Bridging the Gap

Sunny Afternoon - Karen's garden

Gillian Cornwall, c. September 2015

There are 7,6165 km (4,734.741 miles) between the city of Victoria, British Columbia, Canada and Tring, Hertfordshire, UK. No matter the technology and tools at our grasp, it's a long distance. 

This is the distance I have travelled to reach the home of my cousin with whom I have felt a closeness beyond description for most of my adult life. There are so many miles but only a few years in age between Karen and I. We grew up in the same era but in a completely different area of the globe.

My cousin, Karen, at Waddesdon Manor

Gillian Cornwall, c. September 2015

I have come back on a kind of pilgrimage, to retrace the steps of my family, to reconnect with my beloved cousin, to walk the path of my ancestors and, perhaps, to gain an understanding of what I hold as nature and what of nurture in my make up. 

My cousin and I are daughters of sisters. One sister, Marjorie, remained in England with her husband, Edward, and raised her two children, my cousins, Nick and Karen. One sister, my mother, Eunice, emigrated to Canada with her husband, Brian after having two of their children, my brothers, Chris and Bruce, in England. My parents moved to Richmond Hill, Ontario, Canada and had my youngest brother, Philip, in 1960. They moved back to England when Philip was still a babe in arms. When Phil was about a year old, they came to Canada again on the ocean liner, The Empress of Canada. Six months later, my mum gave birth to me, the fourth and last child, who was made in England and born in Canada. 

During my childhood, we travelled back to England several times - my parents having their parents and siblings here and the parent company of the business they eventually opened in Richmond Hill. We have always remained connected to this land. 

My mum's ashes are here, at Harrow on the Hill. See my article on my mum and F/O. Richard N. Foster, to gain insight into part of the reason I came back to England now. I want to further explore who my mum was before she was my mum - when she was stationed at Biggin Hill Fighter Station during the Second World War. I want to stand where she stood, to walk in her footsteps. My grandma and my Auntie Marjorie were laid to rest here.

The Church Spire at Harrow on the Hill

Dated 1047

Gillian Cornwall, c. September 2015

Part of my heart and soul are here, in the air, the soil and the people of this land. This is my first time back here in 32 years - since we brought my mum's ashes back from Canada. Like I said, it's a long way from my Victoria home. 

I'm sure this is all more than enough family history for you. What I really want to touch on is that despite the discomforts that travel unto itself can bring (right now my back is exploding in pain spasms) and the difficulty in adjusting to a new place - the differences in water, jet lag and ways of being and doing, there is greater comfort in being here with my cousin, Karen. I have longed for years to be back with my blood, my kin. There is nothing that can take the place of this relationship in my life. She and her daughter, Tess, are the only other women in my direct family line with whom I have an attachment. My cousin, Nick, has two daughters but I have not seen them since they were tiny. 

It means so much to me to be here and that Karen has welcomed me into her home. We are already saying the same thing at the same time. We eat the same types of foods. We are both strong advocates for human rights. We are different from each other as well. She knows more about our family history on the Jay side and I have this wonderful opportunity to learn from her. She is incredibly strong - physically and intellectually, with a phenomenal and admirable emotional intelligence. She has shown an enormous capacity to deal with difficult situations. I love her to the moon and back and admire her for all she has done in her life and for all she teaches me through the example of her life.

 

 My temporary home - Wigginton, near Tring

Gillian Cornwall, c. September 2015

I am grateful to be here, to have created this opportunity to walk in the path of my ancestors. There is so much to do and so many kind people who are inviting me into their lives and homes here. I wish I had the strength, ability and time to do it all! 

If there is something like this in your life that you have wanted to do, then do your best to find a way. I set aside a bit of money every month. I sold things I no longer needed nor wanted - books, jewelry, collectibles. I went into a bit more debt because I thought, if not now, then when? Also, I know I am privileged to take this journey. I am getting older and my body is weaker (trying to make it stronger!). We have this life and these people. Every day is a gift of possibility. Embrace it. Do what you can and go after your dreams and desires. 

I am so happy to be here in the midst of this adventure with the most beautiful woman - learning, growing, laughing and sharing with incredible people. 

This is The Art of Life.

-Gillian Cornwall, c. September 20, 2015

Me - Waddesdon Manor

Photo Credit - Karen Jay, c. September 2015

Homeward Bound

Edward Henry and Charlotte Ann - The Great Grandparents Cornwall

Circa late 1800s - Photographer Unknown

This is something I originally wrote a year and a half ago. Now, my trip back to the UK after 33 years absence has become a reality. In a couple of weeks, I'll be on my way.

The older I get, the more I seem to be "pining for the old country". I was made in England ;-) and born in Canada. My parents came over to Canada on the boat for the second time when Chris, the eldest, was 12, Bruce was 9 and Philip was one. I travelled as a stowaway inside my mother and I am determined that this is why I love the ocean, waves and surfing. 

One night on the crossing aboard the RMS Empress of Canada, the Atlantic was so rocky that my mother and Chris were the only two guests in the dining room along with a few service staff that were not ill with sea-sickness. My mother was very proud of that. I remember her being all chuffed up with it when she regaled us with the tale. 

We went back to England frequently as children. My parents travelled back on business with the parent company of Airflow Developments in High Wycombe, for whom they provided a Canadian branch in our hometown of Richmond Hill, Ontario - we usually made a family vacation of it. We went back to visit relatives and friends of my parents and to explore their favourite vacation spots. There were places that, even as a child, blew my mind. Among them were the grandeur, history and tradition of both the University of Oxford and Cambridge University, the size and wonder of Stonehenge - standing below one of the great upright monoliths in awe, St Paul's Cathedral and the Whispering Gallery, the  rolling countryside of the Cotswolds and meeting the siblings of my mum's wartime love on their farm near Stow on the Wold and feeling the love and intensity of loss between them and my mum. Lyme Regis and the Alexandra Hotel, where we met another family with kids and my brother and I fell for the same girl - tragically and, of course, she fell for him... I remember excavating fossils along the Jurassic Coast and getting quite embarrassingly stuck up on the cliffs. How sweet my eldest brother was to take Philip and I out on a mackerel fishing boat with our lines and wooden spools. Poor Chris loathed the look and feel of live fish!

I remember the sights and smells. They are ingrained in the fibre of my being. Hemel Hempstead in Hertfordshire - being able to finally be old enough to venture out on my own and browse through the shops on the high street. My cousin, Karen, is my closest relation. We are daughters of sisters, women warriors and survivors. I have not seen her for 33 years. I have not been back and, now, every fibre in my being is being pulled back with a magnetic force I have never previously experienced. I need to go. I need to see my people. I need to walk the places of my childhood. I need to take a trip across the pond to the Guidel Communal Cemetery in Brittany near the Gulf of Morbihan where there lies a marker for my mother's wartime love, Richard, shot down in the second world war. 

I remember,vividly,standing on the grounds of Biggin Hill Fighter Station, listening to my mum tell us the story of a German plane being shot down and crashing into the base, the air raid siren going off and because of her exhaustion, she stayed in her barracks bed until the windows imploded with the explosion. She showed us the scar above her eyebrow where the glass from the window had just missed her eye. I will never forget these things. I tell them here and hope my brother has told his children - lest we forget.

I remember the Tower of London, Westminster Cathedral, Buckingham Palace - waving to the queen as she returned from the race track. I remember how mum nearly had me convinced that Kensington Gardens belonged to her family but I just couldn't wrap my head around why they would leave if that were true! I remember cruising down the Thames, thinking of all that has passed over and through that historic river. I remember my mum losing her watch after "setting it right by Big Ben" - irony...

I am attached to this country and my body has begun to call me home. I have had to scrimp and save and now I know I will return to her soon.I will see the green patchwork of farmer's fields and walk the paths of some of the greatest writers ever known. I will cry for family gone, to whom I never was able to say my goodbyes. I will walk and walk through the streets of London and breathe deeply in the arms of remaining family. I will know that I am from this land. I am of these people and I am one with England through my bloodline and the soil and ocean that surrounds this faraway island. I will see the new friends I have met through the wonder of Twitter and we will sit and talk story over tea. 

I will see you soon, England (and, hopefully Ireland and France!) I carry you with me always. 

-Gillian Cornwall, c. May 18, 2014.
Edited and re-published,  August 30, 2015.

My mum and my eldest brother, Chris

Circa 1949

It would have been Chris's 65th birthday tomorrow, August 31

RIP Chris Cornwall

Home

Hulopo'e - Lana'i, Hawaii

Photo: Gillian Cornwall, c December 2006

I've been wondering, where is my home? Is it the place where the safe roof lies over my head? Is it the place of my spirit? Am I so fortunate as to have those things be the same? Is my home the traditional territory of my people? If so, I may be without place. I do not know the traditional lands of my people. For generations, it was the island now known as the United Kingdom; however, I doubt my people originated there either. I believe I descended of Roman and Spanish peoples and I do not know before this or if it is indeed so. 

I know I descend from a long line of warriors - people who fought, sometimes to take lands and sometimes to free people. I am not proud of the fact that we took lands and traditional ways of being from so many. I am proud of those who fought oppression and hate so I could live a life with greater freedom to love who I want and engage in the spiritual practices of my choice. 

As a result of this lack of knowledge of my traditional lands, I have created home in my soul and attach physical home to where my soul finds peace. Often, that is also my physical place, here in Victoria, British Columbia with people I love but it is also in other places where my spirit understands the flow and harmony of "all", where I am attuned to the ways of other peoples. 

I am fortunate to have travelled often to the traditional lands of the Hawaiian peoples. I am fortunate to have spent time learning some of the culture, traditions and ways of living the aloha spirit. This is a path I can comprehend and when I am there, I feel an attachment to the deep spirit of the place and her people. I continue to study and visit. I know these are not my lands. These are the traditional lands of the Hawaiian peoples and I am grateful to be a student and visitor. 

Where do you find home? I suppose my lack of attachment to one particular place and a lack of comprehension of border makes my soul my home and, I think I feel pretty good about that. On this, Canadian Thanksgiving, I am grateful to all my teachers. 

I am grateful to the Elders at the First People's House, Office of Indigenous Affairs at the University of Victoria who have taught me so much about taking the time to see and to be present in my heart, body and soul. They have taught me so much about their history and ways and the land on which I am grateful to be a visitor/settler. 

I am grateful to my Hawaiian teachers and the Lana'i Culture and Heritage Center for your work and teachings and to all the Hawaiian people who open my spirit to the aloha way. 

Perhaps I am a nomad of the spirit, a conduit among peoples; perhaps I am a path and not a destination. 

With gratitude to all my teachers in this life. I dedicate this post to all of you. You taught me so so much more than a single subject. You taught me how to open my heart and mind to possibility. This is a great gift. Thank you.

"Malama i kekahi i kekahi"

Take care of one, take care of all

-unknown

-Gillian Cornwall, c. October 12, 2014

Giving the chaka 

Lana'i 2006

Signs of Lekwungen Detail

I believe this is a detail of a sculpture by:

Butch Dick - Master Carver

Art, Home and Voice

The Hands of Time Sculptures - by Crystal Przybille

Photo by Gillian Cornwall - Victoria, BC 

Having just moved my home across town, thoughts around place, creativity and belonging have been swirling through me. It was of concern to me to ensure that the party with whom I live is fully aware of my need for time and space to write and the freedom to work uninterrupted for hours on end. This is no small task for two people in a one bedroom apartment but, thus far, all is well.  

All of this brought me to reconsider a piece I wrote a number of years ago. I have reformed it and brought it forth once again for your consideration:

Imagine you live on the street. Where is your venue for self-expression? Do you care or is it entirely off your radar because your focus is grounded in the most basic elements of survival? Perhaps you are cold, hungry, afraid, ill, addicted and desperate in the act of surviving another day. Some people are without society's concept of home by choice - but I would dare to say that this is a very small number. Some people on the street have homes but cannot go to them because they are less safe than the street. Those homes represent abuse - mental, physical, sexual and psychological. 

I do know that many people who are living without the construct of walls and roof are not seen by those of us who do live within these constructs. I do know many housed people who haven't been in the downtown core for a year or more and they have no concept of how or why anybody could possibly be living on the streets. 

"Aren't their services for 'those people'? Aren't 'they' taken care of with our tax dollars?"

Well, 'those people' are our brothers and sisters, our mothers and fathers and our children. They are our community elders. They are victims of violence, government cutbacks, mental illness and addiction. 'Those people' are of the universal energy that makes up every one of us; they are us. 

Living outside the boundaries of  what we deem to be normal society can come with the price of not being seen - by anyone. You are outside the realm of others vision of acceptability. You are incomprehensible by the nature of your situation and too difficult to look at, so passers-by choose to select you as unseen. If you are not seen, do you question your place in the world? Do you drift outside of yourself or do you drift progressively inward? I imagine each situation is as individual as each one of us.

I do know that, for me, art (be it writing or visual art) allows me to examine my interconnection with the world through self-expression. I would love to see everyone have the opportunity and safe space to engage in this kind of self-expression, the opportunity to be seen and heard through these media if they choose. For far too long, I have been toying with the idea of getting some art and writing supplies donated to Our Place, just to give people the option of giving it a go if they so choose.  

I think it would be totally cool if they were willing to have their work posted on-line and on walls. I do not want to speak for others; rather, I think it would be great to hear the voices of those who can utilize a safe way to speak. Could this be a conduit through which we might all become a little closer to one another, a little more understanding of each other's paths?

I do believe that self-expression is integral to our well-being and as necessary to life as the act of breathing. A picture truly can be worth a thousand words and there is poetry in them there streets. Let us be conduits for each other's voices. Let us stand together with our hearts, ears and eyes open to one another. Let us love without fear. 

If you have thoughts on this post and ideas on how to facilitate it or, if you want to help out, please leave a comment and I'll get back to you in short order. Alternatively, contact Our Place directly if you want to help out in Victoria, B.C.. If you are in another city, there are organizations everywhere that desperately require your help - be it financial or in goods or services. 

May love flow freely as a fountain and may you always be full.

-Gillian Cornwall, c. March 30, 2014

The Hands of Time Sculptures - by Crystal Przybille

Photo by Gillian Cornwall - Victoria, BC