when a turtle is not just a turtle

For the past week or so, this turtle has been the wallpaper on both monitors of my work station. Today I changed it. 

I had chosen it as one of the most gorgeous photos in my collection, although I was not the photographer. It's a photo that captures a magical memory and makes me feel many wonderful things. 

But there was also a slight haunting about it. That distant time my body was warmed by sun, and sea, and champagne, and romance. Those time-faded beautiful beaches. Grasping at wandering the lively streets of Bridgetown. A sense of once taking risks and being spontaneous. 

Life is so much not that right now. It is good. And it is not that. The gap between that memory and this reality was too poignant. 

So I swapped it for another image - a picture from the same golden trip, but with crucial reminders of who I am right here, right now. 

I'll get back to the Caribbean. Maybe even to Barbados again. I'll swim with more sea turtles, feel white sand and sunshine. Eat Rock lobster and wash it down with rum. Lose myself in a smile. Someday, all of that can happen again. 

And, in the meantime, courage is here. Curiosity is ever-present. Compassion abides with me. And that is enough.

That's the thing with values. Wherever you go, even in the dark cold days of December, there they are. 

autumn ramble

Yesterday was a perfect afternoon for an amble. At the end of a pretty steady week at work and multiple evenings of meetings, a stretch of the legs seemed like the perfect transition back to life. And it was. 

Autumn on the west coast doesn’t have the same vibrant intensity of the Eastern maples, elms, and … whatever other deciduous trees they have that we don’t. It has it’s own beauty though. A softer beauty, perhaps, but one alive with texture, soft colours. In my twenty-minute meander I saw more life than I’ve seen in a long while. 

A tree at the edge of a school yard is bright with green leaves and red apples. This neighbourhood was once farmland, and the reminder of those days makes me smile and wonder what life was like then. Across the highway the hillside is singing with frogs. I can’t see them, but their voices transport me back to the soggy rainforests of Jamaica when rain has eased the heat of the day and the treefrogs are rejoicing in the wetness. 

I enter the trails of Cuthbert Holmes Park and am struck by the wide variety of berries in white and multiple reds on high trees and low shrubs, not to mention the late purple black stragglers on the blackberry brambles. I imagine the Thanksgiving centrepiece the red and white would make. I am not the only one captured by the berry bounty - a fat grey squirrel is munching down on a bush of crimson globes that look to be bursting with juice and flavour - when I stop to photograph him he pauses in his meal, but quickly decides that the reward of the pincherries(?) is worth the risk of my presence. 

Cuthbert Holmes Park is popular with dog walkers so there are always people and pets to greet on their way. One gentlemen had two of my dream dog - the most perfect golden retrievers. Well behaved, beautifully groomed, friendly, but not overly so. 

From the bridge crossing Colquitz Creek I’m surprised to see a male mallard duck, though he’s far enough away I don’t stop to watch for long. Around the corner and through another abandoned orchard I startle a feral bunny. This part of the city is full of them, though oddly you are more likely to see them on from the highway than in the park. I suppose the park is their territory where they usually move before I get near enough to see them. This was a small one. And fast. The poodle approaching from the other direction missed out on a good chase. 

With that kind of life to observe, the walk passes quickly. I run my errands, head back to the mall entrance, and see the day has turned from bright sunshine to steady rain. That is another feature of the westcoast autumn - as a trade off for the duller foliage we avoid the flooding, freezing downpours of the east coast, though our weather changes in a moment. I could wait it out, but - as my dad? mom? grandpa? - used to say, I'm not made of sugar - the rain won't melt me. Other walkers, mostly still with their dogs and much better prepared for the weather than I am, continue to greet me on the paths. 

I get back to the bridge, and Mr. Drake has been joined by a small group of friends who look happy with the rain. Personally, I don't have the same ability to let water roll of my cotton-clad back and by the time I near home I’m looking forward to flannel pjs, a hot tea, and a quiet evening in. And I can't stop smiling. Even here on the edge of the city the healing powers of nature are able to weave their magic.

the golden updraft

There are times in life when I feel dissociated from the reality around me. I have a surreal experience that echoes as 'is this really my life?' It is a question that I always experience as wonder. I know what I am experiencing is accurate, and yet ... 

As I write this I am sitting in Miami International Airport mid-way in a long day of travel between my temporary home of Kingston Jamaica and my excursion destination of Bridgetown, Barbados. This is my unrecognizable life. 

How did an awkward teenager turned frumpy housewife from northern British Columbia end up here? Was I always destined to be here, or did I make it happen? Is the answer somewhere in between? I know this was long the life I dreamed of - even as a teenager in the hinterland I dreamt of being cosmopolitan, a jet-setter. It's the adventure I always wanted, but the leap from then to now is mind-bending. 

As Sidney Poitier says in his autobiography The Measure of a Man, 

Daydreams were guaranteed to please. They had it all over facts & reality when it came to getting groundwork done and foundations laid. However, daydreams were burdened with what in years to come would be revealed as their major weakness. Every ounce of the hard grueling work necessary in the conversion from promises made to dreams fulfilled was the sole responsibility of the dreamer.

I can, with neither false vanity not false modesty, say I've done the work. I earned the education. I put in the hours of work at jobs that varied between an expression of myself and just paying the bills. I did without when doing without was necessary, and I did with when it was possible. I went with the flow, and then I swam against it. I am also clear I haven't arrived - maybe there is no arriving. Maybe each summit reveals a new peak ahead. But in this moment, life is surreal and perfect.

It's also unequivocally true that I have had the great privilege not just of being allowed to dream but of being allowed to believe in my dreams. My sisters and I were encouraged to test and develop talents in various fields - sports, school, the arts - and so to learn about ourselves. We were encouraged to learn about and visit other places and people. And, we lived in a culture and society that said in myriad ways 'the white middle-class will inherit the earth' - it was the water we swam in. 

I see the street children in Kingston and I know they too dream. But I wonder if it ever occurs to them that they are worthy of their dreams, that they have as much right to do the hard work that has dreams come true as anyone. In an environment of constant lack and need, how do dreams grow?

of Kafka, words and memory

A loved one sent me this quote the other day:

How many words in this book. 

They are meant for remembrance. As though words could carry memories. 

For words are clumsy mountaineers and clumsy miners. Not for them to bring down treasures from the mountains’ peaks, or up from the mountains’ bowels. 

But there is a living mindfulness that has passed gently, like a stroking hand, over everything memorable. And when the flame shoots up out of these ashes, hot and glowing, strong and mighty, and you stare into it as though spellbound by its magic, then– 

But no one can write himself into this kind of pure mindfulness with unskillful hand and crude pen; one can write only in such white, undemanding pages as these. I did so on September 2, 1900 

Franz Kafka

... for words are clumsy mountaineers ... 

At first I was so taken with Kafka's skillful pen that I paid more attention to the sparkly sound than I did to the hardened diamond of meaning. On re-reading though it strikes me that words may be feeble vessels for memory, but they are vibrant conductors of it. What but words can take your mind back to a moment so completely that your body responds? We have so few other sensory recordings of those moments that words have to suffice, imperfect as they are.

Perhaps that's why memories themselves are imperfect and either embellish or diminish the reality of a moment. Even a photograph, the supposed truth-teller of the past, shows only a flattened and particular image, a flash of time within a frame. What happens before or after or outside the field of view is left to the inconstancy of memory. Photos too fade over time. Memories can fade, though those we hold closest seem to maintain their shine.

Some moments are burnished with revisiting - a hello, a chuckle, a touch, the splash of bath water, the slow relaxing of muscles ...

Kafka is both right and wrong - words are imperfect for carrying (or maybe for sharing) memories, but he seems to imply that that imperfection is a weakness. I think the magic of words is the way in which they can translate memories, that they can get to the truth beyond the reality, that the details fall away and only the experience as experienced remains.

yours are the sweetest eyes, i've ever seen

When the BB's were little, I'd tuck them in bed with a story and a song. BB1 preferred the stories - the more books I'd read the better, though I rarely got suckered in to more than two. BB2 liked the songs, over and over again. When he was three we went almost the whole year singing "Away in a Manger" at bedtime. 

After a while, we expanded our repertoire. Beyond "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star," beyond lullabies and nursery rhymes. I made a booklet of the songs we loved, some from their favourite movies - "Baby Mine" from Dumbo and "You'll Be In My Heart" from Tarzan - and, somehow, some of my favourite love songs ended up in there as well. Of course, baby boys don't stay baby boys for long. They start reading for themselves. And then they say, as nicely as they can, you don't have to sing to me anymore, and you try not to take it personally. They do have to grow up. 

But this song, "Your Song," has remained my song for BB2. When he was in the hospital, I couldn't listen to it. I couldn't hear 'how wonderful life is while you're in the world' when he didn't want to be here. Eventually he got out of the hospital, and promised me he'd never go back. It was his birthday. Or perhaps the day before. 

And today is his birthday, two years later. It hasn't been any easy two years for any of us, but most of all for him. He has had some substantial growing pains, some set-backs, and some amazing successes. He's stronger, a little leaner, sometimes guarded, but moving forward. We're all a little more honest than we used to be. It's become essential. And also, I think a little more compassionate, if sometimes a little exhausted. 

I can't give BB2 a big house. But I can remind him, over and over, that sometimes I forget, and I get frustrated, and what I really mean is I'm so very glad he's in the world. 

PS - his eyes are blue. The most incredible blue.

in a new york minute

I got out of bed long after I should have been fast asleep, compelled by swirling memories of New York. I was inspired, as I am each week about this time, by tonight's episode of Smash - by the gritty kid trying to make good, the innocent girl from the hinterland learning the rough trade of the theatre world, the soaring songs, and the dramatic stories. It gets me every time, but that's not unique to this show. 

I was reminded, through the guest appearance of Bernadette Peters, of my chance meeting with Madeline Kahn. Meeting is too strong a word. I was dazed and awed by the experience of shopping at Saks Fifth Avenue when I heard her unmistakable voice. She was already dying of cancer then, and was shopping for scarves. I watched her for a moment before shyly smiling at her and saying 'thanks for the laughs' and walking away. When she died later that year I was glad I'd said something, even something idiotic. 

My whole week in that city was captivating. As I've mentioned before, (more than once) when I think of my most alive moments, many of them happened that week. And so I return to those memories when I'm faced with deep questions about who I am and what I really want out of life. What was it about walking the streets of Manhattan, about spending two days in the Metropolitan Museum, about wandering and soaking it all in that was so ... inspiring, in the true sense of the word? 

I've had other fantastic trips - some might even say bigger or more important trips. But for me, New York is the one what always draws me back. I've looked through my old photos - taken on what was then my first really good camera, and what is now archaic technology. Photos on film that were printed when I got home, and shoved in a photo box ever since. The secret is not in them. 

What started all this looking back was this set of questions posed by Gabrielle Roth and posted by UberCoach on my facebook wall yesterday: "When did you stop dancing? When did you stop singing? When did you stop being enchanted by stories? When did you stop being comforted by the sweet territory of silence?"

I don't have any answers, yet. I just know the feeling that long ago me had - that Mary Tyler Moore spin around and throw your hat up in the air because life is so perfect and you made it that way feeling - isn't confined to  New York City, and that if I can find it there I can find it anywhere.

snow

I almost hate to admit it, what with all my posts of year-round flowers and being an escaped northern girl, but I’ve really been missing the snow this year. I miss waking up to that particular quality of silence only a new blanket of snow provides. I miss snow days - and their pretence that you can’t go out, when really it’s just a great excuse to stay in. 

I miss catching snowflakes on my tongue, bringing snow creatures to life on the lawn, sledding and skiing and that that first tentative step that mars a pristine world. I miss lobbing a soggy ball at a loved one, and squealing in terror when they return the favour. And I miss warming up afterwards, with my toes curled under and my hands wrapped round a mug of cocoa.

When STG and I visited Shiny this summer, we did it with an eye to seeing if life over the mountains was a life we could live together. I remember living there and the feeling of isolation in the winter – of being nearly cut off from the world be treacherous mountain passes. 

But now, in my bone-wearniness, that isolation has its own appeal. Especially when we’d be in such comforting company.

i won't do that, part deux

I'm thinking that maybe something in my last post missed the mark, since I got these replies from AliKat & Freckles (the first being one of my oldest friends, and the second my sister) who both left me thinking 'what we have here is a failure to communicate:'

AliKat: Loved it, Shan.

I have often thought about where I ‘should’ be in life at my age. Having started over as a ‘mature adult’ has meant a lot of sacrifices along with a pile of joy. Then I came to realize this is not productive for me. You know, there is nothing wrong with just enjoying the people you love and the place you are in right now. I often think that maybe all of the 'travel' and things we dream for are right in our backyards, but we are blinded by the trips to Hawaii and big incomes that get us around the world. Don't get me wrong, I think travelling to other countries is a great thing as it exposes us to diverse cultures and experiences, but sometimes it isn't the dream that is defunct, it is how we see ourselves fitting in within an ideology that values the pool, fancy house, at least three yearly vacations, and a host of other things over just being satisfied with sitting on your front stoop with a buddy and a cup of minty water (mint grown in your very own yard, of course). I think perhaps it isn’t the lack of motivation, but perhaps we are exactly where we should be right now...living a dream that has some big assed bumps in the road, but none-the-less a great place to be.

Freckles: Well said <AliKat>; we'll never be happy or even satisfied if all we do is look outside of where we are. Being in the 'now' allows us to enjoy now and look forward to what is coming. It is certainly tough sometimes, but wishing your life away seems like such a waste of what we've been given.

To both of these fine ladies I say TOTALLY, and let me clarify:

I am truly grateful for my life right now, and am sorry that isn't always clear. Although I fight with depression it does not cloud my awareness that this life I have right now - the partner, the job, the awesome home with the great garden, the sons making strides to create their futures - is exactly what I wished for. I'm grateful. And relieved. My favourite times are sitting on the back porch with STG looking at our garden or giggling with BB2 as he refuses to let me help with his English homework & just enjoying the incredible miracle that those simple moments, that garden, the homework exist.

Perhaps my experience of being an outsider - and my hard-won ability to tranform 'not fitting in' into 'being special' - is something I've held on to for too long. I've prided myself on not conforming fully to the supposed ideals of our culture. I'm not someone who is overly motivated by money or status - recognition for sure, but not money or status. If I were, I would never have left post-secondary teaching to work part-time while my boys were younger. I would never have left the private-sector to work for a charity. I would never have ended a relationship with a man who wanted to buy me things and waited instead for a man who gives me himself.

The dreams I have don't have to do with acquisitions or conformity or wealth - they all come back to freedom. And perhaps that's why they are hard to articulate. A million dollar home, doubling my income, even losing 40 pounds are all measurable, tangible goals that, with the right actions attached, are completely achievable.

But how do you pursue something as intangible as freedom? Creativity? Expression? It may be that it's possible right here and right now in my cute house and my awesome garden and my contributing-to-society job. It may be, but for all my wonder at this amazing life, there's still that something magical that eludes me.

Absolutely I am grateful for my life, satisfied to have my big ass on my stoop sipping cool drinks with the people I love, and yet I can't help looking out at the stars past the edge of the island and wondering ... what's out there ...

oh mother-hood

Mother's Day is coming - it's inescapable. I've learned in the past to try to ignore it, but last week BB1 asked if he could take me out for dinner this Sunday, so this year at least I can acknowledge the day. I am honoured that he asked. 

Yes, they're cousins -  born 20 years apart

Every TV ad. Every radio conversation. Every other blog post I read seems to be about mothering/Mother's Day right now. They sing our praises, extol our supposed selfless-ness, encourage the purchasing of jewelry and spa treatments to repay us. Mostly they make me aware of how much I am NOT that mom in the ad. But I am a mom, and as content with that as I am with my other flawed identities. 

I began a comment this morning on 'Diary of a Mad Woman's post 'On Being an OLD Mom', but quickly realised that the comment was morphing into a post of its own. This post. I could go on and on about what it's been like for me being a 'young' mom - or a mom at all - but the job isn't over, so the story has no end.  

I was 20 when I got married, 22 when we welcomed BB1 into the world, and 42 when he and his brother left home simultaneously. For 12 of those years, it was just the 3 of us. We had the best of times, and the worst of times, and my daily prayer is that those two extremes balanced out. 

My first-born sister was 44 when she had her one and only - the light of his parents' and (now properly grandparent aged) grandparents' eyes, not to mention a complete joy to his mostly adult cousins and rested-enough-to-enjoy him aunts.

What I've observed and experienced is, being a mom is hard and delightful and the most confidence building and confidence shaking experience a woman can have. That was true when I was 22 and taking BB1 home from the hospital. It was true when I was 30 and the youngest mom in our middle-class middle-school. It's true of my high-achieving executive sister who I've only ever see really question herself at the thought of doing motherhood 'wrong.'

My sons are adults and I still spend sleepless nights worrying about if I'm doing enough. Or too much. Or the wrong thing entirely. We all do our best, and that best varies from day to day. We all learn as we go. We all stand - and sometimes cry - on the shoulders of those who've come before. We all light the way for those who will come after. And we all fight to be acknowledged for that job and still retain some sense of ourselves separate from the 'Mom' identity. 

grace

Let's call her Grace. The woman struggling to support herself on our cast offs. Pushing her stolen shopping cart, her sorting system a series of bags tied to the outside. Her load uneven and wobbling on the broken pavement of King Street. I want to pat myself on the back for pulling over. I want congratulations and adulation for popping my trunk, pulling out the bag of returnables I've been driving around with and asking, like a fool, if she could use them. Let's call her Grace because she was gracious. Thankful without being effusive. Smiling. Bright-eyed. Focused on her work. 

Twice already this week the abstract concept of grace - grace with a lower-case G - has come up in my life. First Erika at RedHead Writing wrote about grace and crying and acting as if. It reminded me of an important lesson I'd learned last week from MissC - that you can't expect grace from people you don't trust with the whole story. And that when I show them the grace of sharing, the grace they show in return is ten-fold. 

And then yesterday at the most engaging and interesting networking lunch I've ever attended (if you're a business person of faith in Victoria and interested in networking with other business people of faith, shoot me a comment and I'll give you the details) we were reminded, before the discussion part of the afternoon, of the 4 rules of the group:

1. Don't be a jerk
2. Don't be a wuss
3. Have fun
4. Have grace

I love that combination. In fact, they seem somewhat repetitive, but perhaps they are the inner and out manifestations of each other - someone who has grace is unlikely to be a jerk. If you're having fun, you're less likely to wimp out. But what really struck me was the opportunity to have fun and grace simultaneously. 

I haven't been having - or been - a lot of fun lately. Despite all of STG's best efforts, I just haven't seemed to have the energy. He has shown me grace in this. As have friends like SC2 who invited me away for a weekend and didn't require any entertainment from me. People have shown me abundant grace. 

And now I'm ready to try to have some fun. I returned to my choir last night, at STG's prodding, and while it took an hour to get into it, I eventually remember that I love the music, to sing, to feel the words, to let myself move and be moved.

This fun thing is a weak muscle for me. I might look like I'm faking it at first, but I'm sure I'll remember how it works soon enough. 

lent

I should have taken a picture. At some point last year - maybe about this time - my boss had a message to us all on her communication board "This is the week we give up recreational whining." I laughed. And blushed. And took it, at least temporarily, to heart. 

Lent is not something I grew up with; it is something I only came to understand so I could write a paper in my last year of university that would get me invited as an undergrad to a grad student conference in Baton Rouge during Mardi Gras week. I attended the conference just long enough to present my paper on the upside-down world of the carnivalesque, then jumped in a rental car with three recent strangers and headed to New Orleans. We laughed, we drank, we ate and ate, we watched, we swung from lamp-posts shouting "STELLA" and we thoroughly enjoyed that very unique spectacle of Mardi Gras N'Orlins style. 

I've thought often since then of the ritual of lent. The decadence that precedes it, and the suffering of Christ it mimics. As STG wisely and somewhat laughingly (we were eating burgers, fries and cake, after all) pointed out tonight, "Jesus suffered so we don't have to" ... and yet ... there's something to giving up one-self for something better. And honestly, how much of a sacrifice would it be? There's so much of myself I'd happily give up that would only make life easier, more pleasant. 

Sugar. 

Binge eating. 

Laziness. 

Whining (again). 

Feeling slighted/ignored/misunderstood at every turn. 

Being quick to anger and sadness.

Worry. 

Fear. 

Shame.

Disappointment.

I don't think I'm any worse than anyone else. Or any better. We all have parts of ourselves - physically and psychically - that we'd probably be happy to let go. And for 40 days feel free of the burden of being us for a while. Maybe we'd even like it so much we'd keep going after Good Friday. 

Or maybe, just now and then, perhaps on a Tuesday in February, we can also throw it all aside, eat a pancake or a King cake or a slice of flourless torte and laugh and chant with the jesters, laissez le bon temps rouler. Despite all the doubt and worry, despite the sugar highs and the emotional lows. Just let those good times roll. 

silent night ... any time of day

I read this devotional at our management team meeting today (only slightly modified from this original). I hope you enjoy it as much as I did:

A Christmas Devotional - Silent Night

It happens every Christmas. Hustling, bustling, shopping, traveling, cooking. Parties, banquets, Santa Claus, pageants, decorations, trees, lights, clothes. We get caught up in the season of Christmas, stressed about making arrangements to see and please everyone, pressured to balance an already busy schedule with unlimited amounts of additional activities, pushed to attend, give, join, gather and perform.

But it happens every Christmas. We are busily tending to our own flock, when out nowhere, the calm and peace and tranquility of Christmas comes. We are never prepared for it. We are always stunned. And amazed. And we experience the awe of the nativity, an event we never witnessed, but of which we somehow have mysterious first-hand knowledge. The Grinch did. Scrooge did. The shepherds did. Each year it happens to us as well.

Silent night, holy night,

all is calm, all is bright

round yon virgin

mother and child.

Holy infant, so tender and mild,

sleep in heavenly peace.

It happens every Christmas, and it is frequently this hymn that catches us off guard – though it may be another one, Let There Be Peace On Earth, for example. We vividly see and experience the serene relief of a world with a newly-born savior.

Then we are transported to the nearby hillside, where shepherds busily tended their sheep, completely unaware that they had been chosen to receive the best news ever heard. We join them, trembling, no quaking, with fear. And above them, the sky is laid open with what can only be described as glory.

Glories stream from heaven afar,

heavenly hosts sing Alleluia!

With the angels let us sing,

Alleluia to our King;

Christ the Savior is born.

And this we can’t imagine or experience first-hand. Neither Bach nor Mozart ever composed music that remotely compared to the songs the angels sang that night. The total, absolute majesty that only heaven could produce, suitable for the greatest tidings from a glorious God to his lonely creation. We know it is unfathomable, and reserved only for the time when we enter his glory.

But we can see the glory in our Lord and Savior. He is our window, our path to our heavenly home. Even as a baby…

Son of God, love's pure light;

radiant beams from thy holy face

with the dawn of redeeming grace,

Jesus, Lord, at thy birth,

Jesus, Lord, at thy birth.

Every year we experience it – in a baby’s peaceful sleep. In the lull of Christmas Eve with the lights on and the family in bed. In the quiet moments sitting with a client. It may be fleeting, but we all experience. The true gift of Christmas – awe, wrapped in peace, and laying in a manger.

the gift of advent is peace

I woke up yesterday with a knot of dread in my stomach - I knew it was the second Sunday of advent and that I'd need to write this post about peace. I did not feel peace. I felt fatigue, stress, concern, some annoyance, and a little fear. Anything but peace.

So I went about my morning aware of all that. I cleaned, and I sewed, and I thought about Peace, as I do at this and not a lot of other times of year. I considered what peace means - in general, and to me. I consider myself a pacifist, but hardly ever really experience deep, secure peace. Peace is more than the absence of war, but what more?

I thought about the knot in my stomach that has recently developed into a weeks-long ache. I thought about poor STG daring to occasionally suggest that I relax, and about how when I hear it as 'be at peace' it's probably closer to what he intends and to what I need to hear.

And suddenly, it was okay - being 'at peace,' I realised, is a choice and a mind set and has nothing to do with circumstances. That when someone wishes someone 'be at peace' it's a challenge and an invitation and ultimately a blessing.

And so I share, once again, my most fervent Christmas prayer - "let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me"

the gift of advent is hope

It's time. I bemoan the constant creep of Christmas marketing earlier and earlier into the retail year because I truly think the magic of Christmas is best preserved by keeping it to a specific season. For me that season lasts from advent to New Years' Day, which makes today the beginning, for me. It's time to kick into gear on collecting gift ideas, digging out the decorations, and considering what new recipes to try for Christmas baking and which old die hards we can't do with out. 

And while I enjoy all of that, none of it has anything to do with what I love about Christmas - the advent themes that remind us to focus on hope, love, peace, joy and Christ. And I'm sure that even the many of you who don't include Christ in your Christmas will still agree that there's always room for more hope, love, peace and joy in our lives.

HOPE. Four little letters. This year hope for me is contained in two phrases 'It gets better' and 'It came to pass; it didn't come to stay.'

The first phrase has been widely popularized by a campaign to combat the high rate of suicide among gay teens. People of all backgrounds, mainly gay, lesbian, bi and transgender, but also speaking to all kids who are routinely bullied, tell their stories in video with the hope that more children will choose life. It's a project I greatly admire and support. It means a lot to me to know that people are standing for our young people to choose life.

'It came to pass; it didn't come to stay' is a saying that I first heard from DivaMoe's momma, and then mine repeated it. It's a great saying for grandmas, even of the northern Canadian variety. It has a charming, backwoodsy ring to it that goes with oatmeal and rocking chairs and wool blankets ... not that either my mom or DivaMoe's are the rocking chair & oatmeal kind of grandma - ha! There have been days when that saying was all I clung to - my temporary mantra. It kept me moving forward when I didn't know that I could. And it held true - life is better than it was 6 months ago. What came to pass didn't come to stay.

And that is the gift of hope. It has people choose to keep on going, to choose life and forward movement and keeping on. And that is the first gift of advent. 

it had to happen sometime

I just got off the phone with BB2. He's good - living his life in another town. Working hard. Taking care of himself and his home and Sweetie. He's only 19, but he's so suddenly an adult. 

We had a nice chat, mostly talking Christmas plans - which is no simple equation when we have to consider his Dad's family Christmas, Sweetie's 2 parents separate Christmases, and then even just our Christmas involves finding out what's up with STG & his kids, waiting for G&G to get home from Mexico to find out their plans, and hoping against hope that he'll get the right days off. 

He was in a happy mood - he and Sweetie had just gotten back from buying their first bunch of Christmas ornaments and they are looking forward to getting their first tree. And all of a sudden it occurred to me - those special ornaments I have bought him every Christmas since he was born ... they are his now. It's time to package them up, send them to Langley, and find new ornaments to fill in my tree. 

It's a bitter-sweet moment. The intention of that tradition, one my mom started for BB1's first Christmas but that I took over, was always that when the BBs have their own trees the ornaments would give them a start on their own trees, and a connection to Christmas past.

It's been fun - there have been some great ones, like the light-up Mickey Mouse & frozen bowl Pluto that they opened in Vancouver International Airport as we awaited our Christmas morning flight to Disneyland, and the blown glass soldier from when BB2 was in cadets. And there have been 'oh man I'm out of money and still need to get ornaments' Dollar Store and craft options. Many are from craft fairs. Some are a little worse for wear. Most tell a story from the year that reminds us where we've been and what we've done. Some are lovely and generic and just because.

Turns out we don't really have one for every year. Their dad kept some that were discarded when someone else took over trimming that tree. A few have broken. But for 22 years they've been the highlight of my tree. 

It's not the end of the tradition - the BBs will continue to get an ornament in their stocking until there are grandbabies for me to dote on instead ... and maybe even then. I guess there's time for new highlights. Maybe an 'our first year together' ornament for STG and I. Or something just for me.

Everything is as it was intended to be. BB2 is putting up his first tree, and it will be trimmed with as many of his special ornaments as I can find. And I will pine (or more likely Douglas fir - ha!) over the bare spots in my tree this year. 

middle-aged wisdom (no, not from me)

I don't normally read all the way through email forwards, but for some reason this one caught hold and seemed like just what I need. I did a little more poking around, and it seems (according to the author herself) that the Internet has prematurely aged Regina Brett. Some part of me wants her to be 90. Because, as we all know, wisdom is preserved for the aged, and if we can be this wise in middle-age, then what's my real excuse? Someday I hope she will be 90. Right now she's 54. Also, the list is supposed to have 50 entries ... somehow it's become edited ... I suppose there were some lessons in there other people didn't want to learn?

None the less, I paste here, for future reference as a little life barometer, the email in its incorrect entirety. And a link where you can learn more about Regina Brett and her middle-aged wisdom. 

_____________________

Written by Regina Brett, [not] 90 years old. This is something we should all read at least once a week!!!!!

"To celebrate growing older, I once wrote the 45 lessons life taught me.. It is the most requested column I've ever written. My odometer rolled over to 90 in August, so here is the column once more:

1. Life isn't fair, but it's still good.

2. When in doubt, just take the next small step.

3. Life is too short to waste time hating anyone. Change the way you think.

4. Your job won't take care of you when you are sick. Your friends and family will. Stay in touch.

5. Pay off your credit cards every month.

6. You don't have to win every argument. Agree to disagree.

7. Cry with someone. It's more healing than crying alone.

8. Release your children when they become adults, its their life now

9. Save for retirement starting with your first pay cheque.

10. When it comes to chocolate, resistance is futile.

11. Make peace with your past so it won't screw up the present.

12. It's OK to let your children see you cry.

13. Don't compare your life to others. You have no idea what their journey is all about.

14. If a relationship has to be a secret, you shouldn't be in it.

15. Everything can change in the blink of an eye, but don't worry - God never blinks.

16. Take a deep breath It calms the mind.

17. Get rid of anything that isn't useful, beautiful or joyful.

18. Whatever doesn't kill you really does make you stronger.

19. It's never too late to have a happy childhood. But the second one is up to you and no one else.

20. When it comes to going after what you love in life, don't take no for an answer.

21. Burn the candles, use the nice sheets, wear the fancy lingerie. Don't save it for a special occasion. Today is special.

22. Just because you believe you are right, doesn't mean you are. Keep an open mind.

23. Be eccentric now. Don't wait for old age to wear purple.

24. The most important sex organ is the brain.

25. No one is in charge of your happiness but you.

26. Frame every so-called disaster with these words 'In five years, will this matter?'

27. Always choose life.

28. Forgive everyone everything.

29. What other people think of you is none of your business.

30. Time heals almost everything. Give time time.

31. However good or bad a situation is, it will change.

32. Don't take yourself so seriously. No one else does.

33. Believe in miracles.

34. Your job is to love your children, not choose who they should love.

35. Don't audit life. Show up and make the most of it now.

36. Growing old beats the alternative -- dying young.

37. Your children get only one childhood.

38. All that truly matters in the end is that you loved.

39. Get outside every day. Miracles are waiting everywhere.

40. If we all threw our problems in a pile and saw everyone else's, we'd grab ours back.

41. Envy is a waste of time. You already have all you need.

42. The best is yet to come... (Can’t wait to find out what! )

43. No matter how you feel, get up, dress up and show up.

44. Yield..

45. Life isn't tied with a bow, but it's still a gift.

46. If you don't ask you don't get. 

may your song always be sung

So I decided to be a little quiet for a while rather than continue to whimper and whine - the stressors and worries were winning, and I just didn't want to keep going on about it. It had been coming for a while, and Friday was the end of it - BB1 was moving out again. And for the first time in my life I'm living completely alone - not even any pets to distract me from the emptiness and quiet. Once I'd seen BB off with my parents, I popped by STGs and picked a fight mostly just so I'd have a reason to cry some more. 

It felt awesome, to be honest - you know how sometimes you're choking on a cry all day and wish you could get it out? How it becomes this physical knot that makes it hard to eat or breathe. And then the crying starts and the perfect person is there to hold you and let you let it out. Ya. He did that. Despite my being temporarily less than logical. And then he wiped my face and said, "You do know, right, that you have a great boyfriend who loves you VERY much?" Sniff. Nod. 

And then UberCoach came over for dinner and we laughed and cried some more. And each day since there's been less crying and more laughing. The Dutchman came over to watch TV. STG and I hung out and discovered that it's not a bad thing to be 8 months into our relationship and finally have a place to be alone together. And tonight Mrs. Lady had me over for dinner and we caught up on our various places on the roller coaster of life. I'm not very good yet at being with the quiet. I have the TV on more than strictly necessary. But, like I said, each day there is more laughter and fewer tears. 

When I moved here last year I was excited about what it would mean to be a young empty-nester. That didn't go quite as smoothly as I'd originally planned, and there are some things to pay attention to that I know now. But I also know we're all where we need to be. And, I miss my BBs. 

Maybe that's why this song has been with me a lot lately. It's the theme to one of my favourite TV shows, and every time I hear it I get a bittersweet tug. This song is for my boys - "May you build a ladder to the stars, And climb on every rung. May you stay forever young."

"Forever Young" by Bob Dylan

May God bless and keep you always
May your wishes all come true
May you always do for others
And let others do for you
May you build a ladder to the stars
And climb on every rung
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young.

May you grow up to be righteous
May you grow up to be true
May you always know the truth
And see the lights surrounding you
May you always be courageous
Stand upright and be strong
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young.

May your hands always be busy
May your feet always be swift
May you have a strong foundation
When the winds of changes shift
May your heart always be joyful
And may your song always be sung
May you stay forever young
Forever young, forever young
May you stay forever young.

bad air out

I saw my counselor the other day for the first time in about a month. A lot of life has happened since we last chatted - more than I could catch him up on fully - and it was good to check in. To say out loud there has been good and bad but definitely more good, and that I'm learning again that the good is real too. 

We talked about some impending changes that, although I am trying to believe they are the right steps at the right time, still have me slightly terrified. He let me go on for a bit about what's scaring me, and then he said "You do know these are all good things, right." And I said I wasn't so sure. And he said "But, you do know you'd be okay, right? That even if the worst you can imagine actually happened, you'd be okay. That people live through terrible terrible tragedies and end up being okay?" 

And I had to be honest - I didn't that I'd be okay. And I honestly didn't know, until he asked the question, that I didn't think I'd be okay. That if the worst I can imagine came true, I wouldn't actually die - or worse, go on living and never get over the pain. And when I realised it ... my entire body shifted. 

I sighed from the very marrow of my bones. I let out months of stale air and tension and stagnancy. He just smiled until I was settled, and then he explained to me how the nervous systems work and why that sigh is a physiological response that signals the reaching of some soul truth (no, he didn't use such airy-fairy language ... I did) and that anytime I'm working through a fear or an anxiety or dismantling a thought I use to beat myself that big sigh is the signal I've found the truth. 

For some reason knowing there's a scientific fact behind what is otherwise just an unusual breath was somehow reassuring. But even more reassuring was the realisation that spawned the sigh: I'm going to be okay. No matter what else happens - and really, it could all be good from here on out - who am I to say? - I will be okay. 

And who knows - the changes coming up could be exactly what we all need. 

our everyday best

I has a lovely unscheduled conversation this morning. My friend and I were meant to be going to yoga, but somehow got the schedule wrong and ended up going for tea and snacks and sunshine instead. Not a bad trade, if you ask me. In the course of the conversation we started talking about parenting ... for both of us what works - or not - about our parents, and for me what I know - or not - as a parent. When I heard her talking about wanting something more with her dad, and their struggle moving from both wanting that to actually figuring out what 'that' would be, a few things really clicked for me. 

You see, I've met this friend's dad and seen them interact. And for anyone to think that her dad is anything less than enthralled with my friend just isn't consistent with how much he adores her. So I wondered, what's really missing. Clearly love is present. Clearly they have fun and have at least some common interests. I certainly don't mean to diminish my friend's experience in any way, and there are some things that need work with her dad, but focusing on that diminishes the good and suddenly love, fun, and connection aren't enough. But can't all children say that of their parents? 

Which of course got me thinking - and talking - about my parents. To many people, said friend included, my family looks like something of an ideal. I've always had both parents in my life, and actively, unitedly so. We speak and visit pretty regularly. There are no major unspoken issues, no big hidden secrets. A few habits that may not lead to openness (we're not overly big on talking about what's wrong, for instance, until it's REALLY wrong), but generally we are the picture perfect family. And yet, for much of my life, interacting with my family has left me wondering if I wasn't switched at birth. And sometimes the look on my parents' faces makes me think maybe they think the same thing. As much as my parents love me. As much as they are the epitome of support for both me and my BBs ... sometimes I want something ... well ... not more but somehow different. It's ungrateful, to be sure, but it's sometimes true. 

My BBs look far too much like me for anyone to ever believe they were switched at birth, but I don't imagine that's kept them from wondering/wishing/thiking they were at times. Their experience of being parented is clearly different than mine. They have not always had two loving, present parents - and I'm not pointing fingers at their father here. I've sometimes been so wrapped up in my struggle and my dreams that they've settled for leftovers of energy and attention. As their struggles have become more serious, I've blamed myself more, which also basically just takes energy away from supporting them. I fall down slippery slopes - I didn't love them enough. I didn't protect them enough. I was too laissez faire to set boundaries that would keep them safe. I trusted them before they were ready to stand on their own. And on and on. 

But I'm reminded, frequently lately, of a story my counselor told me the first day I went to see him ... I'll share the rest of it in another post but the punch line was that every day I've done my best. Whether some days that best was chipped, or fractured, or the wrong colour - every day I did my best. And I'm doing it still. 

I like to believe, since hearing the story, that the every day best is true of all parents. Some parents are undeserving of the term - neglectful, and even dangerous to their children, yes. But, for the most part, they are all doing their everyday best. And isn't that all we can ask of anyone ... even ourselves? 

he said she said

It's been an interesting phenomenon for me to be creating a relationship with someone else who also has an online presence. STG blogs. He's on Facebook. More and more he's on Twitter (though he's not yet the big twit I am - ha). And, he makes and posts crazy fun videos on YouTube - something I don't imagine I'll ever do. 

Today STG blogged about the long weekend, one day of which we spent together, and I was struck while reading his post about how interesting it is that two people can spend 24 hours together and have such different ways of talking about it. No doubt any two people would have some variations in experience and reportage, but - loathe though I am to admit it - I'm pretty sure there's a considerable gender influence on the the whole thing. 

So ... if I was going to talk about Victoria Day, like STG I'd start of remembering laughing at the parade - the spectators as much as the clowns. I'd talk about our impatience to see the bands, and our disappointment in the lack of bagpipes. 

And then I'd remember ... his excitement at the Penny Farthings (and the stunt bikes on a flatbed truck, and the motorcycles, and ... well ... you get the picture :) ). My excitement at the warmth of his hand on my aching back. I'd remember missing my BBs - the only other people I've watched this parade with ... and thinking about which floats and bands they'd most enjoy. 

And moving on ... adventuring softly through our day, the breeze and the sunlight calling us forward. A late breakfast. Shopping and then ... the beach. The beach. The glorious sunshiny beach. 

I'm mesmerized by the pebbles we stumble along - they are so pale, so perfected by the waves. I stick to the larger smoother ones. STG enjoys the smaller ones further up the beach. The other people at the beach are friendly. A young man taking pictures of his affectionate friends. A happy older couple resting on a log. The sunshine is bringing out the best in people.

As soon as I see the rock outcropping, I know where I want to go. I don't remember if we discussed it ... it's just where our feet went. It's perfect. Better than I imagined. Multi-leveled, moss-spotted, smooth, and semi-private. The big black rock has had hours of sun to warm it through, and the warmth of the rock seeps through the blanket, softening my body and easing the ache in my muscles and bones. I lay back, slip off my top, and close my eyes.

STG lays next to me and we exchange lethargic banter, listening now and then to the voices of the people on the trail so near and yet so separate. I've never done this before - taken my top off to gather as much sun as possible in a semi-public place. Yes, I have a bra on that covers more than some people's swimsuits, but ... there's a soupçon of excitement - a vibration on the edges of an otherwise perfect peace. 

Even though we're into the second half of the afternoon, my pale skin can't stand too much of this sunny glory, and we pack up and wander on. We see a modern mansion, the back end of it never quite in sight, and discuss dreams, and styles, and the morality of conspicuous consumption. We take a less beaten path, and discover a magical glen that casts it's spell. Shutters snap. Close focus. And far. He sees the heart of the flowers. I see the far away bluffs. 

We end the day with a picnic at home and a silly movie. And through it all I carry with me the warmth of the rock on my skin ... echoing the warmth of his hand on my back.