Impressions of a Life

Her name was Maria de Gieter. I would be surprised if you have heard of her. On Sunday I found out she died last Wednesday. She was my Belgian pen pal’s mother. She always referred to me as her Canadian son. To me, she was my “maman Belge”.

When I first met her, my French was very limited, but her kindness communicated much more than language. I had hoped she would be able to visit Canada, but she told me that she felt that this meeting a few years ago would be our last. We said our “adieu” and parted, knowing that mutual love and respect existed between us.

When people I know die, it causes me to pause and reflect on my life. Sunday was no exception.

I started thinking of how I liked paintings as a young boy. Swabs of paint stroked on a canvas by masters like Rembrandt and da Vinci preserved a point in time for generations to come.

Then I discovered impressionism. Up close I only see dots, splotches and strokes, often having no idea what I am looking at. However, when I stand back a bit, it all makes sense and I see the whole picture.

My life is like an impressionistic painting. It started as a blank canvas. My family applied the first strokes creating the background.

As I got older, teachers, classmates and coaches added to the picture.

My life progressed. Colleagues and friends applied their colours.

Each person who has touched me has contributed to the progressive picture that is my life.

However, everyone has not been equal. Some have been more profound for various reasons. My family has applied colour to my life for a long time. Others, although not around as long, were very prominent in the scene, like lightning on a stormy night.

My picture contains dark spots and bright spots. Not everything that happens in life is positive. Both are important to create an interesting painting.

Negative people have created the shaded areas. They seem to find fault in everything, yet do nothing to contribute to the solution. Somehow they feel important spewing their negative energy, criticizing instead of offering encouragement. Many actually see themselves as doing something noble pointing out my flaws, yet failing to recognize their own imperfections.

In sharp contrast to those dabbing black on my canvas are those who are bright rays of sunshine. They illuminate life. Their positive impact is made even more obvious when contrasted with those contributing darkness. They inspire me to greatness.

Mme Marie de Gieter was one of those bright spots. No matter what I did or said, I knew that her affection would not wane.

I have lived in St. Marys for just over ten years. I can think of two people who have passed on who have painted bright spots among the dark clouds.

One was Pat Young. We stayed at her bed and breakfast when we first arrived here. She encouraged us as we opened up our own. She was a mentor and a friend. I never heard her say a bad word about anyone. I never heard anyone say a bad word about her.

The other was Barry Hearn. I first met him when we were on the Lincolns’ 50th anniversary committee. Whenever I think of him, I see his huge grin. He was such a positive force. I remember the large crowd at the funeral parlour paying its respect. What a tribute it was to a life that touched so many.

Many living in this town are currently adding to my picture in a positive way, but it got me thinking of how I, too, contribute colour to the pictures of the lives of others. What is my contribution? Do I add darkness or brightness to their lives? I hope I provide illumination. What about you?

Regardless of how people have touched me, when my life draws to a close, I want to be able to stand back from the confusing blobs in the impressionistic painting created by all who have had a hand in the artwork and say, “It see the picture clearly now. What a masterpiece!”