Once again inspired to blog by the rolling scenes of a film, this time Last Chance Harvey, I wonder if everyone beyond the age of a child lives with deep regret, a pained memory that tugs on their heartstrings, a fork in the road where they steered right instead of left. I certainly do.

Does that, in of itself, make me human? Is that the singular thread that ties us all together?

Those who haven’t seen this slow-unfolding Dustin Hoffman flick haven’t seen the bruised, pulpy basket of apples that I picked some seven years ago, the you-can’t-win-kind-of-situation that ultimately led to me… losing.

You see, I am the product of a typical North American family. Two mothers, two fathers, a half sister and two half brothers. This is what I grew to know since knee-high to a grasshopper… or, in terms of age: 2. It always made perfect sense to me… until one day, it didn’t. The day I graduated high school, and I came face-to-face with that time honored tradition of dancing with my father(s).

Do I flip a coin? Draw straws? Play a mean game of One Potato, Two Potato?

For all those wondering, I split the dance into quarters. Step-father (who raised me since I was knee-high to a grasshopper… or, in terms of age: 2.). Mother. Father (who remained in my life… on weekends to start, then bi-weekly, then, monthly and on holidays and special occasions). And, finally, my grandfather.

Fast forward some seven years later, and I was faced with Unnatural Selection once more. The walking-down-the-aisle-dilemma. I didn’t want to break hearts (I had never done so before, why start now?), I didn’t want to leave anyone out (I had always been keen at sharing), but somehow I managed to do both. In one fell swoop.

What I wanted was for both the man who was responsible for creating me and the man who was responsible for bandaging my scraped knees to take the long walk with me towards my brand-new life. Somehow that vision imploded, and what I was left with was a father who kept his distance from even the boundaries of my wedding day. He never saw his only daughter in her wedding gown. Or, heard her say her vows.

Six years later, I wish I could give him that moment back. All of those moments.

So, thank you Harvey. I am much wiser for seeing it through my father’s eyes.

When life hands us lemons, we are apparently supposed to make lemonade. But, what happens when life hands us lemonade, a semi-sweet version of something once sour?

It seems as though we thrive in finding ways to refine an already-enhanced bi-product because we are rarely satisfied with what we have in hand. In recognizing the silver-lining only under negative duress, I wonder, do our hectic lives blur all the lovely bits of life taking place around us each moment?

Regardless of our current situation – our occupation, financial outlook, relationship status – we are driven by the need to improve; to do better, to be better. Contentment becomes impossible as we manoeuvre through a walled maze like mice in a bad science experiment. Instead, perhaps, maybe we should stop for even a split second to appreciate the road we have traveled rather than focus solely on the journey ahead.

In standing still and contemplating what we have when we have it, we are more likely to stop the agonizing stretch of living outside of the moment.

There are tangible memories, those of which are yellowed and glued to the pages of a photo-album, names and dates scrolled on small pieces of paper indicating the who and what of it all. They are joyous occasions of weddings and birthdays, ear-to-ear grins and bath-time bubbles –the foundation that life is built on.

There are also memories that exist solely in pixels, fragmented pieces of an experience that somehow fit together – even when we wish they didn’t. There, imprinted on our hearts, those fragile moments stay – even when we wish they wouldn’t.

And, if we could walk a day in someone else’s shoes, only then would we realize how even though the journey is different, the beginning and end are the same. Defining moments are found somewhere in between, the nuts and bolts that hold us together.

Taking a train ride down the track toward Would-have-Could-have-Should-have, we know the obvious stations to get off at. Hindsight, as they say, is always 20/20. But life doesn’t work in reverse. Without a magic potion to take us back to yesterday, last year or a decade ago, we have to be ok with what we have done… said… chosen.

But there’s an upside to not doing the right thing the first go-round…

It gives us the footing to be better, to think rationally, to grow and smile and be healthy. Reflecting on the years of wasted energy in attempting to connect the dots to form someone other than myself, I somehow think that had I not gone through that, I wouldn’t appreciate this nearly as much.

Maybe regret can exist only when we doubt the importance of the memories we’re most afraid to learn from…

This time of year always pulls heavy on my heartstrings, I become acutely aware of how quickly days slip away and memories fade into the next. I grow weepy and reminiscent each April 14, of all that I have experienced since first becoming a mother. I marvel at the lovely little person before me, the one I created in a span of only nine months.

Watching her attempt to blow out all eight of her birthday candles, I smile while fighting back the urge to cry. I wonder what she wishes for… and if, by chance, it’s hidden under the shiny gift wrap and curly ribbon. She looks at me with her huge hazel eyes and I can’t help but think back to the first time she was placed in my arms… that same beautiful gaze staring back at me.

I tuck her into bed, kissing her cheeks, knowing that we have already begun the journey to her 9th birthday. Moments dissolve with such haste that I wish I had it all back to relive but instead I realize the importance of appreciating what I have when I have it. This is the birthday gift she has given to me.

Happy birthday, Meleigha. I love you always.

She rises from her cozy bed to begin her day, disappointed at the cold nipping at her toes.  Hunting for chocolate within her advent calendar, she realizes there are only sixteen sleeps remaining before the jolly old elf and his team of flying reindeer will arrive on our rooftop.  She claps her hands together in delight, her eyes filled full of wonder as she anticipates the magic that Christmas morning will bring.

Twinkling lights strung through mossy green garland break the morning darkness and the warm scent of gingerbread seems to linger in every last corner of our home.  Crafty decorations held together with globs of glitter and paste dot the branches of our spindly tree as wired gold ribbon, laced in circles, shimmers slightly.  Her eyes widen as she processes every last detail – the wool stockings which hang so expectantly from the mantle, the Nutcracker standing so stately upon the hearth, the cranberry wreath welcoming friends and family to our door.  Together, we lose ourselves in the senses of the holidays.

We watch as puffs of white crystals fall softly from the sky before dusting the ground with their frosty kisses.  I imagine them caressing my eyelashes and my nose as a verse from “My Favorite Things” plays melodiously in my mind.  I travel back in time, recalling moments of prickly cheeks and snow angels.  Now, I watch my daughter take pleasure in those same offerings, her chatter broken by laughter as she trudges through knee-high powder.  This is the wonderland that is winter.

She stretches, her long limbs tangle in the soft blankets as she pulls herself from another peaceful journey to Nod.  A new day is dawning, one filled with curiosity and good intention.

Silently she searches for her favorite friend – a tattered bear who has not left her side since they were first introduced.  His worn brown fur smells exactly like her and his stitched-button nose is nearly threadbare from her endless kisses.  He is her everything.

At seven years old she is my definition of beauty and grace.  I lose myself in her tiny details – a lone freckle at the base of her nose,  sparkly-painted fingernails,  skin that is as soft as it was the day she was born.  She is my everything.

Filled with a quiet exuberance, she lives to observe the fluttering of butterflies and the steps of a dancer, making me long for that same innocence.  Her excited chatter is broken by youthful laughter, her smile revealing a mixture of both baby and adult teeth.  My little girl is growing up.

We curl around each other, mother and daughter, reciting the same verse we have since she was newborn, expressing a love for each other that will never end.  I want to slow time down, make each second last longer than it does.  As day passes to night, she seems to grow a little more while needing me a little less.  I string together memories and photographs, watching her metamorphosis from infant to toddler to child to… the development of her being so obvious and natural in hindsight.

As a child, I believed that growing up was the greatest challenge I would face.  As a parent, I now realize that letting go is far more difficult.

The world, a tangled mess of war and famine, remains a beautiful thing. So often the minute details, the individual stitches that hold the patchwork together, are overlooked. It becomes natural to miss the very thing that reflects back at you. In discovering life, the one I live my experiences in, I have noticed things I never have before – one season spilling into another, patterns in strawberry fields, long shadows cast by tall trees. Feeling a bit like Alice after she plummeted down the rabbit hole, my perspective has morphed from cavalier to a deeper understanding.

Images of pastoral settings weigh heavy on my heart, calling to mind memories of lush grass tickling my bandaged knees while the scent of honeysuckle, so sweet and pungent, fills the air with richness. Stretching upwards to the bellies of the clouds, the amber colored rocks of a steep mountainside stack up unevenly like the thick chapters of a classic Dickens novel, so wonderfully disjointed. I hear my sister between broken giggles, a melodic offering of tag-you’re-it. Her long hair streaked with gold catches in the sunlight as she pulls me back to reality.

Summer is already being cast aside for the cooler months that autumn offers, the leaves once an elaborate shade of jade, now yellowing slightly while loosening their grip on the twisted branches of trees. Soon, the days will be short and the nights will be frosty.

Droplets of rain trickle down the windowpane like tears on the cheeks of a young child, creating wet pathways along their journey. Quenching the dry earth of its thirst, petals cower against the weight of the shower while rainbow pools of gasoline puddle upon the pavement. Stars cling to their black canvass like little pinpricks in a piece of paper, breaking the darkness with their constant light. The dulcet drumming lulls me off to dream.

The arrival of summer brings the usual festive traditions, those friendly reminders that take me back to my childhood; the smell of grilling hot dogs on the barbeque, the feel of wet sand between my toes, the taste of cold lemonade bought for 25¢ from a road-side stand.  It is all so familiar, like a long-lost best friend that I grew to count on.

At six years old, freedom was found on the seat of Pink Missy.  Complete with sparkly tasseled handlebars and multi-colored Spokey Dokes, my pink and white bicycle allowed me to explore the world (or at least the small town I grew up in) with ease and confidence.  Sitting ever-so keenly in my basket was my prized possession, my sidekick if you will – Miss. Piggy, a yellow and pink stuffed friend who was given to me my very first Christmas from Uncle Frank.  She ventured everywhere I did… and without question or hesitation.  She was one courageous pig, I tell you!

It never occurred to either of us to be wary of scraped knees or loss of stuffing, though we both have scars to prove an otherwise unsafe expedition; she with her gnarly re-stitching performed by my older sister, me with my rather extensive knowledge of what it feels like to have a bare-skin-meets-loose-gravel kind of situation.

No matter how many times we tumbled and didn’t make it home as intact as we were when we departed, our routine never changed.  Each morning, we left when the grass was still wet with dew, each night we returned when the sun was kissing the horizon.  It was how I learned to tell time, the indicators that referenced where I was supposed to be at any given moment.

Life was easy then.  I sustained myself on a diet of peanut butter sandwiches and Tahiti Treat (an odd combination though surprisingly complimentary) and paid little attention to the fact that I wore ill-matching clothes and my Shirley Temple-like perm left little to be desired.  I had cheeks that resembled a chipmunk and a little round belly that, in my frilly red bikini, stuck out in the most adorable way.  Beyond that, my legs were speckled with mosquito bites and bruises and my pronunciation of simple words like baseball and shorts always caused a giggle or two.  When it came down to it, all of that equated to very little.   The only thing that concerned me was what was around the next corner, what the next adventure Miss. Piggy and I had ahead of us on good ol’ Pink Missy.

While I may never don another red bikini with such reckless abandon, I would love to live life the way I did then… taking pleasure in the simple things.

With the outbreak of the swine flu, I, like many other travelers, have been re-routed from Mexico to another tropical destination.  There was only one option available at relatively the same cost as my already-paid for trip – Cuba.

Initially, I was hesitant with the vacation switch-up.  I had heard varying stories from someone-who-knew-someone-who-went-to-Cuba; from rave reviews of the country and its people to warnings of theft and poverty.  Suggestions of ‘bring your own food’ seemed to come from every direction which silently equated to losing space in my luggage for that extra pair of strappy sandals.

These issues aside, it wasn’t the concern of water contamination nor the possible language barrier that had me fearful.  It was the insects (namely, CRs – an acronym I have given to a certain creepy bug; see Disney’s Wall-E for further reference).

It took several years of discussion before I finally worked up the courage to plan the trip to Mexico.  As someone who can’t read, hear or speak the actual words that the letters CR represent, it’s not surprising to know that even “La Cucharacha”, a stereotypical mariachi band song, has been known to send me into a fear-induced tailspin.  Recently, I had reached a peaceful place of denial that they didn’t really exist in Mexico… but Cuba?  I hadn’t made it that far in my ignorant belief system yet.

Then, as the travel plans were confirmed, I took a deep breath and made a decision to close my ears and open my mind.

Having thought about the negative feedback I had been given, I realized that I can find these very same issues here in Canada.  Poverty?  Sad, but true.  Theft?  A daily occurrence.  Water Contamination?  Why else would there be ‘boil water advisories’?  Language Barriers?  Of course, we are a multi-cultural nation after all.  Insects?  As much as I hate to admit it, yes, we have CRs here too.

As travelers, we need to look beyond the unpaved roads of commerce and the lack of convenience that we have grown accustomed to, otherwise is there really any purpose for exploring our planet?  To open ourselves up to a world of experience and culture means that each of us has a greater understanding of what it means to live.

Instead of heading into this vacation with worries and expectations, I have decided to accept whatever comes my way… even if it’s crawling across the ground.