Wednesday, July 25, 2018

Broken Wings

Today I played the piano at the funeral of someone I had never met, beautiful Halee, whose life was snatched from her at the scant age of 19.

By the end of the tributes, by the time her friends had sung to her, I wished with all my heart that I had known this incredible girl with the big smile and the matching zest for life.


Her aunt bravely read some of Halee's own account of her life: her mommy's life was cut short when Halee was still a toddler; she lived with her grandparents until she was about 8 and then went to be with her dad and his new family.

And the undercurrent of loneliness, of not really belonging, pulled at her until she discovered the librarian at her school and basketball.


The librarian read a heartfelt letter to Halee from her "Mama Bear." 


Her beloved basketball team formed the honour guard as her coffin left the church.

This morning as I was checking the news, I saw the story of another vibrant young woman fighting for her life, fighting the effects of loneliness.

Demi Lovato was in ER on Tuesday morning, according to her rep. Open about being bipolar and her addictions to drugs and alcohol, in 2011 Demi entered rehab. She managed to stay sober for six years. Before every concert, she would host a mental health workshop.


About a month ago, she released a song called “Sober.” She had fallen off the wagon.


Tuesday morning – YESTERDAY morning – she was rushed to the emergency room.

She is fortunate.

She is making it through.

This time.

The point is, with all the treatment and therapy and support and love sent her way from family, the entertainment industry and her fans all over the world, what does she cry in her song?

I don't know, I don't know, I don't know, I don't know why
I do it every, every, every time
It's only when I'm lonely
Sometimes I just wanna cave
And I don't wanna fight
I try and I try and I try and I try and I try
Just hold me, I'm lonely

Her first big break was when she sang the theme song to Barney. She was seven.

This is what she said in an interview in 2013 about that experience:

"Looking back, there was a connection, probably between any kid who's ever sang that song to Barney, a little place in a child’s heart, a void, that could be filled. And maybe Barney fills it.” (Cosmopolitan)

On paper, Demi Lovato has it all. But in spite of people with her all the time, in spite of money, fame, talent, anything she wants at her fingertips, she is lonely.

Listen to the anguish in her voice, read the jagged lyrics, in the link below:






A loneliness that cannot be filled by anything that stardom has to offer. A loneliness and desolation that can only be eased and a comfort that can only be found by trusting in something greater than oneself.


Something greater than the loneliness itself.


It was 2005 when I got the news from his brother. Maynard, one of my oldest and best friends, had been found alone in a motel room.

He had phoned me a few days earlier: he had just completed another stint at rehab and this time, he was confident, was different. He was going to make his way home to his girls.


I flew to Kansas for his funeral. It remains one of the darkest days of my life.


With all the love and support from his family and friends, why did he still feel so alone?

A couple of years later I was introduced to Robinella's very fine album Solace for the Lonely. A song, "Whippin Wind," encapsulates to a certain degree Maynard's and my friendship:




The song comforted me that now, maybe, he is free. It comforted me today again when I thought about Halee.


As I left Halee's funeral, I mused on what is greater than loneliness, what can take away this all-encompassing pain that some of us have to bear.


And I thought of him, hanging at the brink of death, crying out, "My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?"


Jesus Himself, alone. Lonely.


He died so that we do not have to suffer that excruciating loneliness, that feeling of being utterly bereft.


And so for those of us who struggle with soul-crushing loneliness, with the shattering feeling of not belonging, of not knowing where we fit in, I leave you with a song from Austins Bridge that offers hope in that awful blanketing darkness:




Monday, July 16, 2018

Breakfast at Wimbledon


 

One annual tradition in the Sidekick's family is watching the Men's Finals broadcast from the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club in Wimbledon.

Mum and Dad used to revel in Wimbledon. In India we would listen on the radio when we could. Later, after the kids were gone and they got a miniature TV, they would watch whatever the feed would provide. When they retired to Canada, often schedules were adjusted to account for the broadcast times over the two weeks of the tournament. 


In remote ranch country, however, it's pretty tough to garner support for getting up later than usual to watch two people hitting balls at each other on pasture that looks a little the worse for wear at the baselines. Did someone let the horses graze at Centre Court to achieve this shoddy grass? Nothing that a couple of tenths of rain overnight couldn't set to rights, however …


I can see how Wimbledon on the 855 is going to look. I recruit the faithful: the invitation is extended to my family and a few friends, and several of them kindly humour me by showing up. 


Those of us who stayed overnight
make our sleepy way to the living room between 5:30 and 6:00 a.m. Someone gropes for the remote in the light of the breaking dawn and shuffles through the channels until we find the correct station. Someone else puts the kettle on for tea and measures coffee as carefully as possible with only one eye and half a brain in gear, then feeds the brewer approximately the right amount of water.


Remembering the greatness!
We slump in chairs and on couches and watch John McEnroe and "Chrissie" - Chris Evert, my grandpa's perennial favourite - discuss noteworthy moments of both the current season as well as of championships past. 

We talk about all the men we've loved: Ashe, Borg, McEnroe, Becker, Lendl, Edberg, Agassi, Hewitt, Stich, Chan, Ivanisevic, Henman, Murray, Roddick, Raonic, Anderson, Djokovic.

Nadal.

Federer.

The Final match of our dreams was not meant to be this year. Congratulations duly went out to Djokovic, whom my Dad liked so much.

And then we turned our attention to the other part of Breakfast at Wimbledon.

The Breakfast part.

This year, because the awe-inspiring Serena Williams made it through the rounds to the Women's finals EIGHT MONTHS after giving birth to her daughter, including labour and delivery complications and unexpected health issues, we started early on Saturday instead of Sunday.

Though the runner up, truly a magnificent champion:
"... for all the moms out there …"

Pictures say far more than words, so here are a couple of shots.

Thank you, one and all, for a wonderful weekend.

And i
f there is anyone on the 855 or beyond who would like to join us next year for "Breakfast at Wimmy," as The Good Rancher has dubbed it, just say the word: there's always room at the table, for either the Wimbledon or the Breakfast part!



Just like there's always hope in my heart for the ultimate final with Rafa and Rog …

Saturday morning brunch



"This is The Greatest Outdoor
Show on Earth?!

Strawberry shortcake served on an
eponymous Wimbledon



Sunday morning began with tea, English scones and 
our take on Devon cream and homemade strawberry jam ...

… followed by buttery scrambled eggs, breakfast sausage links and coffee.

I received my own trophy: my friend Rhonda
gave me this treasure from Bud's family -
imagine living in a flat overlooking
the courts back in the day!