This past weekend I was once again reminded of why Saskatchewan is such an amazing place to live. When you live in a sparsely populated province that produces winters filled with snow and ice and brutally cold weather and then follows it with a “summer” of flooding and tornados – you have no choice but to rely on your neighbors. This land breeds hardy stock; folks who live their lives with integrity and authenticity. You won’t find six degrees of separation here – it usually only takes two to find a connection – to a cousin, a hockey team, a small town you lived in the year you worked a construction crew.

Spending time at the “cabin” (oh no, we don’t call it “cottage country” here in Saskatchewan) is another link that binds many of us together.

My family has been blessed by the foresight of my grandfather; who first camped at Sunset Bay on the shores of Emma Lake back in the 1940’s and then bought a lake front lot from Mr. Guise when he subdivided his land in the 50’s. The main cabin was built in 1958 and the “new” addition went on in the late 60’s. While we have made a few necessary renovations in the years since we took it over (like a sink in the bathroom and a deck that has more square feet than the cabin itself) it retains much of the original construction. We fondly refer to it as “the heritage site” – a place people can visit and reminisce about the good old days when you had an outhouse, an ice shed and you walked to the pump at the bottom of the hill for your drinking water.

We are surrounded by other fourth generation lake people and I used to recite the names of all the families on Guise beach during countless trips down the back lane, heading to the store at Macintosh Point.

Last July our Emma Lake friends and family were staggered by the sudden deaths of Jordan and of Ian Buckwold – two unexpected and tragic losses within weeks of each other. The support we have received has truly meant the difference between standing and collapsing. Last weekend we had the honor and the pleasure of gathering with many of our lake community to share a meal and witness the unveiling of The Neural Health project – an initiative that Greg and I firmly believe will change the outcome for all the other Jordan’s out there.

Greg has often talked about the layers that bipolar disease wrapped around Jordan’s mind and how those layers changed Jordan’s perception of the world and how others perceived him. But we always knew that somewhere in in his mind was still the real Jordan. So “Somewhere in Mind” feels like the perfect tag line for the Neural Health Project. We need to change the system. We need to get somewhere other than where we are. We don’t yet know exactly what that end result looks like, but it’s out there. We have somewhere in mind and we have started the journey towards it.

 It was such a humbling experience and I have searched for days to find words that would adequately express our gratitude to those involved for opening their hearts and their homes to host those spectacular dinners and for the passion with which they are approaching the neural health project.

Listening to them describe their vision and seeing how their message resonated with the audience, having people approach us during the evening to express their commitment to the project and to honoring Jordan – it touched us deeply.

It wasn’t an easy weekend – telling Jordan’s story always comes with an emotional cost. In my more selfish moments I sometimes wonder why I am fighting for the greater good when nothing I do will bring my boy back. And I am often left feeling guilty after sharing our experience – wondering what Jordan would think about us sharing his story so publicly and so honestly. Would he see it as a betrayal of his privacy or would he approve of us finding somewhere positive to direct our grief?

As we pulled away from the cabin Monday morning, a crow circled in the sky above and “Cups”  began to play on the radio. Message received son. We’ll carry on.

Summer is trying so desperately to push its way past that bully Winter and his soggy sister Spring. My lilacs are finally blooming and a month’s worth of dog poop is steaming in the sun.

I’ve been noticing small changes in myself as well. Not a lessening of the grief (that is an ever present, and as July 30^th looms closer, increasingly greedy companion), but rather a letting go of all the ingrained behavior that resulted from living with Jordan’s disease. Twice this week my cellphone battery fully drained – and I wasn’t filled with panic. I even ventured out on an errand without it clutched tightly in my hand. Now when the house phone rings, I rarely answer – confident that it is just an annoying telemarketer rather than someone calling about Jordan or Jordan calling for help. When I let Niko in from his final pee of the day, I flip the lock on the kitchen door to the deck without a second thought – no longer worried about ensuring Jordan had easy access to the house should he arrive home in the middle of the night keyless and paranoid.

No one lives alone with mental illness. Those who love them have their lives changed forever in subtle and not so subtle ways. We will always carry the emotional scars from Jordan’s illness and his subsequent death – but I have to confess that it is a relief to feel that ever present fear and worry starting to fade away.

 Clara Hughes rides into town today – 86 days into her 110 day journey across every province and territory – delivering the message that Canadian’s need to start talking openly about mental illness.

Here’s hoping that this extraordinary physical challenge has the same impact on mental health that Terry Fox‘s run has had on cancer research. That it provides a means and opportunity to keep the conversation about mental health going and results in meaningful change.

Michael Wilson, the former finance minister whose son Cameron suffered from depression and took his own life in 1995, and who himself has done so much for mental health, has talked often about the need to normalize mental illness.

“People should be as comfortable talking about mental illness as they are talking about heart disease or diabetes. If we can bring mental illness into the open, maybe we can avoid some of these tragedies,” Michael says.

At least 1 in 5 Canadians will struggle with a mental illness in their lifetimes – and 2 out of 3 won’t seek the help they need because of the stigma surrounding the disease. The beliefs that people hold regarding mental health and addictions can make them reluctant to seek help, to admit that they have a problem, or to tell family members or friends. When they do seek help, they sometimes experience stigma from the very health professionals who are supposed to treat them

 All of the data suggests that reducing stigma and increasing the general public’s awareness and knowledge of mental health and addictions issues could result in people seeking help sooner, and improving the quality of their lives.

 “We are social beings who need one another. We need to talk about what ails us, or what’s on our minds, but many still can’t when the illness is a mental one, and the loneliness of that can be a killer” (Christie Blatchford)

I have often reflected on the fact that if Jordan’s issue had been a brain tumor instead of an alteration in his brain chemistry, how very different his path would have been. The system would have spent hundreds of thousands of dollars trying to save his life. He would have had access to numerous specialists and treatments. His friends might have shaved their heads in support, or run a marathon, or simply stood by and understood that he couldn’t help his odd behavior. It was the disease’s fault.

As a society, we have spent millions of dollars on cancer; in research, on treatment and drugs and in ribbons and armbands. Don’t misunderstand me, cancer has touched my family directly and I have lost people dear to me to cancer. I know too well the suffering of those parents who despite heroic efforts paid the ultimate price in the loss of their child to this horrible disease.

I am simply asking for what Clara is asking for. A broader conversation. A normalizing of mental illness. A recognition that my child, and yours, deserved heroic efforts too.

So I will be attending the “Mindful Evening” event tonight, wearing my “Clara’s Big Ride” tshirt and listening with admiration to this heroic woman speak about her ongoing struggle with depression. I will likely shed a few tears about the fact that this conversation is occurring too late to save my son, but I continue to hope that telling his story makes the conversation richer and will lead to a better future for all the other Jordans out there.

There are moments and places that call out for your soul to return (especially when you wake to an air temperature of minus 36!!!)

Everyone who has known the joy of travel can name that “happy little foreign town,” where you danced and laughed and fell in love with a place that made your soul feel like it had finally found its home. It’s the place you find find your mind going back to time and again, and for a very lucky few, you actually do get to return.

Often it’s the town not mentioned in Lonely Planet; the one you found when you got off the bus at the wrong stop, or the car broke down, or you shared a hostel room with someone who had just come from there. It’s the restaurant without a sign, the bar tucked away in a back alley, the deserted beach at the end of an overgrown footpath.

For Greg that place is Mooloolaba, a beach town just north of Brisbane where the Mooloolah River meets the Coral Sea. It was here in 1983 that Greg and Neal, fresh out of the College of Engineering and at the beginning of their Down Under tour, met three Aussies (Al, Dale, Deb) who would offer them a house to stay in and friendship that has lasted 30 years.

Twenty years later Greg would fulfill a promise to himself and return to Australia with his family in tow and revisit many of the places he loved. Including this quintessential Australian swimming hole (Al and Dale in 1983 on the left, Greg and his boys in 2003)

Ten years after that epic family adventure, Greg and Lucas would return again in the fall of 2012. For Greg it was to complete the goals of the international Engineering Fellowship in Asset Management that he had been awarded. For Lucas it was a gift to celebrate his graduation from high school. A second generation created their own memories as Lucas and Deb’s three girls pose under the same waterfall their parents had played in.

And that second generation continues to connect. This past December Dale’s son Ashley entertained Greg’s niece Mackenzie – putting her up in their home and showing her all that Mooloolaba has to offer – including a trip to the famous swimming hole… 

So I believe it’s true – you can go home again. Whether it’s to the home of your childhood or the place your soul found and claimed as home. And someday I fully expect that Lucas will be standing by that swimming hole with his son or daughter – and a third generation of Chartier’s will discover magical, beautiful Mooloolaba.

I am a big fan of the writings of  Anne Lamott. My copy of her book “Bird by Bird; Instructions on Life and Writing” is pretty ragged – filled with turned down corners, yellow highlighter and notated sentences. She expresses herself with this self-deprecating, honest humor and you find yourself reading a paragraph and thinking “Oh my god that is exactly how I feel.” Anne is a recovering alcoholic, a single mom, a lover of dogs, and a firm believer in a higher power.

I’ve struggled with the concepts and precepts of organized religion most of my life.  But I always felt that there had to be something “more” out there; some force that intervenes at key points in history and says “Whoops, I think you folks better go left here instead of right”. How else do you explain the presence on earth of people like Nelson Mandela, Mother Theresa, and Malala Yousufzai?  There are too many stories of miracles and near death experiences not to at least make you pause and wonder if there is something more out there.

Then Jordan died.

And as Alexander Hemon so eloquently describes in his account of his infant daughter’s death, we “stood in the moment that divided our lives into before and after;  where before was forever locked from entry, and after was exploding into a dark hole of pain.” And I found it impossible to believe that there was a God, or any kind of benevolent force at work. There is no meaning in Jordan’s death – just a gaping void in the world.

Eventually  I found myself envying those around me with strong faith – who were comforted by their absolute belief that Jordan is in a better place. Never having had such certainty and conviction I found myself searching for a way to find similar peace.

One evening, when we had finally reached a point that we could safely venture out in the world, we resumed our Friday night tradition of supper at McNally Robinson’s and then a long browse through the book shelves. I found myself drawn to the religious section and discovered Anne had written a new book  “Help. Thanks. Wow. The three essential prayers”.

How brilliant is that? Calling for help when you realize you, and the world, are broken beyond your ability to repair, giving thanks for blessings big and small, and expressing awe at those things that so extremely dwarf our human capabilities. To Lamott, prayer is quite simply about honesty, a desire to connect with something outside of ourselves and a willingness to invite light and air into our dark, stagnant places.

Prayer is private, even when we pray with others. It is communication from the heart to that which surpasses understanding. To the Good, the force that is beyond our comprehension but that in our pain or supplication or relief we don’t need to define or have proof of any established contact with.

Prayer can be motion and stillness and energy – all at the same time. It begins with stopping in our tracks, or with our backs against the wall, or when we are going under the waves or when we are just so sick and tired of being psychically sick and tired that we surrender, or at least we finally stop running away and at long last walk or lurch or crawl toward something. Or maybe, miraculously, we just release our grip slightly.

Most of us figure out by a certain age – some of us later than others – that life unspools in cycles, some lovely, some painful, but in no predictable order. So you have lovely, painful and painful again, which I think we all agree is not at all fair.

Sometimes we find ourselves hurt beyond any reasonable chance of healing. We are haunted by our failures and mortality. And yet, the world keeps on spinning, and in our grief, rage, and fear a few people keep on loving us and showing up. It’s all motion and stasis, change and stagnation. Awful stuff happens and beautiful stuff happens and it’s all a part of the big picture.

We are too often distracted by the need to burnish our surfaces, to look good so that other people won’t know what screwed up messes we, or our mate or kids or finances, are. But if you gently help yourself back to the present moment, you see how life keeps stumbling along and how you may actually find your way through another ordinary or impossible day.

Most humbling of all is to comprehend the lifesaving gift that your pit crew of people has been for you, and all the experiences you have shared, the journeys together, the collaborations, births and deaths, divorces, rehab, and vacations, the solidarity you have shown one another. Every so often you realize that without all of them, your life would be barren and pathetic.

The marvel is only partly that somehow you lured them into your web twenty years ago, forty years ago, and they totally stuck with you. The more astonishing thing is that these greatest of all possible people feel the same way about you – horrible, grim, self-obsessed you. What a great scam, to have gotten people of such extreme quality and loyalty to think you are stuck with them. Oh my God. Thank you.

We pray without knowing much about whom we are praying to. We pray not really knowing what to pray for. We pray not really knowing how to pray. But just as Samuel Beckett admonished us to fail again and fail better, we try to pray again, and pray better, for slightly longer and with slightly more honesty, breathe and think more deeper, and with more attention.

Help. Thanks. Wow.

It is a work in progress.