

Can’t argue that!

Barbara: Oh, Deb, I am so so glad you finally addressed this little conundrum of ours. And, man, do I LOVE the way you’ve addressed it. Every thought, every discovery, every observation you’ve made here mirrors my own feelings (what I mean by that is: I hadn’t yet fully formulated all these thoughts, discoveries and observations, but I WISH I had, and IF I had, I’d only dare hope to express them as adorably and wonderfully as you). Okay, I’m agreeing with her (aka: openly loving her) again, aren’t I?

I have to emphasize Deb’s point that when we started blogging we really truly imagined we would disagree more—not for the sake of it, but by virtue of the fact that we were—on paper—quite different. And also for the sake of really showing the “two sides of the coin” thing. Looking back, I find it hilarious that we (pretty much) always agree. I love the way you’ve expressed the “why” of it here, Deb, and I (quite naturally!) agree with all your points. The double irony is that we’ve gathered an amazing group of like-minded souls here that often (but not always) agree too!

I do think it makes TMA a lovely, welcoming place. BUT I’d also like to reiterate that we are always open to differing opinions, especially because we talk here about the things that affect us and, by doing so in an open and vulnerable way, we also get to revel in the tweaks and shifts that inevitably come from getting a kaleidoscope of different reactions from all of you.

As much as I am definitely a “people-pleaser”, one of the best lessons I’ve learned from this experience is how to own my own opinions, even if they’re different—and, yes, even if they’re the same. For me, not worrying about pleasing people all the time (because I now truly understand that I can’t) and seeing my true heart for what it is has been a HUGE personal development. Would it be easier if everyone, including you, Deb, always agreed with me? Sure. But I still love that even the same opinions have different variations, and even the different opinions that are expressed here are done so with loving care and compassion. It has—believe it or not—made me less fearful and more patient with the many utterly different opinions out there and everywhere.

As for your new tagline, Deb—yup, our underwear is definitely, always, and 100% different!

Imaginary Friends

Barbara: I have an imaginary friend. Let’s call her Jess. Jess is around my age, well, a bit younger, has 3 beautiful kids, has the same concerns and struggles that I have (or have had), gives me food for thought and listens in earnest. She is gorgeous and sweet, I love her sense of style (look to it, in fact, for fresh ideas) and her gentle sense of humour, and when we chat briefly on the sidewalk outside her home or mine, we keep re-discovering just how much we have in common. In my imagination, she is my perfect friend.

Yes, okay—Jess is real. She actually does live around the corner from me. From time to time, we run into each other and, every time, we immediately fall into relaxed and natural and authentic communication. When we have to part ways, we always make promises to get together “properly”, to have tea or lunch or a walk. But we never do. Life gets in the way, I guess, of a real, manifest relationship.

I’ve had a handful of these imaginary friendships throughout my life. People who arrive out of the blue and immediately connect like soul mates or soul sisters—I am certain these are the “real deals”, the keepers, the friends for life—but then they recede into the imaginary miasma, traces of their amazingness still sitting on my tongue. Not keepers in the end, but wonderful portraits of potential.

So what happens? Yes, life gets in the way. There’s also the problem—for me as a social creature in my middle age—that there aren’t enough hours (even minutes) in the days for the wonderful, enduring friendships I already have. There’s always the potential for subtle pervasions of guilt to bubble up inside me about the time I’m not spending nurturing this old friendship or that new one. The other reality is that friendship really needs two people to nurture it: two people to commit to that coffee or lunch or walk and then see it through. And then the coffee/walk/lunch after that and the one after that and so on until the rhythm has been established and those “breaks for real life” don’t really interfere with your connections when you see each other.

But still it’s interesting, isn’t it?—these imaginary friendships and the coulda/wouldas that go with them. I do sometimes picture that coffee-date or that extended weekend at a cottage, just bonding and reveling in this person’s loveliness. But that’s as far as it goes, it seems.

So many alternate universes circling around me with relationships and experiences I just can’t seem to pack into this particular sphere.

I still believe every single time Jess and I see each other that one day, one surprising afternoon, we will follow through with our imaginary plans and take that lunch, and a beautiful thing will find its footing. Maybe imaginary friendships, or snatched moments, or the beauty of possibility are still better than no friendship at all.

Deb: Barbara, I was just thinking that your having written this blog-post may be just the inspiration you need to turn your imaginary friend into a fully fleshed-out relationship. The timing of this is so interesting for me. I had a lovely surprising encounter last week at the place where I get my nails done. I love, as you know, to strike up conversations with strangers. This gal and I got to chatting and, honest to Pete, we started connecting and bonding and relating. It was so sweet and unexpected. It was so real and substantial. When she was getting up to leave she looked at me with tears brimming in her eyes and said, “I am so glad I met you today,” and I told her that I felt the same way and that I thought there was a reason for it. She said, “I’m sorry but I hope you don’t mind if I hug you and kiss your cheek,” and she did and I hugged her back and it was actually tough to say goodbye to her. I said something like, “I know we will meet again and I hope we do.” But why didn’t we exchange numbers, email, anything? Is it because neither of us wanted to be presumptuous? Is it because there were other people around us and we didn’t want to look foolish? I don’t know the answer, but I do hope I meet her again and, if I do, I am going to take it as a sign. 

Red Riding Hoods

Barbara: Yesterday, Deb and I fell in love. He’s a sexy beast, tall, rugged, soulful eyes. But he’s not afraid to show his soft side too: he loves to give warm kisses and lay his head on your shoulder. We won’t even mention here that his kisses are tinged with green and he sometimes shakes his head in a particularly goofy way when he gets nervous, gums all flapping and nostrils flaring (that only happened when he first met us, before he understood on a visceral level that we were meant to be the best of friends).

Our new boy-crush is none other than the tall, dark, and handsome Red.

Red!

We had the great privilege of meeting and communing with Red thanks to the lovely, kind, and sincerely sweet Mary-Jo—who you’ll know from our comments section here. Jo lives not far from us and invited us on a very special excursion to meet her new horse. She picked us up at Deb’s house, then drove us the half-hour or so to the stables where Red lives and where she visits him on a daily basis.

Mary-Jo!

The stables? Okay, more elegant and certainly cleaner than my house!! Yeah, they are that good. Jo explained to us that she met her own personal “horse whisperer” many years ago and now follows her to whichever stable she is at. I think Jo has the best of all worlds at this place. And Red too.

The stables!

He is loved here and gently guided and nurtured. For some reason, he won’t budge for many riders. But he and Jo clicked at first sight back in December of this year. You’ll see in these videos how literally “unmoved” he was with Deb and I. In fact, if you look closely, you’ll see his eyes going all soft and sleepy—like he’s enjoying a good nap while we beg and coax.

Jo was a bit embarrassed by her horse’s, um, lack of performance, but she needn’t have worried. We were in his thrall. He impressed us with his light feet and agile gait while Jo took him around the paddock. His hair is glossy, his features fine and elegant. The fact that he only wanted to nuzzle us and look deep into our eyes was icing on the cake.

Afterward, Jo took us to this adorable little café in the woods where we ate a truly delicious meal and enjoyed the clean air. While Red may have been the star in our little get-together, make no mistake, we fell in love with Jo too. As dear and sincere in real life as she is here in our virtual neighbourhood, we were thrilled to get to know her better, share stories, and relax in her lovely, loving presence.

Lunch!

Friends!

Deb: Red is my new boyfriend. I love him and I think he knows it. Wow you guys, what a lovely day we had. He is such a soulful beast and Jo is the most engaging and laidback gal. I had known her previously in a few social settings so it was lovely to see the very core of her on this day. It was one of those days that you know you are going to do again. It really made me wish I had continued my early 10-year-old horseback riding lessons. I had a really traumatic experience and it frightened me from riding. Not from horses, but from riding. But Red, sensing my need to—if you will excuse me for this—get back on the horse ... made me want to. 

Picasso And Paul

Deb: Today myself, Colin, and the boy spent the afternoon at the Picasso exhibit at the AGO (Art Gallery of Ontario). We had planned it specifically as a healing and inspiring thing to do the day after our friend Paul’s funeral. Beyond the imagery that dominated the afternoon, I was struck by a quote. It said, “Picasso was a genius and he knew it.” All I could think of as we walked painting to sculpture, canvas to board, was that I wish Paul had known his own genius.

Paul O'Sullivan

The tragedy of Paul’s sudden and untimely death is, of course, his death. But the heartbreak that will stay with me is the fact that he did not know his worth. Not really. Not the way he should have.

Paul was a genius. I know that word is grossly overused, but in the world of comedy both scripted and improv, he was considered a genius. He was someone that every single person in our group was not only happy to work with, but thrilled to work with. He simply did the work. Just did it without the fru fra and the fan fare and the signposts. Just did the funny funny smart smart. We always talk in the acting work about commitment to character. Paul’s commitment was so deep that you were actually shocked at the end of the scene to see him return to Paul. The other thing that makes an actor great is strong choices. Paul’s acting choices were “The Hulk”. He dared. He jumped off cliffs. He went places and took you with him. And he respected where you were taking him and delighted in following you, all the while ramping up each of your offers with a sweet, irreverent, silly, crass, meaningful or truthful choice. Or sometimes all of those choices at once. He was a proud actor on stage. He lived there and, when you watched him, you lived where he lived.

But offstage I fear that Paul did not grasp his brilliance. More than that, I fear he had no idea the esteem in which he was held by his peers. If he was watching us yesterday, the hundreds and hundreds of us who gathered to pay tribute to his sweet memory, I am sure he would have wrongly assumed that there must have also been a wedding going on, or even another funeral. Because Paul never ever would have surmised that this weeping laughing throng was all for him.

Paul, I wish I had said out loud to you that you were brilliant. I wish I had told you out loud that Colin and I revered you for your talent. I wish I had told you to your face that your passion for Linda and your deep devotion to your family made us fall madly in love with you. I wish I had told you that I loved you for the fact that you were so referenced and so hip and yet would respond sincerely to a shocking tale with the phrase, “My Word!” and mean it without irony. You were a gentleman of another time who we were lucky enough to love in our time. And now that your time with us has ended, I do have regrets. Deep regrets. And Paul I am generally not one for regrets.

But I regret that I didn’t see that you needed to hear it. I wish I had gleaned that you felt less than what you were. We assume when someone is brilliant they know it. Like Picasso. Not boasting of your talent was certainly part of your charm, Paul. But the fact that you did not believe in your brilliance is causing my regret.

In Paul’s memory I am going to start telling people what they are worth. I like to think that I am a compliment-giver to friends and strangers alike. But because of Paul I am going to start saying it out loud or in writing to those I care about and admire.

And, Paul, when I meet you again, I will tell you to your face. That is if I can get it out before you make me pee myself laughing. Dear God, Paul, you are missed. I pray that somewhere, somehow you finally know that.

Skating with Paul (on left, with Colin and Deb, and Luke up front).

Barbara: I didn’t know Paul like you did, Deb. I came to know him when I worked with him over those glorious weeks we spent filming Getting Along Famously so many years ago (if you don’t know the show, it was a brilliant 60s-styled show, conceived, produced, and written by Deb and Colin. They did 60s before Mad Men. It had style, it had grace, it was hilarious; I still can’t believe it didn’t last past the six episodes.).

As I worked with Paul, I bowed in reverence before the genius that was uniquely his. But he was also all those other things that a mensch ought to be: kind, attentive, straight-forward, honest, true. I remember being surprised when it seemed he didn’t know his own talent. It was unimaginable to me that someone with his gift didn’t see it, or feel it like a Superhero power suit. His funeral reflected the incredible legacy he left in the hearts of all who knew him: it was equal parts pain and joy, purging tears and cathartic laughter. 

I echo your wish, Deb. I wish I could have let him know just what a huge impression he made and left. I also like to believe he knows “now”.

I wish I knew him better in life. I wish it hadn’t stopped so short and so suddenly. But these wishes in reality are as delicate and evasive as butterflies: now here, now shining with iridescent beauty, and then gone.

Paul plays on the set of Getting Along Famously.

Pick Up The Phone!!!

Deb: I love email. Live on the email. It has made my life simpler and I am able to get more things done in a day as a result. Think of how many times we have a huge list of calls to make and no time to do them? Think of how many times we can just dash off an email and make a date, solve a problem, right a wrong.

People often say that technology has interfered with our lives, taken over and removed us from the “each other” of life but where email is concerned I beg to differ. As a result of this faster than light communication tool, I have been able to spend more time doing more things with the people I love.

“Hi Barb. Love to have lunch this month. Here are some possible dates:

Monday the 19th

Wednesday the 21st

Friday the 23

If none of these is good for you, please suggest what might work. Looking forward!

Love, Deb xo”

“Hi Deb,

Would love to get together and:

Wednesday the 21st is great. Say noon at the Queen Mother?

Can’t wait!

Love, Barb xo”

“Hi Barb!

Done.

Love, Deb xoxoxo

Okay so that took all of two minutes AND I was sitting in my housecoat and slippers AND we did not slide down the slippery slope of chatting on the phone about everything we were going to gab about during the impending lunch!

But ... you knew there had to be a but. Sometimes email does not do it! At all. Sometimes in fact it can be misconstrued and misleading. Email has no tone of voice, no soul. So, in order to make sure an email is taken in the right spirit I have gone to great lengths to fill said email with tons of LOL’s and :-) and :-( and (tee-hees) and (har)’s. I have even gone so far as to start the email with the following” “Hi just so you know this note is sincere and although the tone might seem irreverent, I want you to know I am being serious.”

At that point it always occurs to me that it might be time to pick up the damn phone.

I have been hurt and have hurt others by sending emails that were completely misconstrued and after the back and forthing we have had to agree to pick up the phone and straighten out the misunderstanding.

Barb and I had one such incident a few months ago. Barb sent a blog to me that I just did not “get”. Now when I say I did not get it, I don’t mean it wasn’t well written or wasn’t clear for that matter, but my brain was overloaded on that particular day and I just could not find my way through it. I responded with that tone and she sent me an email saying that “she wasn’t quite sure what to do with my response” and I took it to mean she was hurt that I had not gotten it. What she actually meant was, that she was genuinely concerned that her blog made no sense and was thinking it was bad and that she would chuck the post.

As it turns out, she was not upset at all with me. She was upset that she felt she had failed to communicate her ideas. I on the other hand thought I had offended her. She was upset that she thought that I thought that I had offended her (breath) and on it went...

At this point we should have employed the pick up the damn phone!  option. And, actually around 11pm Barb suggested doing just that but we did not as I had a mega-migraine and had to be up at 6am for a flight. So we agreed via email that we both had the best intentions and that we were both looking after each other’s feelings. Having smoothed ruffled feathers we said our “love you’s” and went to our respective beds.

Because Barb and I are great at communicating with one another and never have falling outs, we were fine. But there have been other times with different people when it has not gone as well. There have been times when I was so sure that I had been so clear and yet, my meaning was lost on the recipient. 

I am usually pretty good at knowing when to do the pick up but this one showed me yet again that I must be more diligent in this regard.

I love email. Live on the email. But every once in a while I must give a tip of the hat to Mr. A.G. Bell. He knew what he was talking about.

Barbara: You told this story so well, Deb, I have nary a comment to add. Other than the obvious reiteration that intent is everything. And sometimes it’s easy to convey, and sometimes it’s not. And of course our own insecurities and foibles are going to colour our receptors. And so we end up speaking in “defensive mode” about our own shortcomings instead of really reading what the other is trying to say. And sometimes (as I know you’ve discovered, Deb) all the lols and :) and ;) and ha!s in the world won’t make a damn bit of difference in getting past someone’s defense mechanisms (me and my dastardly fear of not communicating well!!) With a live conversation, verbal tone can at least impart intent. Way easier.

But I won’t give up my 2-minute email—no friggin’ way!!

Sweet Sleepover

Deb: I travelled to Halifax this week to visit a dear friend who was performing in a play there. Arrived on Saturday and left on Tuesday morning. The plan was to see her play, shop, eat, chat and laugh. What wasn’t planned was deep connection.

I know this friend well. Very well. She came to me in friendship much later in life, far later than my other dear friends. I met her six years ago when we started working together on the TV series Little Mosque on the Prairie. We met that first day and instantly knew that we were meant to be friends. As we looked into each other’s eyes for the first time it was like, “Hello there. Where the hell have you been all these years?”

Much to the chagrin of directors, makeup artists, and everyone in-between, we were connected at the hip and at the mouth, as in we NEVER shut up. We could spend fourteen hours a day talk talk talking, laugh laugh laughing, and then we’d go home and start text text texting.  It was a curious joy, this new friendship forged in my fifties. As my friend loves to recount, one of her favourite memories is when my husband said to her and her husband Pete, “We were at the point in life where we thought we had enough friends, no time for more. Then we met you guys”. And it’s true.

Colin and Pete also became friends during this time and they loved and admired each other greatly. Pete convinced Colin to return to the stage after a 23-year absence and do the play Art with him. To my husband’s everlasting joy it remains not only a professional highlight but a deeply personal one as well.

We lost Pete just over a year ago on January 8th, which ironically happens to be Colin and my wedding anniversary. I did a tribute to Pete and Sheila on this blog the day he died, which I went on to read at the two memorial services held for him in Toronto and Stratford respectively.

Sheila and her daughters have just completed their year of firsts without husband and father so it was important to me to go out to Halifax and support her in her first artistic venture of the new year, the beginning of her new life. I knew she would be wanting for company and thought it would be nice to fill that gap. Plus, I missed her.

Isn’t it always the way when you think you are doing something nice for someone and then, surprisingly, the gifts come to you instead? This was the case during our three days together. And this is where I make my case for the value of the sleepover. Dinners and days spent with friends can be rewarding, fun and silly, meaningful and valuable. But what I discovered on this trip was deeper. Often when Sheila and I get together for a night, a day or an event, we end up just playing catch-up. We while away the hours riffing and digressing with rapid fire and sharing the intimate details of our lives side by side in boutique dressing rooms or across a coffee shop table. When Pete was ill we would forge our way through clothing shops, weeping and whispering one second and screaming, “Oh my heavens, this dress is YOU!” the next, and then laughing our asses off at the irony. It was a year of conversation with only one looming subject. No matter how rich the gossip or bit of news, our minds and hearts were focused on Pete—his illness, Sheila’s handling of it, her daughters, their state of mind, our collective sorrow, our fear, her terror, her inevitable life without him and her stoic handling of all of the above.

When Pete died in January we had no idea that within weeks and months she would also lose her darling parents one after the other. She soldiered on and I was one of her many lieutenants, offering thoughts and ideas and just listening, trying to will her pain away but knowing I couldn’t. It was exactly what it needed to be and I was ... “happy” is the wrong word  ...I guess I was ... grateful to be able to serve as shoulder, advisor, court jester. I had so much experience with death and dying and she had none to this point, so I was the perfect person at that time for her. It was a job I wished I was not qualified for, but there you have it. When Pete’s diagnosis first came in, I said to her—and I know this might sound strange—but I said of death and dying, “Sheila, I am good at this. Let me help you.”

But as fate would have it, we helped each other equally the whole time and it strengthened our bond even more.

This weekend was different. As a result of the sheer luxury of time, our relationship expanded. Yes, of course, we talked about Pete, but she in turn listened through my tear-choked voice to my fears and heartbreak around my parents changing lives and this time served as my shoulder, advisor, and court jester.

But it was more, for the first time in a long time. We talked and talked as we walked, shopped, and lay in bed. We talked of dreams and our futures. We talked of God, and our different upbringings. We talked of hopes and wishes, failures and regrets. We talked of aliens and of the universe. We talked of life and the getting on with it in the face of adversity. And we talked of the expanse of love. We talked of middle age and old age and worries and pride and schoolgirl memories.

Last night was the last night of our sleepover weekend and we were both blissfully tired after a full day of Friend. I wanted to be fresh for my flight home to my darling for Valentine’s Day and she for her last week of performances, so we hunkered down to sleep. I LOVE my sleep and always look forward to its coming. But damn, this is one sleepover I did not want to end in sleep. There was so much more to share. And we will. And I, for one, cannot wait. 

Barbara: You guys have been through so much together! Makes me weep. But also so very happy you had this chance to bond in an organic and relaxed way. And look what happened! Girlfriend magic. I’ve had the chance to enjoy a few great adult-friend sleepovers in my time and, you are so right, it is completely different from the lunches or shopping trips or glasses of evening wine. It harkens back to those days of youth when you’re aching to keep your eyes open, straining to stay awake just a bit longer, the deepening darkness like a warm blanket making your secrets and dreams feel safe enough to come out and play.

Sheila snapped this as Deb harmonized with the singer!

Miracles, Meteors and Magdalene

Deb: This weekend our dear friend Cheryl––whom you met this year when we did a three-way with her––headed with her family to the Stratford Festival in Ontario to see the wonderful Canadian, Broadway-bound production of Jesus Christ Superstar. As it happens, this is the last weekend of the show in Stratford and I, being an official card-carrying member of the “I’m obsessed with all things Jesus Christ Superstar” wanted to see the show before it left Canada. This is the first time in fifteen years my husband and I have not been able to get to Stratford to see shows, missing many wonderful productions featuring, among others, our dear and talented friends.

So I set out to get a single ticket––as Colin was away in the Boston area doing a show (which some of you attended), but I was lucky enough to get, through a lovely friend in the production office, two cancelled tickets. So I asked Barb to come with me. She happily agreed to a wonderful day, which was supposed to consist of a gorgeous two-hour drive, lovely lunch, show, and a peaceful drive home. Or so we thought.

Cut to: Our precious friend and sister Cheryl phoning me last night from Stratford. She was breathless and clearly in pain. She, her husband, and their daughter had been in a horrific car accident, but mercifully, they were alive and functioning.

They were stopped at a traffic light and some guy—who claimed the sun was in his eyes—came barreling into them, knocking them into another car and into the intersection and into yet another car. Their car was totally destroyed, but they came away relatively unscathed. The air bags beat them to a pulp, but ultimately saved their lives. Their daughter was belted and sleeping in the back seat. She woke up, crisis over, to the reek of the air bag gas. Cheryl and Bill were taken to the hospital where they were released in considerable pain, but alive and well ... and as a result ... in the mood for celebration.

The second and tinier miracle was that Barb and I were scheduled to go up the next day to see the final show of Jesus Christ Superstar. Cheryl and Bill of course had no way home and were elated that we were, in a last minute twist of fate, coming right to them! We said that we would chuck the show and simply come up to gather them and their belongings and take them home. Cheryl wouldn’t hear of it. “YOU MUST SEE THIS SHOW!” she said between halting breaths. She insisted that they would simply sleep and chill and gather their resources while we attended the show, which they did.

So we saw the show. And it was a stupendous production. I feel I am authorized to say that given the number of JCSuperstars I have seen on stage and in film. I urge you to see this show on Broadway if you can.

Spent from the production and spent from the wild and challenging events of the last few weeks, we picked them up, took them to the wreck yard, emptied the contents of their shattered car into Barb’s, and said our thanks and farewell to this little gem “Breezy” who had kept them safe these 12 years and held its own right to the end, honouring its owners’ years of appreciation.

We all celebrated the miracle of their survival. It hit me again like a ton of bricks when I saw the car in the scrapyard, broken and finished. We swarmed its broken frame, each of us in our own way giving thanks for their safe escape.

When Barb and I set out to get them, all shaky and full of emotion, we imagined surrounding our car in blue light against impact and then imaged a white light around that one. We always do this when either of us feels any weird or scary energy on the road. Barb said that she had read that there was another huge meteor headed towards earth this week and, although it was not scheduled to hit our green home, it was coming close enough to shake things up, to make unusual and bizarre things happen. True to its word in our corner of the world, it shook our dearest friends to the very foundation of their being and brought my Mom some potentially bad news, all in this one day.

But the real miracle was everyone’s reaction to these events. My Mom rolled with this punch in her can-do way, and even joked about it. Cheryl and her family simply looked at their car, brimming with emotion, but overflowing with thanks and gratitude. No anger. No regret. Just a breath of life sucked into their bruised lungs that told them, despite the searing pain, that they were alive.

Mary Magdalene offered our soundtrack. “Try not to get worried, try not to hang onto problems that upset you, don’t you know, everything’s alright now, everything’s fine, and I want you to sleep well tonight. Let the world turn without you tonight. Close your eyes, close your eyes and forget all about us tonight.”

Barbara: Deb has captured this extraordinary day in all its amazing detail: miracles, meteors and Magdalene, indeed. The last 24 hours have been astounding in their beautiful mayhem. Completely mind-boggling drama, and completely soul-warming communal love. We felt so lucky and calmed to be together and safe on the one hand, and so lucky and stimulated to be able to celebrate creative excellence on the other.

I don’t wish days like these on any of you, but I do wish—given that days like these happen on, well, a daily basis—that you are surrounded by just such love and light. And, more importantly, that you see it. xo