Love Letters from Heather

It is February, Valentine’s month. I have never been a big fan of the day. Always struck me as a day that put undue pressure on those coupled and undue sadness on those who aren’t. But the last two years I have really enjoyed Valentine’s Day—for the past two years the not-for-profit organization Brainstorm Revolution put on unique Valentine events that Shelley Hofer, Natalie Harris and I had the pleasure of orchestrating. The first presentation was a story-telling event at Barrie’s Five Points Theatre. The show was appropriately named Unconventional Love Stories, featuring true, out-of-the-ordinary accounts of the unexpected faces of love beyond the romantic realm. Then last year—last year!—the improv group the Yes Men entertained a sold-out crowd at Barrie’s Holiday Inn and Conference Centre, bringing the audience to both tears and laughter, raising thousands of dollars for our local hospital’s mental health department. We got the title right once again: Love and Laughter.

This year is different. Covid. I have decided to do something else to occupy my focus during February. I am going to write love letters—not romantic stuff—that isn’t my schtick. No, I wake up every morning astounded by the good and beautiful people I am blessed to call my family and friends. In a world where hatred, fear, despair, distrust and conspiracy seem the prominent forces that attempt to steal our joy, I can’t help but notice all the good people—not perfect people—just imperfect people whom I choose to love, those whose intent is to better the world.

Those who know me well know that I can be a little “standoff-ish.” Last decade’s running buddies could tell you stories of their first impression of me. But once I get to know someone and feel comfortable, I warm up! I will probably never be the first one to go in for a hug (unless it is one of my grandchildren), I am not dreadfully demonstrative, nor do I tell those I love how I feel very often.

So, instead of planning a grand gala this February, I am going to tell—or write—to many of you and let you know how wonderful you are, how proud I am of you, and that I love you.

But who to start with? There are so many people, old friends to brand new acquaintances, who I would like to send a letter to. Then, it became apparent. There really was only one choice for the person who should be first. I am sending a letter to the one man who has changed the trajectory of my life more than any other—a man whose disobedience alerted me to my purpose in life, my son Jason.

To My Only Son, Jason:

I rarely tell you how proud I am of you or how much I love you. But please know that both are true. You will turn 38 this year, exactly 12 years older than I was when I first set eyes on you. You have rebelled, made mistakes, and faced immeasurable heartache. Turns out, growing past your challenges is your superpower!

I love that we can talk about things, and I really like that you taught me how to use Instagram. And I am pretty chuffed that you ask ME for help with Adobe Illustrator (it’s good to know I am still relevant). Thank you for hugging me that Christmas when I was so worried about your sister. I appreciate and noticed how you have taken care of children and youths who technically weren’t yours (what is ‘yours’ anyway?). I love how you make quick friends with people of all ages. You are an excellent conversationalist and know your mind. Your laugh and your acute sense of humour make me smile. I admire that you are industrious and love to help in any capacity. It is so amazing I can call you and you will come over to help me lift something at the drop of a hat!

Your sisters owe you a lot, or should be eternally resentful to you, depending upon how they feel about me, because it was your decision at 8-years-old to ruthlessly run through an off-limits section of the school yard that brought us all together.

I was a 26-year-old Grade 7/8 teacher on yard duty. Country school. Dug-up septic in the front yard. An out-of-control Grade 3 student went barreling through the cordoned-off area. It was unsafe. I set chase. You outran me.

To the office. Angry teacher. A Vice-Principal calmed me down. Told me to back off. Apparently you and your two little sisters just came back from court and you were Crown Wards about to be put up for adoption.

There were sisters?

I snuck into the primary classroom…I was in love and there was no turning back.

Jason, you led me to my three true and forever loves in my life. No matter what, you guys are my anchors.

I owe you an apology, Jason. For lots of things I am sure, but two things in particular stand out to me. The first is I never took your side when you got in trouble at school. I was the tough mother making sure you towed the line. Maybe I should have stuck up for you occasionally. However, you have to admit, you are very, very lucky I saved your butt from the one kid’s father. I talked him off the ledge. I honestly think he would have decked you for whatever name you had called his daughter. I know she called you something worse first…but diplomacy was called for. You may not have wanted to apologize, but I think it was better than a beating from a man who was at least thrice my weight—he looked like he could do some real damage to us both.

The second apology is for when you were nineteen. I didn’t understand what you were going through, and I should have handled that chapter much better. I didn’t get it. I want you to know that I do now, and I acknowledge what you were going through.

I will never forget when you called me that June to say you wouldn’t be going back to college in September. You had even failed a class, which was totally out of character. You had dropped out, unable to get further financial aid. At that moment, I didn’t understand why this happened and it appeared to be a disappointment. How wrong I was.

Then you called me from Old Town Montreal in September, saying you were visiting some friends at the public library. (By the way, you are probably the only Anglophone to live in Longueuil and not pick up a lick of French.) If you hadn’t dropped out of college, you would have instead been in the Atrium of Dawson College when Kimveer Gill entered the school with his firearms: a Baretta, a semi-automatic, and a Glock pistol shotgun, killing two and injuring another 19. Can you imagine my heart race as I watched the horror on CBC that morning, seeing the spots I had visited the previous springs when I came out to see you?

When tragedy of the biggest kind hit just a few years back, I witnessed my boy became a man. What emotional pain and loss.

But you used that pain and both of us shared your story at a keynote for a large provincial mental health conference. I know it must have been difficult to talk in public. But you did it and I am proud of you—for that, and all the help and service you have given to Brainstorm Revolution and to mental health causes in general. Service is the meaning of life, Jason. Don't ever forget that.

You are still here, so therefore you have a purpose. You have made mistakes and faced tragedy—at 8 you disobeyed the school rules and it found you an adoptive family for you and your sisters; at 20 you dropped out of college, which possibly saved your life; and at 34 you could no longer handle your work, and it forced you to take stock of your life. And there were many other such events in between we know about and countless others we probably aren't aware of.

Here’s the deal. I heard this in a sermon, and it rang true: “Sometimes the failure IS the goal because of how it positions you.” Although I less eloquently phrase it as 'today’s poop is fertilizer for a better tomorrow.'

Listen, my son, you are goodness and light. Not perfect by any means, but perfection is never a pre-requisite for real love. Know that you are right where you are supposed to be. Keep getting back up. Continue is the power. Be powerful.

Happy Valentine's Day.

Love,

Mom

PS. Call your Grandmother more often. She likes hearing from you.

PSS. Do something nice for your sisters after lockdown. Your nieces and nephews adore you.

PSSS. Thank you for hocking that bass guitar all those years ago. Sometimes when I am having a bad day, that memory gives me a great amount of pleasure! Shhhhhh, our little secret (I can actually hear the sound of your chuckle in my head as you read that).