I consider my drive to Dawson Creek and back to Ramada, my home away from home, one that was powerfully therapeutic. I did this during the long weekend that included the Good Friday to Easter Sunday. After the long drive I feel magically healed of all my Maundy Thursday’s sickness -- a piercing pain in my soul -- and feel the burden of the previous week suddenly lifted away like fog in the valley.
I also had another day to drive the Yaris, temporarily mine during the holiday season, around Vancouver, enjoying -- alone -- a South Indian lunch at Sarvanabhavan and, later, a North Indian supper in a Panjabi restaurant at Surrey. The latter meal was a generous hospitality of RB. That’s how Dr Ran Banda Herath, a Sinhalese Sri Lankan-Canadian, a civil engineer by profession, wants me to call him. He is my new loquacious friend. And Hemamala, his wife, is just the opposite. RB is very caring; readily he came to pick me when I dropped my rental car on Easter Monday evening.
I spent eight hours with RB, first in the Tim Horton’s at Maple Ridge, then the remaining in his car, his home, and the rest, in the restaurant. This was our first face to face meeting. But both forthrightly open to the other. We have known each other only through emails for almost a year now, mainly through a mutual friend, the late Dr Mohan Thiyagarajah, an agriculture specialist, whose request for my response to RB’s A New Beginning for Humankind – A Recipe for lasting Peace on Earth, the manuscript of his new book RB had been working on for some time now sparked of a new relationship. I know I am likely to be persuaded to a writing a foreword for RB’s effort.
But my major concern is peace within. This is a reference to my soul, that micro-cosmos! My Maundy Thursday tornado, then, was caused by my learning from Leroy Hiller, my lawyer, the arrival of a new moment, perhaps, the kairos. The moment to let Chandra take away, a large sum of my “hard earned money”, with all the “gold jewelry” that had great sentimental value and an irrational emotional attachment, and a “divorce” that enables her not to belong to me anymore – or, for me to belong to her no more. He was actually asking for my signatures on papers for these things to become legal. The first and the second requests were reasonably easy compared to the third: to agree to the divorce. It pricked on my soul as if it was like a pin prick on my naked eye-ball!
Thursday evening, frankly, I suffered much. I was absolutely alone. It was my Garden of Gethsemane. I wanted to get into my corner, cry my heart out loud, and let tears roll to wash my soul. It was then I was also planning to drop this trip to Dawson Creek. Leanne, my supervisor at work place and Gitanjali, my general manager, tried to persuade me not to drive alone. Inappropriateness of the timing with not so good road conditions was their main argument.
However, on Good Friday morning sharp at 6.00, I jumped into the rental car, a small Toyota Yaris, and drove for 17 hours and 17 minutes to Dawson Creek. This was a nonstop drive though I stopped in many places when stung, or electrocuted by the beauty of the terrain, including Lillooet, the little hydroelectric town, to enjoy the beautiful reservoir that I saw as a gorgeous yoni-linga temple, a perfect marital cooperation between humans and gods.
The gift for this hard work, for dashing in my Yaris, was more work; Gitanjali and Jay dropped off Justin with me in the Peace Villa Motel around midnight. This was in Dawson Creek that not so big city that I used to dislike while working in Northern Alberta three years ago. Here for the first time Justin rolled and had his first fall from a bed while I was fast asleep beside him! I was, of course, quick in waking.
Though tired, obviously, from driving, I still found plenty of energy to play with my energetic grandson, soon to be two years old, as early as 6.30 in the morning. We went to the motel office for breakfast where the 70-year-old Korean-Canadian, too, connected with Justin so easily and very well. He himself is a grandfather of two granddaughters as I learnt from him.
It was also a life transforming, a very humbling experience to meet and shake hands with Murray, Jay’s dad. This is the first time I shook hands with someone from Jay’s family. Oh, no! Tina, Jay’s older sister, I hugged her, after Chandra had deserted the nest.
Murray, I noticed, ticked well with Justin and Gitanjali, relieving me of a great anxiety and a burden. I also felt encouraged by Jay’s desire to hang out with his father. That made me to comfortably drive back towards Prince George, the northern capital of British Columbia, where I had already made friends with Sonya and Ho, another couple of Korean-Canadian who own the Rosebud Motel beside Highway 97.
My drive to Dawson Creek was through very high mountains covered with thick white powder and literally dozens of hairpin bends in Highway 99 where one had to often let horses and humans walk safely. It continued in Highway 97. On both I drove through avalanche areas and hills where rocks fall frequently. On the way I also stopped at seven places for deer to cross, two places for moose to pass, and at least once, for a herd of elks to walk. The next day when I was driving back I saw a dead deer in the middle of the road, hit, perhaps, after I passed the previous night.
Though most of my drive was free of other people, in certain, very dangerous and challenging places, I saw skiers sporting with the possible death that I am always dodging, particularly with a set of weak arteries to carry my blood around. There was cool and fresh air, however, for my heart and blood vessels to liberally enjoy.
There was a unique thing I noticed, almost, towards the end of the first day driving. This was, my radio blasting, loudly, English songs I used to shut down as noise as soon as my daughter switched it on! What brought that change in me? How did I manage to enjoy this music? This also involved Bob Marley’s freedom song and “Put your hand in the hand of the Man from Galilee”, written by Gene MacLellan and sung by "Ocean", a musical group consisting of the then young musicians from Prince Edward Island.
Also, I heard a story on CBC radio that gave me goose bumps, from Calgary, if I remember correct. A single mother there invited and shared her home with a homeless person. Her son, now 23 years old, considered her mother as one who always did the unusual things. Why not? Why not drive to Dawson Creek from Vancouver and get back to Pitt Meadows in less than three days, like the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth, though all alone and before the arrival of the actual spring? The strength of her character made me tip, gently, my hat for this single-mother. I also tipped my hat to the homeless person who insisted on paying rent, though only $ 10.00 per week. This person lived on picking bottles for recycling and he described his job, humorously, a recycling agent.
I also admired, earlier, while at the Rosebud Motel, a couple of older men renting rooms in that motel and one man living in a trailer. There was another man walking around with his pair of binoculars and torn bird book, while another at McDonald’s in Pemberton walking with a huge camera but admiring my little Canon SX30. This man is a wildlife photographer, taking pictures of bears, including grizzlies.
I noticed these men were very independent and none of them exposed any trace of sorrow, or anxious fears in their faces. So did the men whom I saw at the Tim Horton’s in Quesnel. All these inspirations I picked up on my way, like Justin, my grandson, picking pebbles while picnicking, resurrected, on this Easter Sunday, that strength of my character, which was once very alive but now more or less dead. My determination to drive the Yaris to Dawson Creek removed those grave clothes wrapped around letting me walk into abundance.
I also had another day to drive the Yaris, temporarily mine during the holiday season, around Vancouver, enjoying -- alone -- a South Indian lunch at Sarvanabhavan and, later, a North Indian supper in a Panjabi restaurant at Surrey. The latter meal was a generous hospitality of RB. That’s how Dr Ran Banda Herath, a Sinhalese Sri Lankan-Canadian, a civil engineer by profession, wants me to call him. He is my new loquacious friend. And Hemamala, his wife, is just the opposite. RB is very caring; readily he came to pick me when I dropped my rental car on Easter Monday evening.
I spent eight hours with RB, first in the Tim Horton’s at Maple Ridge, then the remaining in his car, his home, and the rest, in the restaurant. This was our first face to face meeting. But both forthrightly open to the other. We have known each other only through emails for almost a year now, mainly through a mutual friend, the late Dr Mohan Thiyagarajah, an agriculture specialist, whose request for my response to RB’s A New Beginning for Humankind – A Recipe for lasting Peace on Earth, the manuscript of his new book RB had been working on for some time now sparked of a new relationship. I know I am likely to be persuaded to a writing a foreword for RB’s effort.
But my major concern is peace within. This is a reference to my soul, that micro-cosmos! My Maundy Thursday tornado, then, was caused by my learning from Leroy Hiller, my lawyer, the arrival of a new moment, perhaps, the kairos. The moment to let Chandra take away, a large sum of my “hard earned money”, with all the “gold jewelry” that had great sentimental value and an irrational emotional attachment, and a “divorce” that enables her not to belong to me anymore – or, for me to belong to her no more. He was actually asking for my signatures on papers for these things to become legal. The first and the second requests were reasonably easy compared to the third: to agree to the divorce. It pricked on my soul as if it was like a pin prick on my naked eye-ball!
Thursday evening, frankly, I suffered much. I was absolutely alone. It was my Garden of Gethsemane. I wanted to get into my corner, cry my heart out loud, and let tears roll to wash my soul. It was then I was also planning to drop this trip to Dawson Creek. Leanne, my supervisor at work place and Gitanjali, my general manager, tried to persuade me not to drive alone. Inappropriateness of the timing with not so good road conditions was their main argument.
However, on Good Friday morning sharp at 6.00, I jumped into the rental car, a small Toyota Yaris, and drove for 17 hours and 17 minutes to Dawson Creek. This was a nonstop drive though I stopped in many places when stung, or electrocuted by the beauty of the terrain, including Lillooet, the little hydroelectric town, to enjoy the beautiful reservoir that I saw as a gorgeous yoni-linga temple, a perfect marital cooperation between humans and gods.
The gift for this hard work, for dashing in my Yaris, was more work; Gitanjali and Jay dropped off Justin with me in the Peace Villa Motel around midnight. This was in Dawson Creek that not so big city that I used to dislike while working in Northern Alberta three years ago. Here for the first time Justin rolled and had his first fall from a bed while I was fast asleep beside him! I was, of course, quick in waking.
Though tired, obviously, from driving, I still found plenty of energy to play with my energetic grandson, soon to be two years old, as early as 6.30 in the morning. We went to the motel office for breakfast where the 70-year-old Korean-Canadian, too, connected with Justin so easily and very well. He himself is a grandfather of two granddaughters as I learnt from him.
It was also a life transforming, a very humbling experience to meet and shake hands with Murray, Jay’s dad. This is the first time I shook hands with someone from Jay’s family. Oh, no! Tina, Jay’s older sister, I hugged her, after Chandra had deserted the nest.
Murray, I noticed, ticked well with Justin and Gitanjali, relieving me of a great anxiety and a burden. I also felt encouraged by Jay’s desire to hang out with his father. That made me to comfortably drive back towards Prince George, the northern capital of British Columbia, where I had already made friends with Sonya and Ho, another couple of Korean-Canadian who own the Rosebud Motel beside Highway 97.
My drive to Dawson Creek was through very high mountains covered with thick white powder and literally dozens of hairpin bends in Highway 99 where one had to often let horses and humans walk safely. It continued in Highway 97. On both I drove through avalanche areas and hills where rocks fall frequently. On the way I also stopped at seven places for deer to cross, two places for moose to pass, and at least once, for a herd of elks to walk. The next day when I was driving back I saw a dead deer in the middle of the road, hit, perhaps, after I passed the previous night.
Though most of my drive was free of other people, in certain, very dangerous and challenging places, I saw skiers sporting with the possible death that I am always dodging, particularly with a set of weak arteries to carry my blood around. There was cool and fresh air, however, for my heart and blood vessels to liberally enjoy.
There was a unique thing I noticed, almost, towards the end of the first day driving. This was, my radio blasting, loudly, English songs I used to shut down as noise as soon as my daughter switched it on! What brought that change in me? How did I manage to enjoy this music? This also involved Bob Marley’s freedom song and “Put your hand in the hand of the Man from Galilee”, written by Gene MacLellan and sung by "Ocean", a musical group consisting of the then young musicians from Prince Edward Island.
Also, I heard a story on CBC radio that gave me goose bumps, from Calgary, if I remember correct. A single mother there invited and shared her home with a homeless person. Her son, now 23 years old, considered her mother as one who always did the unusual things. Why not? Why not drive to Dawson Creek from Vancouver and get back to Pitt Meadows in less than three days, like the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth, though all alone and before the arrival of the actual spring? The strength of her character made me tip, gently, my hat for this single-mother. I also tipped my hat to the homeless person who insisted on paying rent, though only $ 10.00 per week. This person lived on picking bottles for recycling and he described his job, humorously, a recycling agent.
I also admired, earlier, while at the Rosebud Motel, a couple of older men renting rooms in that motel and one man living in a trailer. There was another man walking around with his pair of binoculars and torn bird book, while another at McDonald’s in Pemberton walking with a huge camera but admiring my little Canon SX30. This man is a wildlife photographer, taking pictures of bears, including grizzlies.
I noticed these men were very independent and none of them exposed any trace of sorrow, or anxious fears in their faces. So did the men whom I saw at the Tim Horton’s in Quesnel. All these inspirations I picked up on my way, like Justin, my grandson, picking pebbles while picnicking, resurrected, on this Easter Sunday, that strength of my character, which was once very alive but now more or less dead. My determination to drive the Yaris to Dawson Creek removed those grave clothes wrapped around letting me walk into abundance.
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