Free The Four Walls of My Freedom by Donna Thomson Page B

Nicholas’ younger years, there was no one in my family who could have taken over my responsibilities, and I became worn out. We always relied on Jim’s work to sustain us, and in order for him to flourish in his career, he had to be unimpeded by the constraints of carrying out Nick’s physical care. Our Natalie’s freedom involved carving out a space for herself in the family, one that excluded her brother, whose needs, she felt (with some reason), always trumped her own. Balancing these fundamental but conflicting freedoms on behalf of my family has been my life’s work. And what of my own freedoms? How can a mother possibly demand a freedom to “be” in the face of so many competing interests? If looking at personal reality is like looking through a prism, perhaps I needed to turn the glass a little to capture a different view. Perhaps I needed to imagine a new set of preconditions for freedom.

CHAPTER NINE
    Welcome to Holland
    â€œSo Brother Matthew locked the gate behind me, and I was enclosed in the four walls of my new freedom.”
    â€” Thomas Merton, The Seven Storey Mountain, 1948
    Over the years, I learned not to define my freedom to “be” as having anything to do with choice as an engine for happiness in my life. Besides, my own self-interest was so tied to the interests of my children that my sense of personal freedom to change was something of the past. When other mothers in my neighbourhood began to work part-time or took courses as their children grew, I began to work at accepting the inevitability of my unchanging role. Nick’s physical care was always going to be similar to that of a newborn. He required total care and always would. Any idea of exercising personal choice as a measure of my own self-worth had to die.
    In 1996, we left England and returned to Ottawa. It was late August when we moved back into our house surrounded by a large lawn on two levels. Tall pine trees shaded the roof, and a mature hedge bordered the street in front and on the side, stretching around the corner. “The grass looks dead over there,” I said to Jim. He went over to investigate and, meaning to pluck out a few blades, found the turf lifting in his hand like a rug off the floor. It was an infestation of grubs that were attacking lawns throughout the city, consuming the roots of grass at an enormous rate. The first year we tried sprays and treatments, and the second year, when they came back, I decided to plant a garden. In a small section, I ripped up the dead grass, spread topsoil and spent hours searching garden nurseries for plants that could withstand both shade and the acidity of pine needles on the ground. I planted Japanese spurge around the base of the trees, as well as hostas, euonymus, ferns and tulip bulbs for the spring. I planted peonies where the late afternoon sun would shine. I was learning to be alone.
    The following spring, a house on the next street was being bulldozed to make room for a new mansion to be constructed. I asked a member of the demolition team about the plants in the garden — would they be saved? “No, ma’am, the whole property’ll be bulldozed tomorrow.” I ran home for plant pots and a spade. I threw them into the back of our van and drove around the corner ready to rescue as many plant orphans as I could carry. This was a mature perennial garden, planted and tended carefully over many years. A bank of day lilies bordered the back wall of the empty house. A wide circular bed held bearded irises, tulips, daffodils and a good-sized rhododendron. Ferns blanketed the ground under a gigantic maple tree.
    I felt so bittersweet peering into the house where children had been raised, holidays had been celebrated, families had argued. Tomorrow there would be nothing left to hold these memories and experiences. I dug as many plants as I could, filled the van three times over, and began the backbreaking digging to get every