Pop 89: Where's the Arrow?

By Madonna Hamel

Every year, we go from autumn to winter, from falling leaves to falling snow, in one night. And the first response is always: “We need the moisture.” We always need moisture. Around here, I have come to realize that the weather is our mistress. Every morning when a rancher or farmer wakes, she is there, sitting, waiting. You open your eyes, and she claps her hands and says: "Perfect, you're up. So … here's what I have planned for you today!"

This year is no different. I went for a walk one warm November evening in runners and a sweater, and the next day, it was time for parka and mittens. The snow began to fall and it hasn't left yet. In fact, a light skiff seems to land every night, turning every day into a "fresh start." My neighbour Eugene has kindly taken to shovelling everyone's walk. One morning I stuck my head out the door to thank him, assuring him he was going straight to heaven. He pointed to a giant heart that was stomped on the snow in the front yard right under my living room window. "Someone left you a valentine," he said. "Oh, that's so sweet! Probably, Staci; she came by to watch a movie last night," I replied. "Where's the arrow? "He asked. "What do you mean?" "You can't have a Valentine without an arrow," he shrugged.

Considering that most of my conversations with Staci revolve around personal hardships, past relationships and breakups, the shock of aging and goofy insights about a lifetime of seeking answers to The Big Questions, an arrow seems appropriate. There is no heart without heartbreak; living means hurting as well as loving and healing. "Never a pithier word was spoken, Gene, "I said.

Three days later I'm in an online workshop about the mystics. In the evening, we are invited to do some journaling and drawing after a day of studying the work of an anonymous Russian mystic who wrote The Way of The Pilgrim. As we begin to draw, I spy the giant heart illuminated by my lamp in the living room window. It reminds me of a form of tag we played in the snow as children. It involved stamping out a big pie and cutting into slices. You could only chase each other by running along the edges of the slices. I laugh to myself: we start by chasing each other by playing tag, then we catch each other and break each other's hearts. Such is life.

That night was The Lions Club's annual Christmas supper. This is an event I do not like to miss, not only because it's free for seniors but because it's a chance to visit with everyone I haven't seen in months. And to see the newborns snuggled next to their pretty young moms. A new baby in this village is a big deal; we all gather around the newborn, imitating shepherds at the nativity. There is a knowledge that this child will be loved and watched over by everyone. And if he or she wavers or gets into trouble, all the locals will stand by them - often to a fault - until they "grow out of it" or "get over it" and eventually "settle down."

I move from one table to the next, visiting with Mette, who first welcomed me here as a writer-in-residence at The Convent Inn. When my month of residency was up, I reminded her of our agreement, and she replied: "Ah, who's counting!" and she and Robert let me stay another two months. Those three months "in the convent" changed my life in ways I'm still discerning. Also at the table is Susan from The Crossing - a giver of warm hugs. And Catherine, a painter with whom I talk about the mystery of inspiration.

Then I move over to sit with Betty and Judy, where we watch the kids playing on the stage, and someone invariably says:" That kid was only this high last month!" Marvelling at growth spurts of kids is as common as remarking on the weather. It's standard procedure at Christmas dinners. As the girls chase the boys around the room, I think of that heart awaiting them in the not-so-distant future of puberty. "I'm not sure when it happened," I laugh, confiding to Betty. "But at one point, I stopped believing in that whole some-day-my-prince-will-come thing. But it's a whole other thing to accept that I'm not the princess. I'm the crone!" 

I leave the hall with two bottles of half-drunk wine - I cannot bear to just leave them sitting on the table. One I end up using as a marinade. The other I polish off watching a Hallmark Christmas movie -  a guilty pleasure I indulge in every season. I know how these movies turn out - it's a formula: a feisty city gal finds herself in a charming made-for-tv country village wearing the wrong shoes and the wrong attitude. Maybe she's got a deadline to meet for her investment or property development firm, which involves selling her soul for her company. However, lucky for her, she encounters a plaid-bedecked single dad hunk with great hair who sets her straight about the things that really matter in life. They spar, sparks fly, and then they rally to save a child or a barn or a Christmas tree farm. Then, they laugh, make up, and live happily ever after. Sweet. It's a valentine with barely a rip, and certainly no piercing arrow.

On the last day of my workshop, I draw great, big hearts surrounded by rose thorns- a harkening of the holy cards from childhood- with Jesus pointing to his pierced heart on fire with love. Outside, snow begins to fall, and tears fall down my cheeks- they are arrows of melancholy and a heart of gratitude. That's good. I need the moisture.