Totem

This morning was beautiful; lilacs getting ripe, so a bit of spice, maybe just a little bite, in the air. Deaf terrier is trotting happily in front of me. The day stretches out, and it’s Saturday–my favourite day. A friend of mine had just been telling me how full of narratives downtown Kamloops is. I was thinking about that, and thinking about what it’s like for me, now, being a thread in this weave of stories.

Whatever the tale is behind this flamingo, I already love it. Hard to think of anything more optimistic. Or generous.

You can see in the background that this resident obviously favours pink flamingos. Maybe it’s an ironic statement–does a hipster live here? There are sure lots of them downtown. I know this because my oldest son is a hipster in Toronto, but he used to be one in Kamloops. Was the flamingo taken and returned? How wonderful to have your totem back.

I choose to think that’s the case. Think of the personal totems you have. My youngest son, Dana, with no choice but to be a Stones fan (he’s seen them three times), drew this when he was six:

I’d hate to lose it.

I still keep a copy of this book, which I could never get through reading to my oldest son, Rob, without breaking into tears. You moms know what I’m talking about:

Seriously, can you imagine losing these things? Or this 1920 lithograph that hung over the cribs of three generations of my family, in three countries. Crazy that such little things are kept, and are endowed with meaning:

I’ve dragged this piece around forever; I can’t remember a time without it. Right now, it’s in my kitchen on a lime-green wall. Honestly, the wall colour is nicer. The flash on my phone kind of washes it out.

I’m just thinking, though, that totems can be outgrown, outlived. Sometimes they need to go. That happened to me three weeks ago, as I was unpacking in my new place. A while ago, I had a pretty bad experience. Brutal. Just wicked. A number of friends and family travelled immediately to Kamloops to support me in distress–you know who you are, and I love you. Thank you.

One of them brought me a small sewed doll. Stuffed.

‘Janice,’ I say, ‘Is this a voodoo doll?’

She sits back and contemplates me. She is not background noise, for sure: tall, broad, dressed in flowing white, big tribal accessories, cropped hair, beautiful bones, glasses that announce: I Am Eyewear.

‘Do you want it to be a voodoo doll?’ She is a great believer in therapy.

Evidently I do. After listening to my prolonged and forlorn howling, Janice heads back to Calgary. I would have given anything to go back with her. At this point, I don’t have any idea of the long and winding road (sorry, really) that awaits me. I actually believe it will all be better very soon.

It’s not.

I ravage that doll. I stab it over and over with my nail scissors; I try to slash its throat with my Bic Venus. I pummel it, whack it in the head, asking it how it could have been so stupid. I fucking slay that doll, that bitch, that entitled little poser. What does she think, she’s Barbie or something?  As my dad used to in the middle of a belittling session: Does she want to shit with the big dogs? I am tumbling through the dark waterfall of night. Yet, what a miracle. Morning comes–every time.

Healing progresses, slowly. Is it not absolutely staggeringly wonderful that we can heal? It is a gift like the morning. Or like a pink flamingo being returned to your yard.

I begin to have more compassion for the voodoo doll, and place her under my mattress. I am hoping the healing vibes radiate down to her. And yes, I have started yoga by this point–don’t smirk.

Years pass, and I am moving out of that big house to my funky house in town. I am pretty happy with everything. It’s 17 April, and the moving truck has left. I’m in my new home. The movers have set up my bed; I’m about to put on the clean linens, and try to get enough sleep to be an efficient unpacker and home-maker tomorrow. I head upstairs.

On the undressed mattress is the voodoo doll, thoughtfully left by the movers. I have forgotten about her completely. I pick her up, give her a kiss and a hug, and then take her out to the garbage bin. I feel lighthearted as I toss her in. I don’t even have a picture of her to show you.

Goodbye, voodoo doll. Hello, pink flamingo.