This Year

This year, the last of my thirties, I promise a few things to myself:

-      I promise to lead by example.  Each year my children’s’ eyes become wider and more skilled at interpretation, for every year that I age, they do too.

-      I promise to always let kindness win. I can be right, or I can be kind; the older I get, the more I’d rather be the latter.

-      I promise to hold tight the things and people that matter and let go of those that no longer fit. I won’t grieve the pieces that no longer fit.  I promise to let go easier.

-      I promise my children that i will sit still with them for longer; I’m learning it takes a moment or two of stillness for them to remember the things they’d saved to tell me.

-      The same goes for you, my love, I promise to sit still for longer with you: I will marvel at the night sky, sip our coffee on the deck, and snuggle a moment or two longer before making you choose the nights movie selection.

-      I’m a priority too.  I promise to carve out time for me; I’ll sit down at my wheel and play in the clay until something beautiful forms under my hands.  In these moments, I’ll remove the endless lists from my mind and focus solely on the spinning beneath my hands. 

-      I will practice gratitude; I know how very blessed I am, and I promise to never let that get muddled with the mundane stresses of the everyday.

-      I have 365 days left of this chapter – I promise to make them count. I’ll remain wild, crazy, open, free, ambitious, and kind.

These are my promises for this year, the last of my thirties.

***Thank you for all of the birthday love***

Notepad

Sometimes I craft my replies in Notepad.  I craft them there because there is no send button.  I don’t do well with temptation and love the removal of the urge to hit send.  The momentary rush of fuck you in one simple button.  That’s all it is – momentary.  I can break your heart three sentences, shatter your reality in two, but I abstain.

Rather than use my words as weapons, I use them as a Band-Aid. They soothe my own soul.  I know things that you don’t, things I choose not to share, things I have locked away inside. Not everything needs to be shared, explained, or replied to.  Sometimes there is value in letting you vent, feel powerful, and moving forward. You’re fucking welcome.

So, instead of a crafted reply to for you, I open Notepad and remind myself that I am bigger than that.  I pour my heart out, rage, vent, explain myself, and then ultimately close it, only to reopen and delete it when your words sting less, when I’m stronger and a minute wiser.

Closer to Fine

I sat motionless beside the moving water and embraced the moment; stillness among such rage.  I sat this way, silent and unmoving, while a foot ahead, the river raged on. 

A breeze, in absence of any wind, on my exposed neck sent shivers down my spine.  I felt open to the world around me – happily on the receiving end of whatever is intended for me. 

I smiled, stood, and shook the earth that clung to my legs.  It felt like the right time to move.

As I walked along the water’s edge, I consciously opened myself to the sounds around me. Some of them, I imagined, were carried along the river, meant just for my ears.  They vibrated through me, bringing with them a focus I craved.

I made a sharp turn to climb up the embankment. Sweating now, the sun beat on my back and my legs burned from the incline.  To my left, I spotted a cavernous area that I’d never noticed before.

I stood at the cave’s entrance; my eyes adjusted to the darkness and I scanned the inside. It was empty and cold and didn’t feel like somewhere I want to spend any more time.

‘Hello,’ I said sweetly into the darkness. 

No answer.

“What? No answer?’ I shouted.

Once again, no response. 

As I turned to leave the echo finally reached me, but I had committed to leaving the darkness. My eyes squinted and adjusted to the beautiful sunshine that hit my face.  That echo can forever live in the darkness; some messages were never intended to be received, the delay too great.

The sun, and my resolve to move forward, towards it, added a little kick to my step.  I made quick work of the rest of the hill and before I knew it, I was on the other side. My legs moved faster and faster underneath me as I descended, so as to avoid falling.  I could feel my heart under the outer layers pounding, both from fear of falling and the exertion of the climb. 

In the final stretch, a melody crept into my ear. I hummed along to its song - it’s an oldie, but a goodie.  The lyrics came to me, piece by piece, like a puzzle I had been trying to solve.  The song filled my head for the remainder of my walk home and when I cross the threshold I was in full song,  

‘And I went to the doctor, I went to the mountains
I looked to the children, I drank from the fountains
There's more than one answer to these questions
Pointing me in a crooked line
And the less I seek my source for some definitive
The closer I am to fine, yeah
The closer I am to fine, yeah’

Three children ran to me, their singing, smiling, refreshed mama.  May they always remember me walking in the door this way – smiling and in song – arms outstretched for them.

Their little hands reached for mine; they pulled me further inside and as they did, they filled me in on everything that I had missed - stories saved just for me. The silence and stillness of the river, gone, replaced by the chaos of three littles talking over one another, excited that I am home.  

I got the message;  I felt it in a breeze, vibrations along the water, in a delayed echo, the rhythm of my heart, and in the deafening love of my three children. Every question that I had is answered with one simple truth – I don’t need answers.  I don’t need anything; not from you. 

And, with one walk, I am closer to fine.

I Guess We Walk Again

I got the notification while standing at the rear of my car, lugging skates and helmets out for a fun family skate.  I paused to pull my phone out of my pocket  and read the message.  My heart dropped and as it did a sound escaped my mouth.  It was simply a longer breathe than normal but in it my daughter picked up on the change in my mood.  In that exhale, the feeling of defeat escaped with it - a breathy fuuuuuuuck of sorts.

“What mama?” she asked me.

I’ve always been honest with the kids.  This honesty has created some beautifully emotionally intelligent children.  If she’s smart enough to know that something just shifted inside of her mama, she’s smart enough for me to share the news with.

“Remember mama’s friend that had cancer and we walked for her wearing all pink?”

“Yes, mama”

“Well, her cancer is back, babe, and mama just found out so I’m a little upset”. I tell her as a tear drops.

She paused, never breaking eye-contact with me.  She took her own exaggerated breath as she thought on the news.  Finally, she spoke following another long breath. 

“Okay, well, I guess we just walk again”

I guess we just walk again.

If only we could view all of life’s obstacles as my 9-year-old does.  Courage without fear.  We know what needs to be done.  We can intellectualize the steps for whatever life holds in front of us.  But the fear, it’s the fear that keeps us paralyzed. 

My sweet daughter saw the steps that needed to happen in simplest of terms - one foot in front of the next with all of your loved ones around you until you cross that finish line. 

We will cross that finish line holding hands with you.  We will show up, wearing whatever the hell is required.  We will bring our smiles and our strength for when you have none.  We will put one foot in front of the other with you – step after step until we arrive with you. 

Holding hands, we will cross that finish line.

We will have courage, without fear, for the days when you have none. 

So, to whoever may be reading this, to whomever may find themselves staring down one of life’s great obstacles: take a page from my daughter’s playbook. 

Take a deep breath and tell yourself, “I guess we just walk again.”

Assertive Right #3

Somewhere along the way I’ve lost bits of myself to others.  Scattered over the landscape, it seems futile that I might ever be whole again.  Today, I scan the landscape in hopes of patching my tired soul. I breathe the cold air deep into my lungs and oddly enjoy the sting of it on my face. 

It was given a value in my childhood household, this selflessness I have been known for. I grew up watching my mother give endlessly, never tiring of the support she was required to offer. It wasn’t rare for the phone to ring, from the other room, I’d hear her say “I’ll be right there” and before I could blink she had her jacket on and was out the door.  These people, some I didn’t know, needed my mother more than I, I assumed. I was left to watch TV without her these evenings.  Later, I’d explain to her the parts she had missed while she was off assisting others with whatever might have ailed them on that particular day.

These pieces, I tear off willingly, proudly, defining myself by the beauty of my imperfect and exhausted soul.  Other’s define me by this as well.  I give freely to some who don’t deserve it.  They grew to expect that if they were missing a corner piece, I’d find the matching one in myself and go without so that they might be whole.  I leave my children, to tell me about the ending at a later time, so that I can have a drink with you.  Do you feel whole yet?  How many more beers will it take?  My daughter waits at home to share the ending of the show with me.  She watches me give value to my title of the helper.  She eavesdrops on my conversations, learning from me.  One day, she might find herself on this trail in these woods pondering how many of these people would offer to her one of their four coveted corner pieces.

Today, on this trail in the dead of winter, the cold wind is blowing right through me. I realize how cold and lonely that feels.  A waif, too weak to stand on my own, I come to terms with the fact that I’ve given too much of myself.  This, I finally realize as I fear the wind might blow me away. The cost is getting too high.  I don’t want to miss the ending of the show.  I repeat Assertive Right #3 out loud - not fearful of anyone hearing me because I have’t seen a soul on the trail today- I am not responsible for finding solutions to your problems. 

I am not responsible for finding solutions to your problems.

The Thin Line

I remember now -

We used to walk barefoot to McDonald’s late at night, carrying our shoes.  We would meet halfway between your house and mine, (a mere two house walk for each of us) shoes in hand, feet on the earth, summer breeze at our back.  We would make the trek to simply get an ice cream cone.  The walk would dissolve into endless laughter, friendship, and solving our teenage problems.  We did this walk all of the time.

You were my very best friend. 

The very best friend.

Soon, a country lay between us - a mountain range and a few provinces.  Eventually, an ocean split the distance and meeting halfway became impossible. Neither of us cared to swim that far.  The distance grew so great that we thought we could never get back those nights, those talks, or that kind of love for one another.  Yet, you were always on my mind.  I continued to give nod to those late-night walks, for they were what made me. 

Still, I loved you endlessly. 

Then, the tiniest life put our distance into perspective.  It was never so great after all.  I wouldn’t live this nomadic life forever.  Home was clearly defined and I missed it. I knew I’d always return.  I knew what I wanted my life to look like and this tiny human - your tiny human - would be part of it.  I called you once a day, my night, your morning, like I used to for the remainder of that year abroad.  I will be there for her birth – and I was. I will be there for her first steps– and I was.  I will be there for you – and I was. 

My promise, my word – we can get back there. 

Today we stood, opposite each other, eyes fixed, and it all flooded back. The thin line between us seemed to be the greatest distance that we might ever have to cover.  The Great Lakes, The Prairies, The Rockies and The Pacific Ocean seemed minor compared to the line between us today.  I stood there, brave-faced, a mirror image of you, with the line dividing us.  I stood there, wanting to remember all the times that we met halfway but I simply remembered all the times my strides were larger.  So, I stayed on my side, and you stayed on yours (likely for the same reasons).

Now, hours later, I sit at my pine table, tea cooling beside me, fingers on the keyboard, and I’m able to remember meeting you halfway for our late-night walks.  I’m able to remember how you promised to be there for her birth, her first steps, and for me – and you were. 

I remember now -

The memories flood the page as do tears in my eyes.  Those summer nights flood back with each tear that falls. A long time ago, we would meet halfway, feet on the earth, shoes in hand, and walk together. 

Now, a thin line stands in the way.

A Minute

It’s been a minute.

Somehow, in that minute, I forgot that I love who I am in your presence.  It’s warm, and familiar and forgiving.  Open, shy, and funny.  In that minute I created my own story about the things that filled your time, while filling my own.  Head down, nose in a book, fingers on the keyboard, I forged forward with each of the 60 seconds.  

Sometimes, time would pause, and I’d wonder how you were filling your minute. In that minute, we healed and grew.  That minute was filled with both the good and bad.  It was a much needed 60 seconds.  Sometimes, you just need to breathe for a minute.  

Time is interesting.  It’s gone and we can’t reclaim it.  Those are 60 seconds that are gone, done, over.  But, we sit, coffee and tea between us, a minute older.  We feel wiser - stronger where it counts and weaker where it holds no bearing.   

Thank you for allowing me a minute. Thank you for knowing when the timer went off and joining me at this tiny table. Thank you for meeting me where I am.  Thank you for being warm, familiar, and forgiving, open, shy, and funny.  

Thank you for offering up a minute of your time.

Eat Your Freezer

I read a blog a few years ago called Eat Your Freezer and completely embraced the sentiment from that day forward.  The article encouraged people to take stock of their freezer twice a year – January and July – and use up what they have, refusing to buy a single freezer good for those two months.  I am a sucker for anything goal setting and even more so when you combine goal setting with decluttering.  With those two things, I was a complete convert. 

Here’s what I have noticed since Eating My Freezer:

-       Encourages goal setting.  I always include the family into these months.  As I take stock of what we have and need to eat up, I write it on our kitchen chalkboard.  As I do, I remind my husband that we are once again eating the freezer and every time he shops yell out the door ‘NO FROZEN FOODS!’  The list on the chalkboard serves as a reminder when making meals.

-       We save SO much money in those two months!  January is an expensive month as the credit card bills from December roll in as well as our salaries dropping back slightly with CPP kicking in again.  Our kids are still of daycare age and the summers also tend to kick us in the ass financially.  So, this small but effective habit is helpful financially in both of these months!

-       I get some Tupperware back into rotation!  I know this may seem minor but it’s always right before that I find myself wondering where all of it has gone.  One month later, voila! - Tupperware is back where it should be!

-       I bake more.  Cleaning the freezer helps me remember all of the old bananas, shredded zucchini, and frozen fruit I threw in there with the intention of grand snacks.  School snacks switch from store bought to homemade and I may even make a pie or two!

-       We eat things before they expire!  Before doing this challenge, my freezer is where food went to die.  Seriously! I would keep things so long that I would forget what they were or question just how long they’d been in there, and usually toss them out of fear.  This way, I know the max amount of time something has been in there is 6 months.  No fear there!

-       Frees up time.  A lot of the stuff in my freezer is already made, delicious, healthy soups/stews/meals that I made an extra batch of and froze (with the great intentions of eating sooner).  I simply take it out and reheat.  Easy peasy!

-       Keeps me in check and humble.  In today’s society where excess is the norm this helps me to stay grounded and mindful of my role, how I want to raise my kids, and how truly blessed we are.  Too many options can create confusion, the freezer is simply a microcosm of our larger society in all of its excess and waste.

January is fast approaching, who’s with me?

The Secret

When my job gets hard, I try to find the beauty in it.

When she was struggling with reality, I helped her connect back into it.

I asked her what her name was.

She told me.

I asked, a few times, if she was feeling confused. 

She agreed that perhaps she was - a little.

She was trapped in her mind, reliving an awful day.

Trapped, she called me for help.

It scares me to think that should I lose my mind, I might get trapped inside my worst day.

So, I asked her about the happy days.

I asked her about him, the one she was missing -the love of her life.

I asked her how long they had been married.

Through the phone I sensed her confusion ease; it eased ever so slightly.

Her shoulders must have dropped.  And, I like to believe, that a smile crept on her face as she pulled herself from the darkness of that horrid day, and into the good ones.

I needed to fill some time as I watched the ambulance’s GPS tick, tick, tick along my computer screen, and towards her residence.

Next, I asked her what the secret was. 

“What was your secret to such a long marriage?

The dementia lifted and she shared her secret with me, the voice on the other end;

“We would watch TV together.”

I’ve taken the last few days to process the simplicity of her answer;  

“We would watch TV together.”

The idea of micro-dates has stayed with me the last few days as I have processed her answer.

It’s so simple and beautiful.

The imagery of this woman, a face I can’t see but a voice I won’t forget, and her husband, long gone, sitting together on the couch sharing time, space, and entertainment brings me comfort. 

She had the secret and the secret is simple: don’t stop the micro-mini dates.

Life is expensive. 

Kids are expensive. 

Dating can get expensive - but it doesn’t have to. 

Strip it all the way back; time together doesn’t cost a thing. 

Watch TV together; let her drape her leg ever so gently over yours while you sit together and watch.

When she requests that you not binge watch the next few episodes while she’s at work listen to her.  She may not truly see or stress the importance, but it is important that you wait for her. 

Wait until she’s home, has washed her face, put on her sweats, popped the popcorn, and made herself a cup of tea. 

Wait for her to plunk down next to you.

Wait for it because it will all be worth it. 

Fifty-five years of marriage will be worth it.

She’s worth it.

Never stop micro-dating her; that’s the secret.

Raising A Good Man

Eight years ago, today, I found out I was having a boy.  It was then, in that ultrasound room, that I felt the weight of the world upon my shoulders.  My visible hesitation threw off the tech and, true to my nature, I made some joke to play it off.  But inside, inside, I was shaking like a leaf.

The challenge lay before me, bold and screaming - raise a good man!  What does that mean?  What’s the difference between a raising nice person and a good man?  How do I make sure that he levels-up? 

This was uncharted territory for me.  Raising little women? - Easy.  I could do that with my eyes closed.  Keep her wild, open, and safe.  But a little man?  Where would I place my focus?  How could I guarantee to bring out the good man that lies inside of this tiny human? 

I left that dark room scared shitless.  My connection with this little man was undeniable from the beginning.  I wrapped my arms around my growing belly and felt at peace.  I decided to take it step by step - to love him hard and hope that the rest would follow.  Love him and greatness will follow, right?  Right? 

As he grew, so did his tantrums.  He would spit on me, was known to pull my hair out, and rarely did as I said, ever!  Still, I loved him, hard.  I was his constant.  I learned what made him; what made him angry, frustrated, happy, and what brought him to tears.  I adapted to his ever-changing moods, never denying a single emotion.  Never. Not one.

I learned how he communicated and remembered to do so on his level, while teaching him my own ways.  Communication is a two-way street, after all.  Good men have their ways but respect that their way isn’t the only way.

When he grasps weeds in his hands, pulled just for me, I bend to his level, looking straight into his eyes, and show him how much joy a simple act like that can bring.  Time and time again, I bend, not breaking eye contact, and appreciate him.  Day after day, I am his constant reminder that simple gestures of kindness and love are enough. He is enough.

When he brings new thoughts to me, I challenge him.  Daily, I ask that he consider his language, his opinion, and the world around him.  When his view is narrowed, it is my job to widen it, never settling for anything less than a worldly perspective. I ask that he level-up whenever I can in hopes that he will stand before the partner of his choosing and challenge their thinking someday. 

And, when he comes to me in the night, I throw open the blankets and allow him into my ‘snuggle spot.’  His fears are real.  They may be different than mine, or his sister’s, but they are equally as real.  I listen as he tells me what weighs on his mind. It is here that I refuse to insert my own shit.  Nah - this is about him and I am just safety.  This is my time to simply listen.

He was born good.  I didn’t do that.  What I have done, and will continue to do, is to create a world in which he is loved, heard, appreciated, given perspective, and safe.  We can all level-up if we live in an environment that fosters this kind of growth.  If you didn’t have it growing up, create it now.  Find the people that feel like home - who will love you hard, swoon over life’s simplicities, share opinions, and hold you safe in their ‘snuggle spot.”

Sweet Daughter of Mine

Sweet Daughter of Mine –

Some people might say that you talk too much, but I am here to remind you that your voice is a gift.  You’ve got words, so use them.  Use them as much when you are elated as when you are frustrated.  Don’t shut down.  Don’t shut people out.  If you are hurt, tell them.  If they shut down and your instinct is to keep talking, do so.  If you feel the need to express extreme frustration or hurt with extreme words, do so.  Be as honest with your words as the love you give.  Do everything as authentically to the moment as you can.

But, Daughter of Mine, that moment may shift. When it does, be humbled.  Be humbled but once again, don’t shut down.  Don’t silence your words.  Be humbled and say sorry.  If you need to write it down, do so.  Tuck it away in a scrap piece of paper into the front pocket of your hoodie.  Bring it out when the moment is right.  Hand it over, tears in your eyes.  You can’t always say it, but written language is as important as spoken word.  This, I will teach you, daughter of mine.

You should also know, sweet Daughter of Mine, that your words can hurt or deter people from moving closer.  Use language authentically but know that when you are authentic to the moment, that has the potential to sting, scare, or scar.  Tread lightly in the extremes and do your best to balance honouring the moment with avoiding harm to those whom you truly love. 

Drop the F bomb when the moment is right.  If you are hurt, scream it.  Fuck, it feels good.  Learn to balance this too.  Know your audience, sweet Daughter of Mine.  Use language appropriate to the setting in which you find yourself.  Use your limbs too, when you tell a story.  Go big or go home.  Be a storyteller.  Every good storyteller knows you’ve got to drop a few cuss words to captivate the audience.  And, one last thing, sweet Daughter of Mine, fuck those who say you talk too much. 

Much love,

Your Mama, who talks too much.

Marry a Man Who:

Marry a man who:

-       Suggests picnics on beautiful summer days.  He may or may not help pack said picnic but the fact that he wants to find the perfect spot, set out the blanket, and enjoy the simplest foods with you outdoors means everything.  Meet him there – leave the dirty dishes in the sink, the laundry in piles, and help make it possible.  Help to pack the snacks, the water, and the blanket.  Put aside all that needs to be done and smile because he wants this with you.  Find the perfect spot under an old tree and marvel at nature together. Use this time to talk, but more importantly, to listen.  It was he, who invited you, after all.

-       Has strong arms.  They may need to hold you in the darkest of places.  Make sure those arms are strong enough to hold you but not so strong that they force you up before you are ready.  Make sure those arms will hold you until you are strong enough to do that shit for yourself.  My mama might also tell you that those arms must look good in a white t-shirt, and she’s not wrong.

-       Sprays you with the hose whenever he washes the car.  Spray him back.  Keep that boy inside of him alive as he’s fun and slightly unpredictable.  You’ll need that in the future when you are close to breaking, exhausted, run down, and overwhelmed with life.  Make sure he knows that he can always snap you out of it with his fun, boyish side.

-       Is up for adventure and isn’t fazed when things don’t go as planned.   Hold the hand and kiss the shoulder of the man who, after realizing it will take longer than 5 hours to drive 500 kms in Japan, laughs at the mistake and tells you to play DJ for the drive.  Kyoto will be worth it, he’ll say, and he will be right. It may take longer to get somewhere than anticipated so make the drive part of the trip.

-       Has a hobby.  On that note, get one for yourself.  Share in each other’s interests.  I know life is busy, but allow him the time to indulge in the things that fill his cup.  Pour a drink, plop yourself at the counter, and follow along as he teaches you the importance of each step in the beer making process.  Ask questions, be engaged, and most importantly, be present.

-       Sets goals with you.  Longevity comes in tiny steps and small victories.  Set these goals together with the focus on forward movement.  Eat better, swim more, more date nights, plan trips, save money, advance your career, the next car, the next house.  Work the plan all the way to envisioning your property in Hawaii when the kids are grown, and you both retired.  Celebrate goals reached and rework the ones that prove to be more of a challenge.

-       Loves you hard.  Make sure you know it, feel it, and believe in it with all of your heart.  Decipher between the kind of love that pulls too much from you, leaving you drained, and the kind that is a steady, constant feeling of comfort.  Choose the latter. 

Lucky One

Stoned, In the early afternoon heat, I stumbled into my bungalow on the beach.  

This, a routine I had been doing for the last few weeks.  I’d wake when the sun beating on my thatched roof got to be too much, slip on my suit, open the door, and slide into the lukewarm Gulf of Thailand. Refreshed, I’d emerge and meet friends at the beach restaurant for a bite to eat.   Following that, we’d smoke a joint and lay on the beach. 

This was my happy place.  I’d listen to Portishead’s Dummy or St. Germain’s Tourist and write.  We would talk about home, the three of us.  We shared our upbringings, and I’d collect little bits of them in my journal on that beach.  Our bond strengthened by our reasons for travelling to the island.  

Little did I know, someone else on that beach wanted to know me.  He followed me with his eyes and memorized my super simple island routine. Watching, timing, and waiting to take from me what I would have never given freely to him.  

So, on that day, when I stumbled into my bungalow, stoned and exhausted, he waited and quietly let himself in.  My camera, passport, and wallet strewn about the small 10x10 space, but he didn’t want to take those things.  He wanted to take my outgoingness, my freedom, my energy, the way my hair dried of salt-water, my tanned skin, the way I flirted with other island men.  He had watched me (I was told after the fact) and wanted to take from me everything that I would never have given to him.

When I opened my eyes, he was hunched over at my head staring at me, inches from my face.  It’s like he had hesitated, and I woke up before he could pull the trigger.  I jumped up, stoned and confused.  I spoke to him calmly and frankly - What are you doing in here?  This is MY space?  I know my door wasn’t locked. Could you please leave? As I spoke to him, conscious not to get too mad or offend him, I opened the door.  

Somewhere down the beach, my travel companions noticed my open door.  Excited I was awake they decided to come up to my bungalow to collect me to get a head start on the day’s adventures.  When they walked into the bungalow, they were confused about who the intruder was.  Startled by their presence, he took off running down the beach, and I collapsed onto my mattress on the floor.  There I sat, and wept.  

I wept because my mother’s fears were not unfounded.  Some men will take what they want.  He wanted to take from me, and I was lucky.  I am a lucky one.  I was lucky that my door opened at the same time that two Canadians looked up from their beach walk.  How is that lucky?  How is it lucky to NOT get raped?  Jesus. How is our thinking so warped?  

Stoned, in the early afternoon heat, I stumbled out of my bungalow, changed, missing a piece of innocence and replacing it with this ridiculous feeling of luck. I’m a lucky one.

Water

I know it feels it, but you are not too much.  

The moon pulls you in too many directions - you are water. The water is just beginning to take over and I know how scary that is.  I remember it.  Know that one day you will be in control of it. Know that one day your movements will be recognized as a pure, raw, powerful beauty.  Listen to that and trust me.

While you are learning to control it, you must learn to apologize.  Say sorry and mean it.  Create art when you can’t control it.  Pour your soul on a canvas, a page, a songbook.  Share your art as an explanation.  Those who wish to know you will take interest in these offerings.  Keep close those who try to reach you through your art. 

You will move and shift too often for others to keep up. Never slow for them.  They will learn to ride the waves, tread your water, get out, or drown.  Keep those who swim well.  Keep those who know how to hold you.  They will place their hands on you, but never too tight.  They need to respect the water that resides in you, how it flows. 

I know it feels it, but you are not too much. One day you may hear that enough to eventually believe it.  Until that day comes please listen to and trust me - for I am water too.  

Untouchable

I don’t have a lot of memories from that time but the ones I have are so burned in that if I close my eyes I can remember them all: the sound of my scream in the tiny room, the heaviness of the bedroom after I was left alone, the way the curtains swooshed when they opened for the first time, the sound of the running shower as I lay curled, naked, in a ball on the floor, and your tiny hand sliding into mine on that beautiful fall day moments before I dropped to my knees.

I don’t know how I got there. Who drove?  How did everyone know to show up?  Who made those decisions?  Memory is fascinating and equally frustrating.  I have so many questions.

We stood, new parents, bereaved, next to a hole in the earth.  Everyone we loved, one step back from us as if we were untouchable.  We were untouchable.  No one wanted to touch our grief, we were alone, or so it felt.

But you, Sweet Boy, you closed that gap.  Were you watching me with those beautiful baby blues?  Did you know that I was so weak I would soon drop? 

At 10 years old you did what most adults didn’t, couldn’t, or wouldn’t dare.  You stepped forward, quietly, so very silently, and took my shaking hand into yours.  There, above the hole in the earth, you stood with me in my grief. 

This time of year is hard for all of us.  I am by no means the star of this show.  I think sometimes I forget that we were all there.  We all lost her.  We all grieve her.  We all honour her.  You, at only 10 years old, dealt with loss.  You, at only 10 years old, chose to step forward, bridge that gap, and touch the untouchable.  You, at only 10 years old slid your tiny hand into mine and for that I am forever grateful. 

The Circle Back

Here’s the thing that your friend going through a hard time wants you to know.  

Here’s the thing that I want you to know.

It all circles back.

Everything. It all circles back to the loss for us.

The loss of a child, a parent, a marriage, a job.

At first, I’d burn dinner accidentally.  It would leave me a crumbled mess on the floor.  Can’t I get that right?  Will I fail at everything I attempt? I would need to be pick up, off the floor, dusted off, and reminded that we can just order in, love.  We can just order in.  I would be told that one thing is not indicative of the other. 

Except it is to me.  

It’s a vicious cycle and we need you to know.  

I need for you to know.

The other day I was frustrated, screaming at my MacBook and fighting back the urge to throw it against the wall. Perhaps I am dramatic, perhaps I always have been.  In that moment though, I drudged up the last decade of heartache.  For me, life was unfair because I didn’t have access to a simple text that I wanted to read, and I don’t have access to her.  In that moment, they were one and the same. As hard as I tried to inject logic, I failed.

Please understand that I am not just dramatic.

When you were upset with me, annoyed by traits that were once a positive, it stung deeper than you could have ever imagined.  Here I am, open, honest, and raw, and you couldn’t handle it. You thought you knew better.  So, I cut you out.  Cold turkey. It’s easy, I tell myself.  I’ve lost more.  I wish I didn’t see it that way, but I do.  I am forever sorry that the two things are linked in my brain as a result of trauma.  It’s scarily easy for me to do.  

This, I need for you to know.  

The milestones don’t get easier.  The pain doesn’t lessen.  Last year I was angry beyond belief.  This year, sadness envelopes me whenever I stop moving. So, I haven’t stopped moving. Over the last ten years I have strengthened each year, but small, insignificant moments will throw me backwards, weakening me, crumpling me back into a that newly bereaved mother on the floor holding her burned dinner.  Catapulted back into grief, I find connections. It will forever circle back to my loss. I failed dinner and I failed her. 

These things, and more, you should to know about us.

Say Yes

I found myself, beer in hand, staring at two naked women the other evening. A blank paper in front of me and charcoal in my hand my task was to capture their beauty with my amateur eye and unskilled hands.  Together they posed: one, Amazonian in beauty, her curves defined by her strength, the other, softer but equally as beautiful.  Their laughter added to their beauty and the joy of the evening. 

Several times, as they stood still, I accidentally made eye contact with them.  My eyes would drift up from their breasts and meet their eyes.  My whole body would tense with the uncomfortableness of those moments - the moments that I was caught intensely gazing at their breasts, pubic hair, or the curve of their hips.  I’d smile, awkwardly, and continue to capture their form on paper, focusing on the evening’s task.

I sat flanked by women who, like me, say yes to events such as this.  These are my girls, the ones who invite me and the ones that I invite – all of us up for a challenge, all of us in a habit of saying yes.  We say yes for the chance to exist, even for a night, outside of our comfort zones, in essence recapturing a piece of ourselves. It is in these moments that we can feel growth.  It is with these women beside me that I remember who I was, who I aspire to be, who I am at the core.  

So, for any women struggling to remember.  You, yes you.  It’s so simple.  So very simple. Say yes.  The more you say it and place yourself in the uncomfortable line of: What do I wear? Who’s going to be there? How late are we staying? and I’ve nothing interesting to say, the more offers will appear.  Build back up your tribe of friends who ask and those who say yes when asked. Life happens here.  Life happens when you say yes.

Oomph

“Oomph”

That’s the sound I now make as I hoist my youngest to my hip.  The realization that there is an expiry to perching him upon my hip hits hard today. 

The youngest of four, the baby, grows before my eyes.  Each first for him, a last for me.  With each stage I feel both elation and grief – happy for the freedoms it provides but begging time to slow, ever so slightly, allowing me enough time to process and marvel at my baby, now a child. 

I know it’ll be replaced by new, wonderful milestones but tonight I grieve the ease with which I used to pick him up, showing him what I’m cooking or carrying him up to bed, kissing his soft baby cheeks until he tells me to stop.

I will continue, as all mothers before me have done, to bend from the knees, hands tucked under his armpits, “oomph” escaping my mouth, to hoist my baby to my hip until I can no longer.  

Today I feel it all; time ticking, my heart aching, and my hip burning. 

Breathe In

Before you blow out the candles, take a moment and breathe in.

Breathe in this house that we have made a home.  Feel the energy of this place that we have created.  A home where all are welcome, children laugh, and neighbours pop over.  A home that hosts pot lucks, after school playdates, and family gatherings.  Close your eyes and remember our basement apartment at 5thand Arbutus where our feet could touch the TV from our spot on the couch and the showerhead hung chest-high and rarely streamed warm water. Think of all of the tiny goals that you set and achieved between then and now. Marvel at how far we’ve come and then imagine how much farther we will go. The night is young, my love.

Breathe in these children who helped to decorate this cake. These children, half you and all of your methodical nature and half me with my fire.  They are the perfect blend of the best of us.  They sit around this pine table in anticipation.  Their sweet voices sing to you. Smiling, they await their slice of cake.  They hold their handmade cards in their tiny hands, busting to spoil you, their daddy, on this very special day.  Your presence in both their lives and the moment is the most important thing you have ever given to them.  Here they sit, wishing to repay you in their own way. 

Breathe me in, Love. Here I sit, beside you - always beside you. Keep kissing me in the kitchen and holding my hand in the car.  Spoil me and let me return the love.  Plan the next goal with me and challenge me to be better for myself first.  Watch the way I watch you when you tell a story, a joke, or play with our children.  You are my favourite moving masterpiece.  There is no where I would rather be than sitting next to you, at this pine table, eating this over-decorated cake.  

Before you blow out the candles, take a moment and breathe in. 

Take a deep breath, so you might be able to blow out all 40 of those candles.

Happy 40th Birthday to the love of my life.

The Choreographer

Never stop dancing, baby.  Never. There will be people who judge how your body moves but if it feels right, keep moving.  You are the choreographer, come alive in movement. 

Close your eyes to the room and feel the beat, the rhythm of the world around you. Dance to your own tune if you find you struggle to hear anything else.  

Push your body to the limits, and then push a little bit farther.  You are capable of so much more than you think, sweet girl.

Start the dance floor at weddings.  Grab someone and pull them into your world.  Challenge others to let go of themselves and join you. 

Dance while you clean, cook, and ready yourself – it’s called multitasking. Turn the mundane into a celebration of all that you are capable of. 

Create soundtracks to your life. Let music and movement guide you through the good times and bad.  Reflect often on how far you’ve come.

Keep moving, baby.  Movement is the key to life and you’ve already mastered it.  The goal now is to never forget. Move forward and only turn back to reflect on how far you’ve come.