My Name is Ruby

Preface

It has been said that many great decisions were made all because of a dream – solutions to inventions, manoeuvers in war zones, words and notes in popular music, visions that guided leaders to right decision. During a time in my life when I doubted the value of my existence here on earth, I had a dream. I dream a lot and receive many messages in them. In this dream, I discovered my name, ancient symbols for transmitting wisdom, my inner guide, and ultimately, my future. But this dream stood out primarily because of how it affected me. It propelled me into writing with a passion and courage I had not felt before.

The days following the dream were spent in complete introspection. It seemed I had created a space for this, as my phones were quiet, no one came to the door and I had no need to leave the house. I had felt somewhat low in spirits, and this dream gave me focus. I had a strong urge to be quiet and listen. I remember lying on the couch, dozing off and finding myself in the house in the dream, walking towards the room where I had found the book with my name in it. Again, at first the words were blurry, and then there it was. In bold print: RUBY. The joy I felt, just like the first time, pulsed through my whole body. I had made an important connection – to myself. Then, I sat up. At first, I was not sure what to do with all this energy. I paced. I sat down. I paced some more.

I found myself sitting at my writing desk, with paper and pen. The symbols shown to me in the dream came pouring out.

1. The name, Ruby, symbolizes goodness and love. In numerology, the word ruby adds up to three. Its energy stands for heartfelt, uplifting expression; communication with inspiration, sensitivity and joy.

The number three has been important to me. As a therapist, I offer three sessions of therapy within three days or three weeks, for maximum benefit. I discovered this by observing the results in my clients’ charts. When I was young, I used to ask for three signs before making an important decision and the expression three’s a charm often came into my mind.

2. The ruby gemstone is used for grounding and balancing energy in the heart centre. Its spiritual properties offer the I AM presence. When we work with a ruby gemstone, we are expressing a desire and commitment to be in a balanced relationship with our inner male/female energy.

3. The old blue book I found in the reading room represents communication of universal and ancient knowledge. We express ourselves through our throat centre, the fifth chakra, which resonates as the colour blue.

4. The group of people I was with represents that we are all in this together, the play of life, while at the same time, finding our own individual paths of expression.

5. The teacher was my inner guidance. Throughout the dream, I was aware of her presence in this house – I didn’t have to do this alone.

6. The play stands for the life we are creating here on Earth. We play many roles throughout our lives. In this play, I have a particular role, but to own it, I also have to find my name, my purpose and my direction.

7. The gymnasium doors that stand slightly ajar mean for me that this activity was in the future, to be revealed later. The microphone and stand just barely visible at the far end reminded me a gymnasium is used for activities with an audience.

8. The white pages turned upside down on the floor symbolize something waiting to be read or studied. Whatever words these pages held was yet to be revealed. There were enough pages to make a book, and the teacher (my inner guide) was holding a manuscript.

9. The many rooms, alcoves and steps branching off the main hallway stand for the many choices we have in our daily lives, the possible directions.

10. The house, unique and with many details, represents my physical presence here on earth and the possibilities yet to be discovered within it (within myself).

As I wrote these things down, I had no idea it would be the start of this conversation. During the next three days, I began to write in earnest. Although I have written all my life ever since I could hold a pencil, this was different. What came out of me and onto the paper started events rolling in a direction unimaginable but truly supported by divine guidance. As you continue to read, may you feel inspired to think more adventurously, to change some of your old ideas and adopt fresh expansive ones, and become the creative being that you are.

Acknowledgements

Thanks to my immediate family, who put up with my doubts, frustrations and questions, who believed in me and I think still do! Your support, encouragements and loving kindnesses nourish my spirit.

Thanks to Harry Bernstein, author of The Invisible Wall, The Dream, and The Golden Willow, who, at the age of 94, began writing his memoir with clarity and passion.

Thanks to Gayl Veinotte, my brilliant editor. You knew exactly where I needed help and brought this book to a higher level.

To not exclude anyone, my deepest thanks to all my friends, relatives, clients, teachers and students who supported me, bore with me through trials and victories – you know who you are!

Thanks to all the wonderful authors who keep writing so I can keep reading.

CHAPTER ONE

Grace stood at the counter in Mr. Backman’s General Store, waiting, her body heavy with child. A small woman, not quite five feet tall, she stood quietly in her dark wool winter coat. As she turned to look around one more time – had she forgotten anything? – her coat opened to reveal a gray-on-gray checkered maternity suit, the two-piece kind, with lots of pleats starting at the bodice and falling to her hips, as if to distract the viewer from the obvious condition she was in. The plain gray skirt fell below her knees. The boxy cut of her clothes emphasized her pregnancy – not flattering, not designed for her tiny frame and fine-boned structure. Her golden blonde hair was pulled straight back, away from her forehead, mostly hidden by a black head covering that sat like a cloth helmet clapped to the back of her head. It was her clear blue eyes, her pink cheeks, her easy smile that saved her from appearing drab.

A car horn sounded outside the store and an anxious look flashed across her face. Her packages were ready and she gathered them up clumsily, thanking Mr. Backman for his offer to help, which she graciously refused. She didn’t hurry: it was a rare treat for her to be here. Usually Ed, her husband, who waited outside for her now, did all the shopping. She lingered just a little, to touch a bolt of soft purple fabric, the colour of lilacs, her favourite. She loved the feel of this store, its worn wooden floors, the roaring fire in the pot belly stove. The horn sounded again, and she struggled back to reality. Inside her, the baby suddenly kicked, as if to help her return. She touched her swollen belly and looked down.

Please god, let this be a good baby. That is all I ask. As if on cue, her belly hardened and rose; the baby was getting restless.

The horn sounded for the third time, and Grace took a deep breath and pushed herself to move. Hurry up, Grace. There is still supper to make; the children are waiting at home. Ach, and church this evening. She spoke silently to herself, giving herself a bit of encouragement. As if listing the things to do would distract her from the aching fatigue in her bones and behind her eyes. As if reciting all the details she had to attend to, without Ed’s help, never mind a fifth child about to arrive, would somehow revive her energy, return her to that strong self she used to be, the self that last year could multi-task from 6 a.m. to midnight. She was exhausted, worn out, no more to give, but there was so much to do tonight before she would crawl into bed.

Grace left the store behind and trudged through the deep snow around the front of the idling truck to the passenger side. She pushed the bags onto the seat, aware of Ed’s white knuckles gripping the steering wheel. Aware of his striking profile – thick black hair, sharp beak of a nose, hollow cheeks under high cheekbones, small deep set eyes and a stiff pointed beard. Aware of his lack of assistance, of his impatience to get going. She heaved her short bulky body up and into the truck and closed the door, grasping the dashboard. This time he didn’t say anything. He knew the baby was coming soon.

Ed turned the ’52 Chevy onto the gravelled road and headed home – a little farm of eighty acres with one small 30 x 30 foot house, several barns for chickens, pigs and a cow, a few granaries that held their feed, a two-acre garden, a fenced pasture, a row of maple trees, now bare of leaves, that lined the long driveway and two rose bushes, now brown and prickly, to one side of the front door. Ed was proud of it all; it was more than he had ever owned in his life, a wonderful accomplishment. Until he thought of his in-laws, Grace’s siblings, and then he felt poor all over again.

The wind had picked up and the snow had started to fall again. Ice formed on the side windows. It was slow going as the drifts of snow settled on the road, hardened by the prairie winds. The truck bucked against them. The more they were jostled, the more the baby pushed inside Grace. She wrapped her arms around herself, holding mother and child together.

The house was chilly as they entered the front porch. Ed hurried down to the basement to stir up the embers of coal he knew would still be there inside the old furnace.

Everyone’s coats hung thickly on the hooks, and piles of boots and shoes rested on newspapers spread to catch the dirt and snow brought in from outside. Grace walked slowly up the four steps into the main floor of the house, the whole area visible from the doorway. To her left was the large white porcelain sink with its cold water tap and mirror above and a few feet further, the door to the master bedroom. This was half of the house. She walked across the large square iron grate set into the floor directly in front of her, where she heard Ed banging below, and caught a whiff of coal smoke. The furnace sat directly underneath this grate and provided central heating for the small dwelling. Beyond the grate stood the iron cook stove, a wood-burning relic from another time, kitchen cupboards and the ice box all lined up against the master bedroom wall – the hub of the house. To the right of the kitchen and within arms’ reach was the rectangular dining table with homemade benches on each side, spindle chairs at the ends. The living room held one sea-green chenille couch and an overstuffed burgundy chair not far from the dining table and next to the front door where Grace had just entered. A grandfather clock ticked loudly on the wall behind the chair. There was no bathroom inside, but an outhouse hidden on the west side of the garden by tall carragana bushes. A tin tub stored in the basement was brought up for bath time on Saturday evenings. The basement also served as two bedrooms for the children: one for the girls, one for the boys. There were no walls, but the big furnace in the centre divided up the space. Under the staircase behind a heavy blanket was the storage room for all the preserves and root vegetables for winter eating. The floor was packed dirt beneath layers of heavy cardboard and homemade rag rugs.

We’re home! Grace announced her arrival, and four red-cheeked children bounded into her pathway, their sweaters slightly askew, each after its own fashion. The tallest and oldest, Simon, was nine now. Beside him, so serious, stood Leslie, a year younger. The two girls, Shantell and Haila, were six and five. Grace could see that Shantell was in charge as usual, always the mother. She handed the bags she still held to Simon and hurriedly switched on the light over the sink.

Who is going to help me make the supper? Who is setting the table? Who will peel the potatoes? We need carrots from the cold room, too. Tonight, Grace needed all the help she could get. Her swollen body wanted to sit and rest. As the children busied themselves obediently with their chores, Ed settled into the one soft armchair in the living room and snapped open the newspaper. Waiting for the supper call. Waiting to be served.

A dedicated follower of John Holdeman, renegade Mennonite who broke from the mainstream once he’d immigrated to the New World, Ed’s world was black or white, no equivocating on the prohibitions, alert to the subtle evils of the world, ready to obey new rules immediately and without question. He expected the same of his family.

They sat around the table in their usual places. All heads bowed. Ed mumbled the words of thanks for the food set before them in his tired rough voice. Same prayer, every meal, every day.

Grace was not hungry tonight, filled up with baby, with thoughts. She sat back and watched her family enjoy the abundance of food from their garden, from their fields and barns. She longed for communion amid this circle of faces, but not much was being said. Ed had made a new rule – no talking at the table unless he initiated it. No more stories from school or the bus ride. Or sharing of any sort. Not here, anyway. No one had challenged him, though Grace knew it wouldn’t be long before it would bring trouble. Ed’s need to be accepted in the church and in the Holdeman community was so great, he applied every rule, every suggestion made by the church elders to the nth degree. He was oblivious to the effect this had on his wife and children and ruled with an iron fist. If the church said it was the right way, then it was the right way. He hadn’t always been this way, but as his family grew, so did his responsibilities, and he looked more and more to others for advice, rather than to Grace and his own intuition. He didn’t see that when he shared his concerns with the leaders of the church, he was often taken lightly and candidly answered, that the responses given were sometimes unkind and out of place, not meant to be taken so seriously. In fact, sometimes they were given in an openly joking manner, which he just did not get.

What no one else knew was the anger Ed carried inside. Rules could be put into place lovingly and given time to adjust to, but Ed expected immediate results or else. Grace, of all people, knew that although the older leaders were oblivious to Ed’s short temper, the younger leaders of the church were filled with misguided passions of righteousness. Her father, himself a minister in the church, disagreed with many of the things that were said and done, but kept quiet and lived his life as an example. That was his way. His own son, Grace’s younger brother, however, was newly ordained to the ministry and showed the signs of impatience and unfairness that characterized Ed’s own way of thinking.

Grace looked down at her distended belly. This child was unexpected. Just ten months ago, she had miscarried and still felt the loss. She had not fully recovered. Maybe she could stay a few extra days at the nursing home across the field, where this one would be delivered, before coming home. Maybe they could get someone to help out with the children and the chores. The discovery of this pregnancy had been more than she could bear. Sometimes, while milking the cow in the barn, she would allow herself to cry. She found comfort with the animals, especially the cats that followed her from chore to chore. The children seemed to sense her preoccupation and often clung to her, as if to help her return. Her once colourful dreams of an idyllic life had changed to doom and gloom. A grayness was settling over her, and she felt old for thirty-five. But she managed to stay focused, and it brought her sanity amid the stress. As she rubbed her growing belly in a circular motion, she repeated a mantra, Be a good baby. Please, oh, please, be a good baby. It soothed her spirit and held her together. Again, the baby moved, pushing its head low on the left, stretching its legs up to press against her ribcage.

The clattering of dishes brought Grace back into the room and