Telling our stories.

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Lately I have been seeing people post links to my blog when asked which blogs people follow and loved. I am always surprised by this! It feels so natural and not a big deal for me to share my thoughts and stories. I don’t put a lot of thought into the blog posts exactly as I am not focused on editing or having a perfect blog. I put a lot of thought and heart into life and that’s what I am hoping to convey in my writing. I type my raw stories on a smartphone wherever the moment should strike. So I am always surprised when people follow and adore my stories. I forget how much our stories mean. Storytelling is what makes us so uniquely human. Everywhere I look I see life tangled up with our love of stories.
I’m downtown Gravelbourg right now after a snow storm, as you see in the picture above. I can see old men at coffee with their stories, probably the same ones they have been telling for thirty years. We can become so attached to our stories…
Deep snow tracks through main street along with the sound of shovels on cement and humming of snow blowers tell me the story of mother natures delivery last night. I can also predict a future story that says the fields will be wet and nourished for the spring planting. The dug outs will overflow with their watery life willing and ready to complete the cycles once again.
We have so many stories. Which ones of mine would you like to hear? We all have our tales of disbelief, and I am no exception. Many tell me to put my life in a book, but even at nearly 30 years old, the book would be too long.
I’ve lived many lives, tried on many faces.
The things that have really shaped me are the things I’ve loved so easily. Like when I was gifted a pair of rabbit fur mukluks as a child. I loved the softness and the warmth but mostly I loved how real the snow felt beneath my feet. I could feel all of its texture and contours.
I spent most of my teenage years seeking a place for a place to belong. No one had ever told me that where we are, we belong. And so I searched..
I was lucky enough to have one friend who truly felt like home after my parents separated when I was twelve. But my home was not often homey feeling even before the separation despite my amazing parents. Their stories had been too painful and it shadowed the natural instincts to raise a child, or two; my brother and I.
My mother was born on a reserve, the oldest of six children. She was moved to an orphanage when she was nine, I believe and then a foster home at twelve. Can you imagine her stories?
My father was a child of five children and one mother. I can see his story of brotherhood is deep and his admiration of a mother that gave everything with multiple jobs to show them every bit of her world. Art and music was, and still is, important to them. The story of the non-existent alcoholic father always lingered in the air, it still does. My Aunt, the only girl has sworn to never touch alcohol because of this. They are all do strong and amazingly unique with their stories. They could each be a book too, we all could.
So, my teenage years… I found a place with kinship and cooperation. It was a whole other world and I became obsessed with it.
It was a Mexican Circus.
For the next nine years I would dedicate my thoughts and heart to being a part of this circus. I didn’t realize that it was the thing we are all missing and truly desire: To feel like we belong.
The story gets even more interesting but I’m not quite there yet…
Thank you for listening to my story.
Tell me yours so we can be human.

Nadine

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6 responses »

  1. Hi, this is Emily again. When you said your mother was Native, I was surprised: thinking back to when you had your hair blond, you didn’t look Native. But looking through your children’s pictures, I can see that your oldest son, Michael, definitely has Aboriginal features. It’s funny how physical characteristics can skip generations: for example, I have green eyes and my brother has blue eyes, but my daughter has brown eyes like my mother.

    • Hi Emily. I don’t have blond hair, nor have I ever. It could have been the light? My son, Michael is half Mexican. I will post some more pictures, and you can let me know what you think. 🙂

      • It was probably the light. Also, blondness is a bit like beauty: in the eye of the beholder. Now your hair definitely does not look blond in your most recent pictures.

        So you think your son gets his looks from your side or his father’s? Sometimes it’s hard to decipher!

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