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Story Day in Newfoundland: Holding Many Emotions

It’s early morning and the sky is red. Red at night, sailor’s delight; red in the morning, sailor’s warning. Isn’t that what they say? I have been thinking about references like that ever since landing in St. John’s, Newfoundland, the site of the most recent Story Day.

Newfoundland is the home of my husband. The first time I was ever here was to meet his family. That was in the 90’s. The first time I saw St. John’s was on that same trip. We took a bus from his hometown of Springdale on a May long weekend- it snowed. I have the pictures printed on film to prove it.

Since that time I have grown to love this island: the salt water air, the ever present scent of wood smoke, the ponds and lakes and massive ocean, the tea with carnation milk, the boil-ups of just picked mussels on the beach, the hospitality of the people and the lyrical quality of their speech, and the way I have been enfolded- despite being a mainlander from Toronto.

As is the case so often for me, I am holding both sorrow and joy as I reflect on being back in this province, what many call The Rock. I am here with my daughter Cate, my team from The Dale, and many beloved colleagues and friends. My husband’s absence is glaring. Dion lives in Long Term Care because of Multiple Sclerosis. Though we looked into ways to get him here, the obstacles to travel were simply too big. Commercial flights need to do better for people who are in wheelchairs.

And so, I am holding a variety of emotions. As a poem that a friend showed me yesterday says, “Some of you say, ‘Joy is greater than sorrow’, and others say, ‘Nay, sorrow is the greater.’ But I say unto you, they are inseparable”. (Gibran)

My sorrow has peaked at moments that I know Dion would have loved. I hate what MS continues to take from him and our family. While he has been supportive of all of this happening, I know that it has come at a cost.

My joy has been found in helping to curate and co-create a space where people shared vulnerable stories of their own experiences of isolation and belonging. The theme, “You Are Not Alone” has proved appropriate and necessary. I have loved standing back and listening to the murmur of people connecting through conversation, laughter and tears. Witnessing people listen across difference, even when it may have caused discomfort or concern has been beautiful. I was asked to dance at a pub in front of all of my people, and instead of saying no I said yes. Another friend curated a moment for me on the edge of the easternmost point of North America at Cape Spear, by slipping her headphones over my ears and playing a song that helped me consider the landscape and the Creator with awe. Travelling with The Dale team is always a dream, as is hearing people comment on our deep connection. Having my beloved Cate in the mix is the best.

Story Day is no longer in its infancy. We were in pandemic times when I first started to dream of an event where people motivated by faith in Jesus to address issues of poverty and injustice could gather around storytelling, music and food. Since then we have held multiple gatherings in Toronto, with an expansion to Montreal last year. It was just this past Wednesday that people from across Canada came together in St. John’s.

Something is growing. There is an undeniable momentum to Story Day. I can feel it- in the rooms, in the conversations, in the courage it takes for people to show up and share. It’s exciting. And, if I’m honest, a little bit scary. I care deeply about what is happening, and I want to hold what is mine well, and what is not, loosely.

From the poem I referenced before: “The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain”. As I look back out the window, I notice the sky is no longer red with warning. It has dissolved into a soft and light blue.

Posted on by erinnoxford · 1 Comment

My Yellow Shoes

I got some new yellow shoes.

There is a lot to process in my life right now. Dion’s ongoing reality with Multiple Sclerosis, numerous losses at The Dale, and the fragile state of the world all sit with weight together. It makes for a heavy heart and a churning mind.

So you might wonder why I’m talking about my shoes.

At different points of crisis in my life, I’ve been reminded of the necessity of being present to the moment. Not dwelling in the past or living in an imagined future has never come easily to me. The last fourteen years, especially, have been a long season of learning. Sometimes that learning has been very physical. I’ve placed a hand on either side of my head and quite literally guided myself back to what is right in front of me: a cup of coffee, dishes in the sink, the squirrel that munches on the mulberries in my backyard, a board game at the drop-in. It has taken that kind of intentionality to begin building a new muscle.

Any personality test I’ve ever taken points to my tendency toward caregiving. It’s true. I often focus on the needs of others, sometimes to the detriment of my own. My mind easily shifts into anticipating and preparing for the next challenge or crisis. There is some good in that, but left unchecked it can quietly pull me away from the present.

Over time, I’ve come to understand how important it is for me to balance that heart-focus with something more physical and grounding. This means paying attention to my body. And this is where my shoes come in, helping me feel my feet on the ground.

Given the intensity of this season, I decided a new pair of shoes might help anchor me, in my body and in the present moment. I put them on and notice the cushioning beneath my feet. The bright pop of yellow makes me smile. As I walk, I try to settle into each step. I imagine myself rooted.

I’ve long been drawn to John O’Donohue’s reflection on the quiet poise of trees, their ability to integrate loss, change, and darkness with a kind of dignity. He writes, “Letting go of old forms of life, a tree practices hospitality towards new forms of life.” That’s what I long for, to be so deeply rooted that I can withstand the storms.

I know this kind of rootedness isn’t something I can manufacture through effort alone. My faith shapes how I move through all of this, leaning on a strength that is not my own. On my first walk in those yellow shoes, a simple refrain kept rising: “I am weak, but Thou art strong.”

They are, in the end, just a regular pair of shoes.
But for me, they are a reminder of so much.