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The healing power of a loving legacy

It feels like barbed wire across the heart to say goodbye to someone we love. What’s stronger than the pain? The memory of how this person made us feel.
Anyone connected to our Nova Scotia town or East Coast music needs no introduction to Fleur Mainville. But explain her to those who never had the privilege? That’s tough. Fiddler, singer, composer, recording artist, teacher, manager of our Farmer’s Market … her CV is pages long, without even touching on her role as wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, mentor, role model, community advocate, and divine spirit. She was all of these things and more, not just the sum of her parts but the energy that brought them all to bear. To meet her was to marvel at how she did so many things at once and still managed a kind word, a thoughtful gesture, or one more gig.
And now that her body has been taken by a rare and virulent cancer, we are left with the barbed wire, grinding into us the awareness of what will be no more – her voice that carried notes of crystal across a background of velvet scores, her ability to coax from four simple strings a tidal wave of delights – knee-slapping reels, fierce stories of battle, winsome laments, intricate sonatas. Her squeals of delight that preceded her all-consuming hugs, her fierce pride in community and passion for the stage, and her investment in the future by passing on her knowledge and her enthusiasm to anyone of any age open to the message.
As we wade, gasping, through the grief, we are reminded that what made Fleur such a brilliant part of our lives was not her body or her deeds: it was how she made us feel. She had a way of making each of us in her presence feel talented, beautiful, and optimistic, just as she was. We loved her; she loved us first. And now, as we mourn a life gone too soon, we are reminded that throughout our time with her it was much the same. Every gig, meeting, lunch date or evening with her ended with a hint of sadness that begged for one more hour, five more minutes, just a few more words. Now, with her spirit set free, we have all the time in the world with those feelings she evoked in us. We have the memories of our lessons with her, the conversations, the teasing grin, and the warmth she spread from the inside out.
As I write this my son is preparing for his fiddle lesson – not to take, but to give. His student is age 8, the same age he himself was when he first picked up the fiddle. For half his life Fleur stood over him, then beside him as he grew to her height and then some, imparting her wisdom on trills and rests, then strathspeys and concertos, and finally lesson plans and drills as she nudged him out of her safe harbour and toward his own stage. As he coaches his young student, I hear more than his voice. I hear Fleur’s legacy.
We could not stop the disease that took her in body, but there is no stopping the spirit that will outlast and continue to live us all. The pain will ease for us as it has vanished for her. As  the barbed wire tightens its grip, we can remember this and for me, for a moment, I smile with all my heart.

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True love story: The Tulips

It was a day I was tempted to erase from the calendar. Then a trip to the grocery store changed everything.
My dad had just been taken to hospital, again, in a city just far enough away to be beyond reach. I had just returned home only a few days before, had rescheduled appointments, needed to try and put in a few hours for pay …. and on and on. I attempted to forge on while I awaited news from Emergency, and checked my list., Buy a thank-you bouquet for a local merchant who went above and beyond in supporting our author and her book sales. I scooted into the supermarket, scanned the floral arrays, and settled on a pot of tulips, just barely beginning to open. I hustled to the checkout, one ear to my phone, a hand on my wallet, as if moving quickly would somehow get this chaotic day over with faster.
“Aren’t these lovely!”  the cashier enthused. Alice, her name tag said. A pleasant lady somewhere between my age and my mom’s, I’m guessing.
Drawn in my her warmth, I smiled and agreed.
“My husband loved tulips. When he passed away, oh, about 12 years ago now,” she paused, bag in midair, then tucked the plant inside, “we had tulips at the funeral home. All kinds of them.” She tapped the register keys. “Our best man officiated … he wasn’t a full minister when he married us,” she chatted as we waited for my debit card to be approved. “There was one big tulip that wasn’t open. But when the minister started the service, it opened. Right then. Just like that.”
I swallowed against the lump in my throat. “That was a beautiful story,” I whispered. “What an amazing thing.’
“Yes, it was,” she beamed, handing me my bag. “You have a good day.”
I was now. Even the lump in my throat suddenly became beautiful, a sign that I could be touched by another’s words, that I could feel more than resentment and exhaustion.
That is why we need to share our stories. That is love.

Thanks for reading.

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Embracing my inner hermit to be a better marketer

I come from a long line of hermits. But there are five ways that can work in my favour.

Like my ancestors, I would rather stick needles in my eyes than step into a crowded room. Then, after years of fighting this to try and market my books – and by extension, myself –  I discovered that my inner hermit could become an ally in the arena of self-promotion. Here are five examples:

1. Seeing and hearing things many others do not notice. At a party, in a classroom, in a lineup at the grocery store: all are great places to hear what folks are chatting about, interested in, and excited by. Without the constant need to talk and interact, a hermit becomes the proverbial fly on the wall, not deliberately eavesdropping but floating on the constant stream of auditory data that, when processed, can give hints for messaging, positioning, and other must-know marketing details.

2. Reading more. To avoid outside contact we will often retreat into the world of books, which is why so many writers are introverts and therefore struggle with this self-promotion thing. However, that avoidance also leads us to study brochures, menus and posters with intense interest, giving clues for phrasing, design, and details that can make a marketing program shine. Better readers make better writers, and better marketers.

3. A quiet social life. Marketing takes time. Lots of it. Very little of it fun or in keeping with what you would do in leisure hours, like hanging with family, having drinks with friends, etc etc. Without the craving for girls’ night out every week or daily phone chats with Sis, we hermits have more time to develop our marketing plans, brainstorm our campaigns, flesh out the details, and put ourselves out there to the target audience crowd. There is stress with all that interaction, but no guilt or remorse for missing something ‘fun.’

4. Deep feelings. Authenticity is not just a buzzword, it is the cornerstone of our existence, and of sustainable marketing. Hermits often isolate themserlves to avoid being drained by the constant superficial banter, bells and whistles of the world. When we do emerge or share something, the exchange is heartfelt and our audiences come to respect, and then to trust us.

5. Independence. A hermit has no need for outside validation. We are perfetly positioned to do our own thing, be original, and be unique. We do, however, need motivation to engage with a population that most days we would rather hide from, but hey, no one is perfect.

In short, no matter your personality, if you are true to yourself and share yourself authentically, you can be a successful marketer. And after a day of spreading the word you choose to lock the door and curl up with your cat and a good book, you are indeed a person after my own heart.

Thanks for reading.