M.

Signatures say something about yourself they say. Experts can tell much about a person just by a piece of handwriting. I notice depending on my mood, my level of 'awakeness', and the subject I write about the variation my handwriting. It alternates between cursive and printing and italics. And then come the signatures. I wonder about those often; really though, rarely does my signature look the same as the one I scribbled on that important document last week, or three months ago, or four years back. There's some similarity I guess, but it looks far from identical.
Today I was at the bank, and the advisor signed some of our paperwork. Noticing how quickly she moved her pen across the paper, writing beautifully, uniquely, authoritatively 'her name' on papers. Saying 'it's true, it's honest, and approved'. There's much power in a signature..

Perhaps my simple marking 'M.' at the end of emails, messages, letters, and notes isn't very professional. In fact I know it's not. When I was an educational assistant the students called me Miss V. That is then how I signed the agendas, the notes, whatever needed my approval. Was that not authoritative enough? I was nineteen at the the time - really, I didn't think I had that much authority. I didn't feel that legit.

According to a quick Google search a signature is (from Latin: signare, "to sign") is a handwritten (and often stylized) depiction of someone's name, nickname, or even a simple "X" or other mark that a person writes on documents as a proof of identity and intent. So really, my signing with Miss V. or M. is acceptable, perhaps even legitimate.
Signatures on artwork shows that it is 'real', the original, authentic.

Signatures - it seals the deal.

I shall continue on signing my work with M., or my very inconsistent autograph. Because it seals the deal, it's legit, it comes from me. No need for fancy or professional.

M.

Here.

It is incredible how my time here is flying.

I so clearly remember the start of each semester and 

at the same time I do not. 

The semesters - each by itself fantastic yet alone - together 

form an en exhilarting and 'united' experience. 

I'm thankful for each day,

for each moment,

each experience,

each adventure 

here. 

For the opportunity to learn and grow,

to meet myself and others,

to love and stretch,

to reach out and search within.

Here

I'm thankful for the people around me 

and at the same time can feel pretty alone

Here.

I think I have that both in ON and AB.

A feeling of not quite knowing where my place is on this earth,

Where I belong.

Yet I genuinely believe and am convinced that I am called

Here.

Called to be here, 

be disciplined here,

be stretched here,

and learn here.

Called to flourish here,

to glorify God here,

spread the Gospel here,

and live fully here.

Here.

To live fully,

wherever that may be.

Here.

Here.

Live fully in Him who gives Life,

is Life,

and sustains life.

Here.

Wherever that may be.

Right now, it's right 

Here.

Here is where I'll be. 

In Him. 

blessed with family near and far; blood and not.

Partir, c'est mourir un peu.

Partir, c’est mourir un peu,     /   To go away is to die a little,

C’est mourir à ce qu’on aime:    /   It is to die to that which one loves:

On laisse un peu de soi-même    /   Everywhere and always,

En toute heure at tout lieu.   /    One leaves behind a part of oneself.

C’est toujours le deuil d’un vœu,   /   It is always the mourning of wishes

Le dernier vers d’un poème;   /   The last verse of a poem

Partir, c’est mourir un peu.   /  To go away is to die a little.

Et l’on part, et c’est un jeu,   /    And one leaves, and it's a game,

Et jusqu’à l’adieu suprême     /    And until the final farewell

C’est son âme que l’on sème,   /   It is one's soul that one scatters,

Que l’on sème à chaque adieu / That one scattters with each farewell

Partir, c’est mourir un peu.   /   To go away is to die a little.

~ Edmond Haraucourt ~1856-1941 ~

 The last few days the title of this poem has been on my mind. Perhaps because my mom said it on Friday when I'd just said the see-you's to my lovely family who were going to their home in Nederland."Partir, c'est mourir un peu." The more I live the more I go. The more I go the more I meet. The more I meet the more I leave. The more I leave the more I die. It is reality, nothing shall change this fact. Over the last couple of years I have wondered if I leave more than others do, if I die more than others do. Okay - I know it is a little dying - a little mourning, but still it is...
Mourir and mourning - it looks to me that the French and the English have the same root - one is dying the other is a sorrow, a pain that comes with leaving something behind and having to let go. Death of someone you love is painful - you have to let go - they are no more and there is an emptiness. I remember clearly when my grandparents passed away. Opas and omas are supposed to be there, they're your parents' parents and they belong; they're family; they are related; they are yours. And then they're gone, they're seat empty, their voice silenced, their step stopped. Then you realize what you miss. No more can you get a hug or kiss, no more phone calls or visits. No more grandparent. Only the memories, the part that lives on in us - where a little of them has scattered into our own lives.

Mourir sounds so tragic. So big. So deafening. Mourir it is so harsh and so final. It is the end. And yet...

The first time I really remember saying goodbye was when we moved to Canada. It was Nov. 2004 and I was 13. A teenager being 'transplanted' to another part of the world. Awful. My sisters didn't help me any (and I didn't help them either), as we all 'hated' Canada and everything that had to do with it. Plus we were leaving ALL our family and friends behind. We were leaving everything we knew in Holland and moving to a place we only knew from maps, stories and our geography books - to a place where we knew NOTHING. That flight across the Atlantic was long, very long. I felt empty inside. I cried until the tears couldn't roll anymore. I sniffed until I couldn't feel any more. I thought and broke inside. I - or what I knew was 'I' - was left behind, on the other side. My life had just ended. Mourir. There was no more to do than to start over. It felt like my being was still on the other side. On laisse un peu de soi-même/En toute heure at tout lieu.

Over the next months it seemed like slowly the life was breathed back into me... that which was scattered before started to 'seed' and germinate once again, but also new things started to grow. New relationships and experiences added to the at once so somber colour scheme, slowly adding more happiness.

There are the small farewells in life. The 'see you tomorrow's and the 'bye's we say on the phone. Then there are the bigger farewells when we tell the other we hope to see them soon or know it will be in a week or two. There are also the farewells that are long term. They are goodbyes that feel like the end. The goodbyes that leave you empty and weak, wobbly and alone. It is those goodbyes, those farewells, those leavings that leave me deep in thought so often. The same are they that make me feel that I have left part of who I am behind, or have given it away - scattered it. Part of me goes with them that leave me, or part of me stays in the place that I leave.

It is hard, very hard. 

 

I left Holland for Canada. 

I left my school for another, for another, for another, for another, for another.
I left my grandparent, and another, and another.
I left my friend and another and another and more yet.
I left my brother, a sister, a mother, a father.
I left my family,

I left my home, my abode, my comfort zone for another.

I left my life to find it a new. 

I died a little with each leaving; part of me scattered over there, with you, with them, or right here. Scattered - for you to enjoy and perhaps to remember me by. Scattered because such is life. Scattered because that is life. Scattered because that is how things happen. 

You come; you go. You live; you die. You sow; you harvest. You live; you grow. You hurt; you heal. You cry; you laugh. You embrace; you let go. You break down; you build up. You mourn; you dance. You throw things away; you gather them. You seek; you find; you lose; you seek. You keep; you throw out. You tear; you sew. You hate; you love. You are silent; you speak. You are at war; you are at peace.  (Eccl. 3)

You don't know; you go to He Who knows. 

I don't get it, never have and doubt I ever will. But know that partirs are part of my life (and of yours too). Just because I have lived in multiple places far from each other I have friends and family - loved ones - who I can't just visit and embrace. Those same lovely people I see only for a time. Like when my family was over from the Netherlands this past month I embraced and cherished those moments. Then they left and I had to let go. When I am in Alberta for the summer months I try to live it up - I dance and gather and laugh and love and live and grow. Then when Fall comes I have to let go, mourn a little, hurt a little, cry a little, seek a little, tear a little, hate a little, only to go right back to dancing, gathering, laughing, loving, living, and growing. Just to do it over and over again. To you it may seem like a cycle - never ending and always always going. A game perhaps? because it certainly feels like un jeu sometimes That is exactly how it is - we live and part of life is letting go or leaving or partir. Part of life searching for where you belong and while you're searching you're finding where you don't belong and letting things go. While you live you leave and while you leave you die a little. 

It's painful. When you say your 'see you's and you don't know when that see you will be (but know it won't be anytime soon). It is painful when you have loved from closeby and have to let that go only to do it over a long distance. It is painful when you have to let go and let the other's live on - knowing you're not there to live with them. It is like you're leaving yourself with them - and you can't live or something. Obviously that isn't true. I still have a lovely life to live right here when I am not with you - here where I am and you where you are. We're doing our things - separate and yet connected - but in different parts. We our living and remembering and cherishing that which we did have and that which we do have.

Each time we leave we die a little - because  a little of us goes with the others.

Each time I leave I die a little - because a part of me goes with you. So that you - whom I have met and then left - can live with a bit of me scattered in your life. 

There is indeed - a time and season for everything. And all things will be made beautiful in His time - even the 'mourir un peu's. What a comfort that God knows, and knows best. When I die He gives life (Ps 139). When I cry He dries my tears (Ps 22). When I am hurt He heals (Ps 30). When I am lost He guides me through (Ps 23). When I am in the dark He is the Light (Ps 119). When I feel alone He is with me (Ps 23). When I question He soothes (Ps 79). When I cry out He hears (Ps 37). When I am afraid He comforts (Ps 55). When I am wild He calms me (Ps 42). When I don't know I trust that He knows (Ps 46) and will never leave. (Heb. 13)

My prayer then is may God be with you till we meet again!

reading writing and hand usage

Two months have flown by. My third year of post secondary ended well and I roadtripped it back to Alberta.
I have been home for two months now and it has been pretty fantastic. Catching up with friends and family here has been so good. There is so much to do and only so little time. I had such good intentions when I came here and, well you can probably guess, only few have actually come to be. But Summer is not over yet. 2 more months until I return to Ontario.

Working life is busy. VERY BUSY. Some Mondays I  don't even know how I'll get through the coming week, and then suddenly it's Friday. Another week done. Lived. Past. History. Lived to the fullest I always hope. And yet I don't always feel that way. For one of the summer jobs I have *yep I have I multiple jobs* I do the same thing every day, every week, and every month. It is boring and mindless work. The people I work with make it fun. Yet my brain is so bored. It's out of shape...
I do have a lot of time to think when working that job. It amazes me how quick my brain can take trips from one destination of thought to the next with many detours and u-turns. Yes I think about the same things often and other times it is completely strange and foreign subject I have never once put my mind to. This is a kind of fun experience and yet it frustrates me. For months, while in university, I thought 'wouldn't it be nice to put my brain on hold, give my thoughts a break, and just relax my head?!' Well, now I have those times and for four months it will go on. I need something that will stimulate brain activity and exercise while working with my hands (without reading or writing, or hand usage).. If you have any tips, please send them my way.

While I wait I continue to read books during my spare (if you can call it spare time!) that hopefully advance me intellectually or at least keep me at the same level of brain activity.

Making the best of this life, of working life which is crazy busy as one works uhm a handful of summer jobs. Its fun and I am enjoying it, but some days it is hard to stay motivated. Even though I am busy it does not mean I am particularly motivated....
So that's my goal for the rest of the summer. To stay motivated! (even if that means looking forward to each pay check at the end of each month - that would be only 2 more after this one - eek!)

weekend.

It's a relaxing Saturday. I have lot's of work to do.
But,
These last few weeks in Ontario before the summer comes,
I am going to enjoy them, every moment.
Cherish them. Make memories.... :)

The Blues of My Secret Addiction

I can hardly open my laptop without my fingers typing the word that opens the blue screen.
I can't sit in class without checking that blue screen always being open.
I can't get homework done because the blue screen is always open.
I can't focus on God because the blue screen is always open.

My secret addiction.

It isn't healthy any longer. I don't know how to live without Facebook.
So what I have decided is that I have to take this time. Not to seclude myself. Not to go away from the world, or totally put everything to the side. But to refocus. To reconsider my priorities. To let God take centre stage again. And to be His, fully.

Doing everything to His glory and honour.

I can do all things, through Christ!