Three Things

Dear readers today's blog entry has me reflecting on Mary Oliver's "Three Things to Remember." For me, these memories are tied to my childhood home, its melodies, and my short venture into classical ballet.

My childhood home was always alive with music. The soulful strains of rebetika harmonized with the uplifting church hymns and the heartfelt Laika. Yet, our musical realm wasn't just Greek. Johnny Cash and Elvis had their regular solos, occasionally interrupted by the energetic polkas of the Lawrence Welk Show. In this home, where music was a constant companion, dance was its natural partner.

I still remember the surprise when, at six, my parents enrolled me in ballet. It seemed out of place. The defined and deliberate movements of ballet stood in contrast to the spontaneous rhythm of our home. Every lesson, I felt the tug of the freer dance I knew, but my feet were bound to a strict choreography. By 10 my body and my will both changed. The strict confines of ballet no longer held me. Instead, I found a different kind of freedom, skating in loops at the Kitsilano community centre. Skating didn’t require formal lessons, but the joy of movement and the freedom I felt were real.

In both the ballet studio and the icy arena of the community skating rink, deeper lessons awaited me. Now, I see that Nicolas and Evangelia, were guiding me through the dances of their past, shaping me with the rhythm of their experiences.

Many, many years later, as my father battled cancer, he finally found the courage to share stories I had never heard. He told me about his youth in war-torn Athens, where the mere sound of Nazi boots would make a young Nicolas so afraid, he'd wet himself. In their need to survive, his family traded their home for a sack of spoiled barley. His stories emphasized the difficult choices made to persevere.

And, after my father passed, and my mother Evangelia came to live with me and my new family, I came to see that her vibrant spirit, had shadows too. It was only when dementia clouded her memories that I learned of her time in a labour camp during the war. It was my uncle, her brother, that shared her painful memories, ones she had kept locked away, to protect me, or maybe herself.

Mary Oliver in her poem "Three Things to Remember" writes, “As long as you're dancing, you can break the rules." For my parents, introducing me to ballet might have been an attempt to create some new rules, a new rhythm in this foreign land. An effort to paint over their war-torn past, to redefine boundaries and give me what they never had: the choice to dance as I wished.

In the same poem, Oliver shares “Sometimes breaking the rules is just extending the rules.” My shift from ballet to skating echoed this sentiment. It wasn’t about outright defiance, but rather learning to find freedom within, and occasionally beyond, boundaries.

Now, with my parents gone, their stories and dreams reside within me. Their memories, rich with pain and enduring love, are now my legacy to bear. And as Oliver reminds us, “Sometimes there are no rules.” Their stories become my dances, my songs.