I live in a strange city. It is framed by mountains. Edged by ocean. Cleansed by frequent rains. It is stunningly beautiful and increasingly inaccessible. Too expensive for almost everyone. It has definite boundaries. Not so much a rich/poor division. But absolute areas of wealth and privilege. And areas of absolute not. This used to be a pure east, west divide but that has blurred. Everywhere is expensive and the gentrification has pushed into areas once ignored and avoided.

Now there are small pockets. Pieces of the city where addiction, pain and damage reign supreme. Places where you either don’t look or you don’t know. Places where many don’t go if they don’t have to. Places we pretend aren’t there.

One intersection is infamous. Main and Hastings. Pick a corner and you can find lots of things; many you don’t want to find. Of course you see what you perceive. Some see addicts and crime and various unsavoury elements of the human condition. A place of fear and danger. Others see addiction and pain and vulnerability. A place of inequity and need. Some people avert their eyes. Others stare in disbelief.

Every time I pass, I search. I look for what I never want to see: past students now on the streets. Current students in unsafe situations. This corner is not far from where I teach. It is the not too distant past of many of our families. If has lures still faintly planted in dangerous and precarious ways.

This morning, I went by on the bus before 7:30 a.m. on the way to a literacy conference. Much of the city was still quiet and empty. Not here. There were people everywhere. As usual, I scanned the corners, the streets and nearby alleys, focussed on what I didn’t want to find. Quickly relieved, I allowed myself to absorb the details of what I saw. To just notice.

What I found was not what I expected. I worried about danger and risk but I saw gentle and kind and tenderness.

An old grandpa walked steadily behind his young grandson who ran in circles ahead and back. He had his grandfather’s cane and he waved it wildly through the air giggling. He roared into circles of pecking pigeons, scattering them briefly before they settled down again. He garnered smiles from a toothless woman teetering against a building. His grandpa engaged him in chatter and reprimands. He smiled big and bright, spreading morning sunshine as he ran.

An old man was supported by a younger woman hardly steadier or stronger to walk down the street. They leaned into each other, needing to stop but carrying on. Her right arm stretched out to balance them as she teetered on too high heels. Too high for morning. Too high for walking. Just fine for helping.

Three figures huddled around a doorway where someone had camped out, still partially prone under a sleeping bag. Shopping bags filled with belongings were stashed against a wall. The four of them spoke intently and I watched ever so briefly as 2 coffee cups were passed back and forth, steam still rising.

I looked to see what I didn’t want to see. I found what I didn’t expect. Of course, it’s there. The connection, the care, the living. My fear occupies such a large space, it wasn’t allowing me to see it.

But eyes on the corner, judgement to the side, I was humbled.

I am participating in the Slice of Life challenge to write and publish a post every day in March.

Slice of Life is hosted by Two Writing Teachers. I thank them for the community they provide. Read more slices here.

There’s been a bit of a theme as I’ve listened in these past few weeks. A Mom theme.

“Where is your real Mom?”

“How many Moms do you have?”

“My Mom is visiting a guy. I don’t know when she’s coming back.”

“I have 2 Moms. And 2 Dads I guess. But I don’t know one of the Dads.”

“I miss my Mom.”

“I don’t know where my Mom is.”

“Do you live with your Mom?”

“She’s sad I think because she wants to see her Mom.”

“I want to make a card for my Mom. But how will I give it to her?”

“My Mom got married and she moved to a new place.”

Absent Moms. Back and forth Moms. Not quite ready Moms. Dead Moms.

This is the Mom theme in my room.

I am a Mom. I am their teacher. And I am really, really human. So often, I want to step in and be the Mom. I am fully qualified. I can give snuggles, establish bedtimes, bake muffins, walk hand in hand. I can read bedtime stories, match socks, clap the loudest at soccer games and dance performances. I can love large and unconditionally. I can treat for lice and stay up half the night when illness happens. I can beam with pride and deliver huge hugs. I can take good care.

But I have to have boundaries. They need me to be their teacher. I can’t take them all home.

Sometimes, when I see Mom touches, it’s really emotional. Because so much of what I see are signs of missing Moms. The freshly braided hair. The carefully packed snack. The collared shirt under the sweater. Clipped fingernails. Little, tiny signs. Mom presence.

There is no judgement. It’s just how it is.

But this Mom theme, it gets me big.

I am participating in the Slice of Life challenge to write and publish a post every day in March.

Slice of Life is hosted by Two Writing Teachers. I thank them for the community they provide. Read more slices here.

I take an adult dance class on Tuesday evenings. We follow a ballet class of five and six year olds all in pink leotards, white tights, high buns with straggly pieces. They leap and prance out of the class and rush into the waiting arms of the Mom or Dad who has come to get them. There are probably six of them. Add their ages together and you would not even reach forty years combined. Take two and a bit of us adults and you would hit one hundred easy. We are old. And not all that talented. But we make up for it with our earnest effort, our absolute enthusiasm and our ability to cheerlead for each other.

We attend these classes for a variety of reasons. Many of us have children who belong to the studio and we adore the instructor almost as deeply as our children love her. We wanted in on the fun! It’s also exercise. And a mental workout. Inexpensive therapy. Risk taking. A source of entertainment.

Each week our teacher demonstrates a few steps and then turns around to look at us. She takes in our confusion and slows it all down to take us through it count by count. Often, she starts with the feet and then adds the arms in later. Sometimes, we kind of get the arms or she sees enough potential that she believes that we might. Other times, she just tells us “freedom arms!” Let the music and the steps inform you. Let your arms move and swing in your own way.

She counts us though.

1 and 2. 3, 4. 5, 6 and 7 and 8.

She makes up hilarious sounds to match the movement.

5, 6, boom, boom cha.

We giggle. We shake our heads. We muddle through. She occasionally cheers, “Yes! You’re getting it!” Sometimes she pushes, “Give me something. Let me see it in your faces. Look up!”

I love Tuesday nights.

Last week, I taught some of my students some dance steps I had learned the night before. We had gone outside for a walk in the afternoon. The sun was shining. We weren’t going to go back in anytime soon. I demonstrated and a few girls were captivated. I instantly saw in them why I go to dance every week. The reckless. The happy. The joy of movement.

They drew dance paths with sidewalk chalk. The practiced again and again. They taught other kids. A few repeated steps with some bounces and jumps was a gift they could keep on giving.

The air filled up around us like a happiness bubble one of us drew on the pavement.

These girls taught me with their giggly leaps down the fluorescent pink chalk lines that it’s not about what you look like, it’s about how you feel.

When the dancing takes over, when you are moving and smiling and sailing through space. When you dance with your friends. When there is no judgement.

Freedom arms!

I walk by my everyday people each morning. I know their stories well. Not really. Really, I have completely made them up. Yet, I mostly believe them. When I tell them to myself so often, my truth is stronger than the actual one I do not know.

There is the older man all in brown. Brown pants. Brown coat. Brown hat. He is gentle and smiley. He moves quietly and sure footed. If he walked in the forest, his footsteps wouldn’t make a sound. He always says good morning and returns my smile. I am sure he is a man of routine. His shoes have an exact spot on a rack. He never kicks them off. He walks at the same time, shops at the same time, rests at the same time. His wife is tired. She rarely joins him but they share morning coffee every day, each sipping and looking elsewhere. When he walks, he thinks of what must be done. Sometimes, he surprises himself and remembers things he thought he had forgotten. His route is long. His morning walk takes time. He never misses a day.

There is the gangly boy. A teenager actually. He has two siblings. An older brother, a more serious and wiry version of him. A younger sister, energetic and bouncy, clearly a girl in a boy’s house. Most concerned about being seen, being heard, not missing anything. Sometimes these siblings walk together. There is easy banter and comfortable silence. Usually, though, my boy is alone. He gives me sideways smiles, acknowledgement that he sees me often. I wonder about his school day. I am sure his mind is often elsewhere – happy daydreams, not teenage melancholy. I think about his parents. I am convinced that their mornings are full of bustle and busy. My boy looks happy to be walking in his own space, in the big world, with no rush around him that he needs to acknowledge. He looks like he knows the freedom a simple walk alone affords him. I imagine his Mom and Dad, lugging overstuffed bags, spilling full travel mugs of coffee, arguing over who remembered and who forgot the daily things that must be attended to. Their son, meanwhile, lopes along, quite carefree, open to a new day.

There is the lady in the pink raincoat. It’s Vancouver. She wears it often. Her boots are practical. She always has an umbrella even if it just hints of rain. I don’t really think about where she is going or what she might do there. Her pace is determined but she carries with her an aura of where she has been. She lives in an apartment she has had for years. It is plain and dull on the outside. Inside it is tiny and hers. There are windows of succulents. Shelves full of books. A kitchen full of tea and spices and bowls of oranges. She has favourite chairs at different times of day. She sits in the kitchen in the morning, drinking hot tea and making lists. Her evenings are spent curled up on her couch reading, thinking, studying. If she is home in the day, she sits in her window and watches people walk by, noticing their movements more than their faces. This is not her forever city. She is here to get something done. Soon, she will return to a place full of sisters and neighbours and friends. When she walks down the street there, she will always say hello.

These are my everyday people. I know who they might be.

I am participating in the Slice of Life challenge to write and publish a post every day in March.

Slice of Life is hosted by Two Writing Teachers. I thank them for the community they provide. Read more slices here.