insomnia

I crawled into bed last night thinking of this prompt and instantly wondered, did I take my pill already? Or did I wait, knowing that I wanted to watch TV in bed, that I wanted to stay awake, and the pill would make that difficult.

2012 was a year - a year in which I was haunted by hungry ghosts - left powerless and anxious for them. It was a year in which my happiness always had a shadow of things I haven’t yet figured out how to fix. And it was the first year in which I’ve experienced insomnia.

It wasn’t so much that sleep eluded me, but that I fought it off. The nightmares of my childhood returned, more vivid than ever. I would awake gasping, or whimpering, the dreams so real I could smell blood. I can still see images from the last one – the one that recurred through most of August. The one that STG bought me herbal tea and an obsidian cuff to ward off, the one he promised to help me fight. The pills help. I take them, and I sleep in a place so deep the nightmares can't find me, and I actually wake rested. They aren’t sleeping pills – they are for other things. But, they help.

I said at the end of 2011 that it had been my annus horribilus (yes, yes, a bad ass year), and I never wanted to see another like it. This year was different, so I suppose that wish came true at least in part. And yet, I could do without the sadness, the anxiety, and the insomnia. I could do without the heartbreak – my own, and the ones I feel responsible for.

It’s hard to remember the blessings this year had, when there’s so much ill sleep to cloud my memories. But, the pills help.

moonlight

The moon hangs low over the water – lower, it seems, on the smaller islands. Closer too in the mountains. It has so much competition in the city, but still ... when it does shine in the city, what a sight.

I don’t know why I find such solace in the glow of the moon. The sun is so generous with its heat and light, but the moon. The moon is gentle. Constant in its inconstant ways. Strong, without its own source of that strength.

Oh, to hang from the moon, to dance in the moonlight, to glory in the oxymoron of its cool light.

friend

Sometimes, once in a very long while, you meet someone with whom it is perfectly safe, and even preferable, to be fully yourself. With that rare, precious person, you learn what love and acceptance truly mean. You learn to be there for someone because of their unwavering ability to be there for you. Their friendship makes who you are perfect, and yet models for you to be someone better.

I cannot see the word ‘friend’ without thinking of Shiney. Of course, anyone who has been here before probably knows that, for me, ‘friend’ and ‘Shiney’ are synonymous. What we lack in time together, we make up for in love, acceptance, encouragement and ‘any time.’

There’s a touchstone for me and other people who battle depression – what would your best friend say about you right now? I’m grateful that the answer is always one that pulls me forward. And I’m especially grateful that we got some quality time together in 2012.

garden

The garden – that winsome spot that heals the soul while it breaks the back. One of the things that sold STG and I on our Love Nest was the terraced rock garden. It is a place to labour and to relax, a source of both food and of beauty.

If only it wasn’t laced with weeds. Insidious grasses twine under the soil, creeping, spreading, matting, and choking. Brambles stab, slicing open fingers eager to uproot them, grasping onto sleeves and pant legs and anything else that comes near fighting to continue their slow murder of the plants we tenderly nourish.

edgar allan poe

I can't say that I've ever been a big fan of American gothic literature. Of course I’m familiar with The Raven - hear its echoes every time I declare ‘nevermore.’ I hear it even now, as I prepare to close out this year and begin a new one: A clean slate. Some definite lines in the sand. Eyes forward, onward and upward.

Ravens fascinate me with their sleek blackness, their curiosity and intelligence. If I were to be a bird, I think I’d like to be a Raven. Though perhaps not the kind that scrounge through garbage bins. I bet Ravens spend little time looking backwards.

This fine fellow is our bedroom doorstop. I call him Edgar, and trust him to keep my night's restful..

phoenix

I suppose as mythological birds go, a phoenix is alright. I don’t really get that inspired by them though. Maybe I’m just tired of the whole re-birth thing - tired of dusting myself off, dragging my singed tail feathers out of the ashes, and starting all over again.

It’s Boxing Day. The un-holiday-est of holidays, and just 5 days until a New Year, and all I want is a big glass of wine and a little peace and quiet. Today I identify much more with a waddling penguin – or maybe a dodo bird – than I do a phoenix.

And yet, I know that in just a few days I will rise up again. After a little break from the festivities, and maybe even, God willing, a little quiet, there I’ll be, plumage and all, ready to take on 2013.

morning

Few morning’s dawn so full of life and promise as Christmas morning. We were a household of adults bounding eagerly from our slumbers this morning, and yet bound we did. To stockings full of sweet and handy surprises. To shared delight and curiosity ‘what did you get’ asked repeatedly, even from those who stuffed the stockings.

And then, what next. Time for breakfast, or straight on to presents? Presents it is. Slower now, paying attention to one and then the other. Flipping through the new world presented in a book. Trying on the lightly lacey scarf. Assembling a new bike repair stand ‘just to see how it works.’

We were a household of adults, transmuted to children by stacks of waffles and bacon. By hot fragrant stewed apples. By the joy of the day shared, and maybe even by silly hats.

christmas

Right now the smells in the house remind me of that line from A Christmas Carol, “He was conscious of a thousand odours floating in the air, each one connected with a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys, and cares.” Candles glow warm and waxy along the mantel, reflecting off our stocking hangers and photo frames. The grand fir, slowly loosing its freshness, still releases its sharp scent when we jostle it to fit another present under. BB2 and I have spent the day making ahead what we can for tomorrow’s feast - sage, rosemary, thyme and parsley from our garden layered over the scents of chocolate, mint and maple in the kitchen.

In the dark of winter, we’ve layered our house with light. Bright, coloured cheerful ones on the walk and  stoop. Twinkling fairy lights on the tree. Tonight we’ll play games and eat treats both sweet and savoury. And then, when BB1 and his sweetheart have left, we’ll stuff the stockings. Hoping they are full-enough, but not too full. Hoping we haven’t forgotten anything. Hoping, most of all, that we've focused on the love instead of on the buying. .

Christmas Eve has long been my favourite part of Christmas. The day itself is so much mayhem. I don’t enjoy cooking enough to appreciate a full day of it. But Christmas Eve, that intake of breath and excitement we all share. That's where the magic is. 

I love being someone who 'keeps Christmas well' - in keeping it meaningful and personal, which to me is so much more important than in recreating a scene from a magazine. I love having the people I love around me. I love making an effort and having it appreciated. I love having traditions – those my parents gave to me, those I created with the BBs, and those that STG and I are now creating in our new home. I love the planning, and the shopping. But more than that, I love sitting, the house quiet and rich, and listening for the angels to sing. I sit, and remember - ‘O come, O come, Emmanuel.’

Christmas has always been about anticipation. I suppose that’s the best tradition of all.

grey

I’ve been mulling about this prompt all day - arguing with myself about what there really is to say, and what I prefer my prompts to be about. If this is to be both a 100 words prompt, and a reflection on the year, then I have to be honest – for me, the colour grey has been sullied this year by the ridiculous popularity of a very poorly written piece of smarm.

I have so much to say about it, and yet all of these strong opinions exist without my having read the book. I value my time, and my reading time in particular, too much to read crap. I don’t mean that I don’t read erotica, or even porn. I enjoy well-written erotica as much as I enjoy any other good writing. But despite, or perhaps because of, all the hub-bub, I cannot bear to waste a moment actually reading this book to do a full review. And yet, I feel like it has somehow subtle infected my life and for that I have to say something. 

What bothers me most is that this illiterate tripe is promoted to women and labelled as ‘mommy porn’[I could write a whole separate post on how obnoxious and offensive that term is, and perhaps I will later], women swoon and post not-too-subtle posts in social media about how this crap writing makes them swoon, and as a woman I despair for my kind. We deserve better. We deserve better writing than Twilight fan fiction full of clichés, strained metaphors, idiocy, and monotonous repetition, and we deserve better plots than being beaten into submission. If you really want to empower women's sexuality, as so many of the people who like this crap argue, wouldn't you write about a woman being dominant in her sexuality? Bah

I actually don’t know that I can write a coherent post about this. Everything I read just makes me cringe. My point is, I’ve always thought the colour grey was beautiful. Subtle, mysterious, comforting, deep. Previously, the phrase ‘shades of grey’ brought to my mind the subtle dance that happens where the ocean meets the sky. Or the million warming tones of a pigeon’s wing. Or the soft warmth of a wool sweater. How do you rename and reclaim a colour? 

rain

I don’t want to write about rain. There is too much of it, by and large, where I live. I want to write about Christmas lights, and sparkling bows, and parties with people we love.

I don’t want to write about rain. About how we learn to do what we want to do whether it’s pounding down or just a drizzle. About the million times this year we’ve ‘gone anyway’ – the sopping first night camping on Hornby, the day trips up island with the wipers swishing.

I don’t want to write about rain. It’s dreary and inescapable. But “at least we don’t live in Vancouver,” and "at least it isn't snow," we regularly console one another. It's poor solace, for cold toes and seeping dampness.

abandoned

The little cabin looked as though it had grown rather than having been built by any human hands. It had grown up, provided the shelter that is its purpose, and now was returning to the earth. The logs melded naturally into the surrounding moss. Ferns softened the corners. A sapling grew in the rich humus of the rotting cedars that had once been walls.

Abandonment. It has such a final and dramatic ring. And yet, sometimes it is merely allowing things to return to their natural state. We cling to things, and to people, not knowing that sometimes, walking away is the most natural thing to do.

treasure

I cup it gently, rolling it over, sighing and smiling and protecting it from danger. I blow gentle warmth on it, watch it fog and clear again, fading in and out of focus. It thrums, then whimpers – capricious and changeable, and mine.

The heart is a contradictory treasure, stone-weighty yet feather-fickle. It is fragile, yet infinitely self-healing - can shatter on a whim, a careless word, a thoughtless omission, and be reborn perfect moments later.

It is the only treasure worth keeping, yet it works best when given away. And therein lies the secret – to give it to someone who will cherish it, and give his in return.

walk

I hobble and hitch. An old mare, good for nothing more than putting out to pasture. I forget, sometimes. My filly heart still wanting to frolic. And then the ping in the hip flexor. The moan of the knee.

Walking more than anything else reminds me of my age. And my weight. And my general neglect of my physical health. After two years of stuffing down my feelings with food, my body has begun to object.

I meet up with UberCoach. Smell the sunshine, or the wind off the water. Try to keep up her not-any-younger-but-much-more-willing legs. Focus on gratitude for the company. I hitch and hobble, and look forward to another Sunday wander.

stars

...How soon, unaccountable, I became tired and sick;
Till rising and gliding out, I wander’d off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.
Walt Whitman.

We lay back in the lawn chairs arrayed about the fire, our own constellation of laughter and love. Tall and small and saturated with sunshine, we waited. We watched. We groaned at missed comets and exclaimed over found satellites.

Our lives so long paralleled, so infrequently over-lapping. My oldest love and her family meeting and loving my newest love. We lay back in the lawn chairs arrayed about the fire, with friendship that glows steady, shared heartaches that flash like meteors, and new memories brilliant over faded clouded ones.

Stars shine brighter in the country and dance across the bowl of the sky.

expectations

Slippery, slimy, darting flashes of silver with razor teeth. The promise of joy and magic, shattered to grey disappointment. Expectations, great or otherwise, are the silent insidious thieves of vitality.

The thin line between hope and expectation is another razor – to one side lays a failure to share the magic of anticipation. On the other side lurks only the possibility is pain, blame, and hurt.

Unfortunately, you probably won’t know which side of the line you’re on until it’s too late. You’ve either missed the moment, or the moment has failed to deliver. A rose overblown, or a bud that withers on the vine.

flowers

It's not much of a secret that I love flowers - live flowers, cut flowers, growing flowers, receiving flowers, photographing flowers. Okay, I may have a slight preference for receiving flowers, but it's hard to think of a situation in which I don't love flowers.

When STG and I moved into the Love Nest this past spring, I was over the moon about the immense beds of flower and herb garden just waiting for our tender loving care. Until we started working in them. My high ideas of pristine beds of weed-free beauties blooming in fast succession from April to November died a sudden death.

It turns out that kind of flowered loveliness is a lot of work. And, while I love flowers, it seems I’m not all that interested in working hard for them. Good thing my parents like a nice project now and then. 

happiness

Knowing what today's blog prompt was going to be, I've paid attention throughout the day to my experience of happiness, or not. Mostly I just want to repost my post from June 14: if it makes you happy, who cares? But that would be cheating, and I'm trying to be a good sport.

If my day had a happy-o-meter, the high point would have been while I was outside in the freezing drizzle perfecting our outdoor display of lights and ornaments with BB2. The low point would be squabbling with STG in the grocery store about whether or not we need tortilla chips.

This is the minutiae that makes up life, that makes happiness in and of itself a pointless pursuit. And that makes me glad this prompt is over and done with and we can move on to more important things.

tears

Tears. What a thing to write about on a day like today. A day when I can celebrate having my sons in my life while 28 mothers mourn the loss of their babies of all ages. A day when my world was fine, until I found out what had happened in the rest of the world. I nearly lost my boys once – I hope never to get any closer to that bitter well.

My wise friend Lauren shared this quote: "Let us stay calm and openhearted while we manage our own fear and anger. And help us remember that news coverage is traumatizing for us and especially for our children." - Brené Brown

I had wished not to hear the news. Said stop when someone started to speak it. Rebuked them for not honouring my request. Have avoided what I can, short of shutting myself away from the world. I mentally hug my sons close tonight, the salty sting of tears never really far, and I selfishly thank God that I am not among the grieving mothers tonight.

no time

I LOVE Christmas - not just the deeper meaning that means so much to me, but all of the mayhem as well. I could shop early, but I LOVE the frustration of a packed mall. I actually look forward to the busyness - the decorating, the extra baking, the events, getting together with friends and family. 

When you work for a charity, Christmas is an amazing time - you get to see the best of people, you get to give people the blessing of being a blessing, and really there is no better gift I could give. I get tired, yes, but it's mostly a happy tired and I know it's a time-limited demand on me.  

And then, sometimes something interrupts all of that. Something like a sputtering car that leaves me sitting quietly with BB1 while STG comes to rescue us. An interruption that leads to cancelling my evening plans and staying in. Making a quickie dinner while BB1 puts his 'special' ornaments on the tree. Retelling again the stories of where they came from. His current favourite is the fat terra cotta penguin his grandparents brought back from Mexico last year. It's a tree full of love. And now I'm sitting alone, watching tv, blogging, and enjoying having the house to myself. 

I like being busy. And sometimes I like a good reason to stop and smell the Christmas tree. 

cat

He is shiny, sleek and tricky as a shadow. His black on black markings showing only in the brightest light. He is almost unphotographable. He is not ours, but lets us feed and entertain him for now – he’ll leave when BB2 does, and we'll miss his flashing eyes and the fun he adds to our house. I'll even miss his laying in wait – hiding behind the door, charging down the hallway at me, leaping through the air, and swatting gently at my leg as he flies past. Sometimes he's elegant. Sometimes he trips over his own feet. 

Mostly he makes us laugh. Occasionally he makes is curse. He is 100% a man’s cat, with BB2 having prime place. He knows when BB2 is hurting and stays near. He’ll sit with me if no one else is around. He chats with us as we come and go, keeps an eye on everything, and catches moths out of mid-air. That skill alone makes him a keeper to me.

mother nature

Nestled in the nurturing belly of the island, layer upon layer of green blankets thrown around us, even the air we breathe lends comfort. Sometimes we ride. Sometimes we walk, slowing our progress through the depths of the forest, seeing in detail, hearing the trees sigh, the mosses and grasses cushioning each step.

I do not worship nature – I worship its creator. And yet, in these rare and precious moments, I can’t deny nature’s healing powers. Spirit and body revive, and I am returned once more to myself.

There’s something people are calling nature deficiency syndrome. And after a weekend on Hornby, it’s easy to believe such a thing exists.

vacation

STG and I had an awesome extended road trip this summer doing some of our favourite things and visiting some of our favourite people. But what stands out to me when I hear ‘vacation’ are those even rarer moments, moments of peace. Moments of gratitude. Moments when my soul is at rest.

A mid-week day trip to Coombs or Port Renfrew stopping where we will without plans or agenda. Or resting in the backyard hammock with a glass of wine and a juicy novel. Watching the storm from a fire-warmed cabin on Mayne. Leaning against a log watching the water wash the beach. Pressing reset doesn’t take two weeks. It just takes grabbing the opportunity to breathe peace in as it dances past.

rainbow

In the place of endless grey, where the sea and the sky melt eternally into each other, colour brings life. A merry Christmas red sweater. The sapphire blue of BB2’s eyes. A verdant Grand fir, decorated in sparkling gold and silver, green and red, blue and white. Fingers stained by dyed icing, joyfully and liberally applied to cookies.

Where I grew up, winter was deep and unending whiteness. Now it is grey, with rare breaks in the weather. And still, the colourful explosion of Christmas colour brightens this otherwise dismal season. As always, colour is a promise of life and it’s a promise we so need these days.

blood

It's important to push my comfort zones, I know that. I believe that. It's important to keep on growing, try new things, not say no until you've said yes at least once. And so, with MissB in tow, I headed out for my first women's mountain biking workshop.

Day 1 was awesome and relatively simple. Okay, the wall ride did shake me a little. And I really felt like the double-berm was going to be the death of me, but by the fourth try it was fluid and smooth and I was wooting.

And then day 2. Starting right out on a trail I’ve hated so much before I walked it. Five minutes in, if that, catastrophe strikes and I go down. Hard. On my knee, and then over on my side. The rest of the group waited around a corner, looking aghast equally at my pale shaken face and oozing crimson legs.

It took all I had in me not to give up, but I didn’t. And yet, I haven’t been back on my bike since. It might be a coincidence. It might be the lingering smell of blood.

questioning

Sometimes I think that our culture makes too big a deal about questioning. “Question authority.” “Teach your children to read. And teach them to question what they read.” “Question everything.” Those blanket statements make great bumper stickers, but they make crappy philosophy.

Yes, I think we need people to be more careful about what they believe – any random perusal of a Facebook stream will reveal approximately 8 stupid causes per day that people unthinkingly get behind, exclaim about, etc. But, there’s something to be said for a little magical thinking, faith, and taking things at face value. 

What I question most of all is the rampant need we seem to have to make things either/or. One can be both a person of faith and a rational being. Both a thinker and a feeler. Both a Christian and a social liberal.What’s sad is when people are so busy questioning they don’t stop to experience the answers, and the lush reassurance of knowing.

silence

I find more and more of late that I'm withdrawing into silence. Sometimes I can feel it happening – I open my mouth to speak, think better of it, and shrink backwards, fading against a warm dull colourless cloak of nothing. My mouth closes, and a piece of me atrophies – not total death, just a small silent shrinking.

It’s an insidious giving up. Behind every silence is a thought - ‘these words are not worth sharing; this fight is not worth fighting; I am not worth listening to.’ Giving up. Giving in.

My face shows everything though. Without making a sound I yell outrage, scream hurt, thunder frustration. Someday I will learn to make a mask of my face. And then I will be entombed in a silent shroud of my own making, of my own skin. Silence, but without any peace.

smile

Oh irony, you are a clever clever trickster. Yesterday I was in a pretty good mood and the prompt was misfortune. Today's prompt is 'smile' and I am trying to view my laptop monitor through the flashing swirling aura of an impending migraine. It's coming on, and it's coming fast, if the dance of lights in front of me is any indication, and it usually is.

But, I said I’d blog every day for 100 days. I said, at least to myself, that I’d be unreasonable about it; as in, I would ignore any excuse or reason that might keep me from blogging. And, while I can only see clearly out of the outer edges of my sight, well, at least I can see that, right?

I am, oddly, smiling to myself as I play with editing, and trying to re-read writing I cannot see. I have to hold my head sideways and use my peripheral vision. It’s kooky. The squiggling red lines seem alive on the page. It’s like this – tape two kaleidoscopes in front of your face and then try to type.

Which makes me think. If I can blog – just because I said I would – even when I can’t really see the screen, what’s to keep me from smiling just because I said I would. Or doing anything else I say matters? Hmmm ... that’s one to ponder, right after I find my migraine medicine.

misfortune

Misfortune had made Lily supple instead of hardening her, 
and a pliable substance is less easy to break than a stiff one. 
Edith Wharton

If fortune favours the bold, who does misfortune favour? The mousy, homebound wallflower? That seems unlikely. I mean, if you’re just sitting on your couch, how can misfortune even find you?

Well, it turns out that it can. It rides in on the coat tails of loved ones, snoops around for what matters most, and starts messing about with its sledge hammer.

Misfortune is more insidious than an uninvited guest - it’s a goblin – hiding in wait until you’ve relaxed enough to think it gone. Just when you’re breathing again, it pops out. Usually with worse behaviour than the first time.

I sometimes feel one startle from shattering, but I hope against all reason that, like Lily, I’m actually becoming more supple.

memory

Why is a memory that retains EVERYTHING considered a 'good' memory? I have one of these, and, frankly, I would give anything to forget. To forget the irretrievable mistakes. The forget enough of the past that it stops getting in the way of my future.

To be honest, the accuracy of my memory is actually up for some debate. But there’s a close circle of people who assume it to be accurate, so the things I remember the way I remember them are not often questioned. Except when they are.

I know we are supposed to learn from everything that happens. But once it’s over, couldn’t we just remember the lesson and forget the teacher?

breathe again

Back in the studio. Back to the purple mat, the short shorts, the racer back tank, and the chance to breathe again. It has been far too long since my last yoga class, and it’s especially special to be there with STG. Yoga for 2. Separate in our practices, but together in our goals.

I miss yoga when I’m too long between visits to the studio. Yes, it’s possible to practice it at home, but in the studio, under the tender guidance of the teacher, I expand. My breath is slower and deeper, my spine straighter, my life simpler.

There’s no lulugirl inside me waiting to burst out. Just an aging mom with an aging body and an ancient practice that meets me where I am and guides me in the way I want to go ... and sharing the class with STG reminds me that wherever I'm going, we're going together. 

drive

I hold on white-knuckled. For no reason other than the excess of anxiety that needs expression somewhere through and out of my body. I brake, although the pedal is across the car from me. I try to slow my breathing. 

For some reason, closing my eyes makes it worse - I can't do my usual calming routine. I need to keep my eyes on the road so I can anticipate the next disaster. 

I used to love mountain drives. The curves. The hills. The speed. The centrifugal forces acting on my body. But not this year. This year I needed to control the things that could be controlled. And yes, I am cognizant of the quote from that Tom Cruise-Nicole Kidman travesty ‘Days of Thunder,’ “control is an illusion, you infantile egomaniac.” 

But sometimes an illusion is all that’s needed.