When We Were Very Young

It’s the most special book in my collection of special books. The story of how it came to be so may not seem remarkable, and yet for me any reminder of it leaves me awash in feelings of being known and loved, of being intelligent and encouraged, of having choices and having those choices honoured. The story I attach to it might not even be accurate, but it is so much a part of my own mythology that no amount of reality would change the truth of it for me.

This is what I remember: when I was very young; well, more accurately now that I was six, my mom and I took a trip to the neighbouring “big town” from the bookless little hovel of a village we lived in. I wasn’t in school yet; having a January birthday meant I didn’t start school until I was 6 and a half. That last year at home was, in many ways, a long and lonely one. My sisters left early in the morning on a school bus that took an hour each way – most of the year they left in darkness and returned after dusk – and got home just in time for dinner, maybe an hour of play, and bedtime. My best friend Shiney who lived right next door had also started school. Her mom and I were equally lonely and often entertained each other, yet it remained a long and lonely year.

I remember playing school with my mom, as we had done since my middle sister started coming home and sharing her lessons with me. I read and drew and learned my letters and ate GORP (good ol’ raisins and peanuts). For mom I think it was a way to keep me quiet and contained for however long it worked. For me it was a chance to feel as big as my sisters and Shiney. I loved learning. I still do.

Then one day, probably not on my actual birthday but sometime near it, Mom and I took a trip. A road trip in winter in that region of the hinterland is always a risky business, so maybe we waited for spring, though I can’t imagine my birthday present being withheld that long, and when you live in those conditions you just deal with them. Maybe it was slightly before my birthday and the present got wrapped in shiny paper and given to me on time. Those details are sparse. What I do remember is the book. A real book. A big, hard-cover book with a shiny paper wrapper that I was to be very vary careful with. And a bear. An ultra-soft black and white bear with shiny eyes and a felt tongue sticking out.

I still have that bear in a box in storage. For decades he has had only the tiny remains of a tongue. Until I was married I slept with him every night. His stomach carries the brown reminder of my pubescent growth spurt when my nose bled almost nightly. Most of the blood was cleaned up; only a spot remains. For some reason I remember choosing him from the dingy department store of that slushy town. He is and was a very special bear. 

And he was a two-part present, since I also got a magical book – The World of Christopher Robin, 1958 edition, by A.A. Milne with original AND new illustrations by E.H. Shepard. I might have seen some of the stories on The World of Disney, before they were Disneyfied (by which I will always mean ruined). I’m not sure how I knew I wanted it. It isn’t even the stories – The World of Christopher Robin is the poem collections “When We Were Very Young” and “Now We Are Six.” There’s very little of Christopher’s animal friends in it. But I don't know if I've ever had a better present.

Post dust-cover

I also don’t know how a not-very careful little girl took such good care of it. The dust cover had only a slight tear in it until a pet rabbit got at it a few years ago. The book itself is still spotless. And there are so many of the poems that I still remember at least parts of by heart:  Vesper, King John’s Christmas, The Dormouse and the Doctor, Buckingham Palace … .

This morning I saw the trailer for the upcoming movie “Goodbye,Christopher Robin.” It purports to be the story behind the story, and in just the trailer I was reminded of the poems:  a little boy bows his little golden head in prayer and Vespers echos “hush, hush whisper who dares, Christopher Robin is saying his prayers.” The poem took on even more meaning for me when I had my own little golden haired boys. I haven’t lined up for a movie on opening night in years, but I anticipate doing it for this one. I anticipate being rapt with nostalgia. I anticipate happy tears. 

it's all good

I've been at a conference the last couple days, and in the midst of of the usual 'getting to know you' and small talk yesterday I heard myself say "I got married at 20 and divorced at 30, but my sons and I have done okay." I was surprised to hear it. And even more surprised when I stopped, contemplated and realised it's true.

1999: Our first summer holiday as a family of three.  

It hasn't always been straight forward. We've each wobbled and struggled and grown. It hasn't been a straight trajectory, but we've all gotten better. I, for one, no longer wear socks with sandals.

That's all. No deep thoughts. Just a revelation that made me smile. 

counting the uncountable

She was 20. In my imagination she was sassy, proper, and expectant. She was a recent Bible school graduate, impish yet traditional; a small-town girl with big ideas. Feminine and strong and ready. 

He was 21. Tall, lean, and skilled. Quick-witted, and responsible. Quiet, except when he wasn't. Overcoming the high school years of shyness. He'd just finished two years of trades training, had a good job and a bright future. 

They'd known each other for half of their young lives. Been Sunday School friends and high school sweethearts. They'd separated for a while, as happens when people are finding out if they are who they think they are. Inevitably, they had come back together. 

Today is my parents' 50th wedding anniversary. And this weekend 60 or so friends and family will gather to  celebrate. With all the focus on planning the party with my sisters, I have spent less time than I would prefer reflecting on their accomplishment and all that it represents. Fifty Christmases, 100 birthdays, 3 daughters, 5 grandchildren. They've lived in 7 towns and at least 14 homes. I know there's an infographic in there somewhere.

But what about the 50 years of the immeasurable, intangible moments that comprise a marriage? How many tears, or smiles, or laughs have they shared? How many times have they bitten their tongues, or wished they did? How many mistakes between them have been forgiven? How many perfect moments lived through, and then somehow forgotten? How many dishes have been washed, bags of garbage taken out, cars bought and sold? How many gallons of paint, rolls of wallpaper, hours of sanding hardwood floors have gone into all the homes they have created? 

How many times did their shared faith outweigh their personal frustrations with each other? How many times have they celebrated getting it right the first time, and making it right because that was the only choice they would allow themselves? 

I'm deeply deeply proud of my parents. They are remarkable individuals - active, giving, committed, honest. They are people I enjoy spending time with, and people I enjoy sharing with my friends and loved ones. In many ways, this milestone anniversary is a truly remarkable accomplishment. And, when you know them, in so many ways it's the obvious and inevitable result of who they are - the embodiment of love and faith and humanity. 

30 days

I'm surrounded by people on 30 day challenges, mostly of the exercise & diet variety. There seems to be some common belief that 30 days is enough to change a habit, and I'm sure it is if that habit wants changing and is replaced with something sustainable. 

I've done 30 day challenges before. No sugar. Writing daily. Moving my body daily. For some reason none of them stuck, but that's not to say that they never will. So, I'm here partly looking for suggestions. And maybe hoping for a team. I'm a big believer in Leo Babuata's 'Single-Changing Method' in theory, but find it hard to pick that one thing. 

I have plenty of ideas - go to bed on time. Spend no more than 30 minutes/day on personal social media. Stop eating refine sugar. Move my body. Sing. Play the piano. Read quietly. Take a photograph. Write. Stop drinking coffee. Get up on time. Create daily.  Finish. Laugh - but when I look at committing to just one for 30 days, it appears to be a VERY bad idea. 

And yet, when I read Leo's principles ... how could they POSSIBLY be a bad idea? 

1. Start very small.
2. Do only one change at a time.
3. Be present and enjoy the activity (don’t focus on results).
4. Be grateful for every step you take.

This just made me giggle

I'm open to suggestions. And company. I know how many of you are struggling with some of the same things I'm struggling with. We could do this together. And that's where you come in. Leave me a blog comment, or tweet me a tweet, or comment on Facebook about something that YOU are willing to take on for 30 days, or something that you think would make a difference for me for 30 days.

What if we picked something we 'shouldn't' - like drinking every day, or eating something delicious and decadent every day? What if we spent 30 days breaking our own rules? 

How different might our lives look with just one small change of 30 days? What might we learn about ourselves? What might we realise we care about - or no longer care about? 

By tomorrow I will have picked one, and away we'll go! And I think I might just surprise myself. 

stuffed

The original 'Beat' stockings - lined
up by the dozen

Stockings were big in my family. I don't mean size-wise - by today's standards, Grandpa's dress socks & even Dad's wool work socks were quite small. I mean, they were exciting, surprising hosiery of joy that we got to open en masse with our cousins and see what we all had in common, and what - if anything - differed. At our big family Christmases, of which there were many, the parents (I'm guessing mostly the aunties) and Grandpa all contributed to the stockings. With upwards of a dozen stockings to fill, the items were simple and the work was shared - free note pads handed out by Grandpa's bank. A wrapped sugar cookie. A candy cane. A mandarin orange in the toe. These were the bits you anticipated. But there was always so much more - candy, lip gloss, a cow-string toy that danced when you pushed up on the bottom, a crying lamb noise maker. Each token was a treasure to ooh and aah over. I got great presents - some truly memorable presents, but each year it was the stocking I couldn't wait to get into.  

remember that cotton
doesn't stretch.

When making stockings ...

I still have that fascination. Adults didn't get stockings when I was a kid, but for some reason now we all do. I think, maybe I contributed to that change - at least in our family. As a teenager with only a minimal part-time job and needing to save for our trip to Africa, I told mom that instead of buying presents for my sisters (then 17 & 19) I wanted to make & fill their stockings. We'd never had actual 'stockings' - we had socks - so even that was a shift. Little did I know that filling stockings, even then, was more expensive than whatever I would have bought my sisters - more expensive, but also so much more fun. I bought the smallest possible amount of contracting fabric from our local one-stop department store in Christmas red and Christmas green. Each paycheque in November & December I'd head back to the department store, or to the drug store and buy a few more treasures to squirrel away - wee stuffed animals, gloves, candy and makeup. A candy cane shaped tube of Bonne Bell lip gloss? Oh, hello 1984! - everything a teenage girl imagines her big sisters want. Those cheap cotton calico stockings didn't last long, but I took pride in seeing them hanging on our rock fireplace while they lasted. 

 It was a few years (okay, only 5) before I got to fill stockings again. Someone has said there are three stages to Christmas - we believe in Santa, we don't believe in Santa, we are Santa. And soon enough I was Santa and filling a stocking for my BBs. I don't remember what we used the first few years for BB1, but I remember sitting up stitching until I wanted to cry for BB2's first Christmas, putting the finishing touches on their cross-stitch stockings sometime around 2 am. Somehow BB1's never did get ribbon trim - I think I liked it better plain. I got better at making stockings, and better at filling them. 

That first year the cross-stitch and calico stockings were woefully inadequate, resting on top of stocking-stuffer filled grocery bags, and I was strongly encouraged by my sisters-in-law to enlarge them. There have been years when the now 'pockets' were removed from the bigger, stretchy fleece stockings - years when I was the lone Santa and couldn't quite manage the whole package. They only finally got hanging ribbon on them a few years back when I bought stocking hangers (when did those become a thing, by the way?). 

These two stockings are my favourite Christmas things. If I'd had a daughter, I might have made her a white dress with a blue satin sash. But I have boys - boisterous, adventurous, intelligent, loving sons who make my heart want to burst, in so many ways. These squishy, soft, impossibly time-staking gifts acknowledge that love each year. These are what I'd want to save if my apartment building burned down. Yes, I enjoy the shopping - I love picking out the things they expect (a mandarin, a sugar cookie, a candy cane, their special ornaments). I love finding new surprises for them each year. And I love the growing distance in them as the BBs become more and more independent men. I love stacking up the stuffers a few days in advance, making sure the piles are 'separate but equal.' 

This year I'm filling six adults stockings. It's my first Christmas with STG, and I'm thrilled to have a separate pile of stuffers for him - his own separate but equal pile of love. I wanted to make him his own stocking, but haven't quite yet found the time. I have piles for my parents - always a challenge and a reward, and another new pile this year for BB2s sweetie. It's been fun building the piles - I almost need a Venn diagram of what works for who - 2 females, 4 males, 3 'children', 2 parents, 1 STG. I sometimes think I'd be happy to do away with gifts and just give stockings to each other, though I know I'm full of hooey. 

Christmas for me is about many things - Christ, family, love, food, gifts. All of it. And for some reason, it all seems captured in this funny tradition of tubes of fabric filled with hope and joy and love. 

he's perfect

This has been sitting in my drafts for a while ... because I know what a private man my boy is. But this month I've had friend after friend after friend proudly exclaiming over their graduates, sharing their pictures on facebook, anticipating their departure for whatever's next. And I just wanted my turn.

You see, he's perfect - he was when he was born. Smooth skinned. Unwrinkled. Smiling. None of that redskinned miss-shapened head mess. He slept, until we got him home at least. And he spent much of his childhood trying to make sure his brother was safe, that I was okay. When I was in grad school, he asked if he could help by making dinner for us all ... as in the best lasagna I've ever eaten. He's still the most helpful person I know. He cares for everyone and everything. And he has the biggest heart in the world.

Some things have happened to my stunning golden boy. Some things that even a hard heart would struggle to forget. Things that a tender heart spends hours working out, swimming, hiking, running, to be stronger than. And he is stronger. He is stronger than all those things he should never have had to endure. And smarter. And most of all he's gentle and funny and intelligent. And as loving as ever.

I don't think he has any idea how brilliant he is. He knows that we talk about things other families don't. That we read more than many other people do. But I don't think he knows that he's actually brilliant - shining. Starlike. He makes things make sense to me that I otherwise struggle with. He has an amazing grasp of the abstract, and an incredible sense of perspective.

Despite years and years of fighting to succeed in a system that didn't work for him. Despite teachers that lied and worse, neglected. Despite loving learning and knowledge and having plans to share that. He quit. He tried to make it work, and one day, one teacher's idiotic comment was the last straw. He walked out in the middle of class and never went back.

He hasn't walked across a stage in a rented tux. He hasn't worn a cap and gown. He hasn't danced awkwardly with me to a song that made us both giggle. That's not a memory we share. But we do share something that to me is even more special.

This January, while he was alone at his grandparents' house, he got himself up and out the door early on a Saturday morning. He spend 8 hours writing 6 exams. And then he walked himself back home.

A month later we got the results. He did not just pass. He excelled. Every mark was outstanding. We hugged. And then we went out for BBQ. We ate an insane amount of pork to celebrate. Just the two of us. Just a quiet evening. It was perfect, and very him.

I ache when I think how little he knows how special he is. How amazing it is for someone to be brilliant and attractive and empathic and to care as fully as he does about other people and the earth. I don't know what I can do to help him learn to believe in himself. And in the meantime, I just want you all to know. He's perfect. Tuxless. And perfect.

those kind of people

This weekend I had the pleasure and the honour and the fun of going to my Dad's 70th birthday party. I tried to say all this to him and mom the next morning, but they sorta deflected the point and talked about how blessed they are to have such loving family and great friends. So I'll say it here, and maybe if you see them you can help it sink in.

Dad blowing out the candles, with a little help from his
youngest grandson 

Nobody kept track of the number of people at Dad's party, but the crowd included 

• his very busy hostess with the mostest and wife of almost 50 years,   

• 2  out of 3 daughters & 1 son in law, 

• 4 of 5 grandchildren, 

• 2 sisters, 1 brother, 4 brothers in law, & 2 sisters in law, 

• 2 nieces + their sweeties, 

• and approximately 20 friends who went back at least 40 and perhaps as many as 60 years. 

At one point in the party Mom & Dad were actually able to recreate their wedding party photo, sans only the flower girl (I'll update this post when I get a copy). I reconnected with old neighbours from my childhood, who are neighbours again in my parents' retirement, and met some of Mom and Dad's new friends. The atmosphere was festive and relaxed and very honouring of Dad, and all of the guests were free to mix and mingle and come and go (even their dear daughters, who had been assigned some sort of task, wandered off with our boys to frolf in the park for a while - and I have to admit that was a highlight for me, having my boys together and all of us having fun). 

As I drifted off to sleep that night I was struck by the fact that Mom only put the call out about this party 2 weeks ago, and people came from as far away as Calgary - because my parents are the kind of people who  other people like to celebrate. They are not super flashy [though they are both stylish], they are super reliable. They are not on the cover of newspapers, but they show up time and time again - to help, to laugh, to encourage, and to celebrate others. They are accepting, encouraging, generous, fun and utterly loving. They haven't just stuck by each other for 50 years, they have been there for their daughters, grandkids, siblings, and friends. They've never asked for recognition ...

I've always loved my parents. Like any teenager there were definitely times when I didn't honour and obey them, but I have always loved them. And now, witnessing this weekend, and being in the room with all those other friends and family, I really hope that someone can say of me someday that I'm as count-on-able, generous, and fun as they are. I really hope that I am learning to be one of those kind of people.

UPDATE: The wedding party - then and now

October 1962

June 2011

J - Joyous

My office door is wrapped in the most cheerful wrapping paper I've seen. It's tied with a big fat red velvet ribbon & bow. My 3 office windows are festooned with beautiful silver glass ornaments hung from more red velvet ribbon. At home evergreen swags drape my living room window, buffet and piano, all of them swathed in more red velvet ribbon. Why so much red velvet ribbon? Because it's traditional, and timeless and deeply deeply cheerful.

When I think of joy and Christmas, I don't think of the 30 or so relatives piled knees deep in my grandparent's living room, all yelling and laughing on top of each other. For me, Christmas joy is quieter.

I think of a little blonde girl in a white cotton dress tied with a red velvet ribbon and singing from the depths of her heart 'This Little Light of Mine' at her Sunday School Christmas concert. I think of secretly sewing Christmas stockings for my sisters one of the last years we all lived at home - and the first time we didn't use Dad's wool socks with the red stripe for our stockings. I think of one of my favourite traditions - turning all the lights off except those on the tree after everyone has gone to bed on Christmas Eve and sitting up watching the lights, saying a prayer for everyone for whom a gift waits under the lights.

Christmas joy is deep. It runs quietly through icing the sugar cookies and practicing for choir solos. It's in the quiet moments of connection and peace. This Christmas, I wish you joy.

Aaaahhhh, that's better

I don't know what happened the last couple days, but all of a sudden I'm me again. Powerful. In action. Happy. Dancing and singing and taking no guff me. I hate when that goes away, but boy is it great when I start to shine again. When everything shines.

Which (you saw this coming, didn't you) reminds me of a very me-in-this-moment song from my favourite newfies :)

The B Word

I just had a bit of an epiphany. And, like so very very many of my epiphanies, this may occur to the rest of you like 'she's only figuring that out now?' None the less, here it is:

I can't be anyone but myself (more on that in a minute) - if that doesn't work for you, you should spend your time with someone else.

I have been twisted up in knots all week trying to figure out what I'd need to be less of, and more of, who to emulate and who to expunge to be happy, loved, cherished, honoured and wanted. It's been pretty tiring - both for myself and for the people around me. And, these knots being of the Gordian variety, it's been an insolvable riddle.

And then I read something just now cleaning up my bedroom that untangled the whole mystery. What I read said "Remember, when you get right down to it, there is no real you." In this usage, real means essential, unchangeable, universal. Which, unlike so many existential quandries, is good news, because it means I get to say. And, this is what I say...

I am a bold, beautiful blonde bombshell.

That may not always be easy for people to take. But I love being front and centre. I love making an entrance and shaking things up a bit. I love that I have a sharp mind and a quick wit. I love being creative and adventurous. And I love playing up my bombshell assets. It's no accident that one of my two favourite outfits is my corseted ballgown, or that I have more than once been Mae West for Halloween. I can be a bit of a bodacious broad.

And, even all of that is not always true - I can also be bookish, or balanced, or a b*tch. Or I can be breezy or brazen or a total basket-case and sometimes even bashful.

The thing is, you don't get to choose, because one B word I am not is a buffet. You don't get to just pick the parts of me you like and forego the other bits. This babe is Prix Fixe. No substitutions (though if there's something you're REALLY allergic to, the chef might be able to work something out if you let us know ;-)  - you get to choose me as I am and accept what you choose.

And, at long last, I get to choose me as I am. And, that is a huge relief.

And, while we're at it, kudos to The Catch who had the wisdom to tell me this week (not that this is the first time I've heard this) 'it's pretty hard to cherish someone who doesn't cherish herself.' And to DivaMoe, and ShellBot, and SC2 (and extra thinks for 'bodacious!), and Miss Lady for their corporate wisdom and unflagging patience.

The becoming necessary to the being

Today was my first day at my much anticipated, much celebrated, and very appreciated new day job. And my first activity on this first day (right after oohing and aahing over my lovely office and figuring out which key opens which door) was to attend the monthly management team meeting.

You know you're in special place when the first person who greets you in the morning says "oh, we're all so glad you're here." And when the first question your new boss asks is "how are you feeling - are you nervous at all?" But when your management team meeting starts with a devotional that has you craughing, well, it really makes you wonder.

SC2 shared with us why struggle matters. It's a physical and spiritual imperative. It's how we grow, how we gain strength. How we learn. As Sheila Walsh (the author of the devotional) says,

[I was ] told by an ornithologist that unless a baby bird struggles to get out of the shell it will not have the strength to survive. The very act of struggling to make it to the outside gives it what it will need to learn to fly. I remember thinking, “How brilliant of God to render the “becoming” necessary to the “being.”

What especially stood out for me was the image of the baby bird. Having been wrapped up for the last few months in nudging my fledglings from the nest, and creating my empty nest, the image of the baby bird struggling to break free was especially poignant for me. How often we want to break them out of the egg shell, or to keep them safe inside it. And either option causes only death. Only in allowing the fledgling to find it's own way can it also learn to fly on its own.

It was a good day. And a good reminder. And I'm so excited to go back tomorrow.

TI♥T: Canada Day Edition (With Glowing Heart)

What else could a good Canadian girl like myself write about on a July 1 Thursday than how proud I am to be Canadian, how much I love Canada, and what fun Canada Day is? Yes, we are a flawed nation. We have imperfections and struggles and crises of identity. But there is nowhere else on earth I'd like to call home.

I am capable of writing an in-depth analysis of Canadian culture. Of debunnking stereotypes (I, for one, like neither beer nor hockey). But instead tonight, having literally just stepped in the door from a fantastic evening with my Funk Soul Brother celebrating in our provincial capital, I'm going to keep is short and sweet. Here then, in no particular order, are the things I truly love about Canada on Canada Day:

• a heaving sea of humanity in red t-shirts, maple-leaf capes, home-made red and white costumes, and everyone saying 'sorry' when they bump into you (or even when you bump into them)
• Canadian flags tied to waving hockey sticks
• Fireworks set to music 
• 30 + abreast cops on foot and motorcycle clearing the street, one of whom turned to tell my FSB and I "it's not a good idea to walk behind us in case people throw bottles and such"
• a distinct lack of bottle throwing
• hearing K'Naan's - the Somalian by birth & Canadian by choice rapper - World Cup socer anthem "Wavin' Flag" blasting from TVs, radios, and sound systems throughout the downtown core
• spontaneous choruses of O Canada in the pub and on the street
• knowing that in a crowd of 50,000 people I am completely safe - connected even - with my co-Canadians
• hearing an American tourist say "these Canadians get more excited about Canada Day than we do even for the 4th of July"

So wave your flag and wave your flag and wave your flag - we're getting better and better at this patriotism thing.



When I get older, I will be stronger
They'll call me freedom
Just like a Waving Flag.
So wave your flag, and wave your flag, and wave your flag.

Born to a throne, stronger than Rome
but Violent prone, poor people zone,
But it's my home, all I have known,
Where I got grown, streets we would roam.

But out of the darkness, I came the farthest,
Among the hardest survival.
Learn from these streets, it can be bleak,
Except no defeat, surrender retreat,
So we struggling, fighting to eat and
We wondering when we'll be free,
So we patiently wait, for that fateful day,
It's not far away, so for now we say
When I get older, I will be stronger

I'll make it better, Struggles all over,
When I get older I will be stronger
They'll call me freedom, just like a waving flag
And wave your flag, and wave your flag, and wave your flag.
So many wars, settling scores,
Bringing us promises, leaving us poor,
I heard them say, love is the way,

Love is the answer, that's what they say,
But look how they treat us, Make us believers,
We fight their battles, then they deceive us,
Try to control us, they couldn't hold us,
Cause we just move forward like Buffalo Soldiers.
But we struggling, fighting to eat,
And we wondering, when we'll be free
So we patiently wait, for that faithful day,
It's not far away, but for now we say,

I Just Haven't Met You Yet (or Have I?)

I took a little road trip today up to the 'Mo to see my parents & my bestest twin cousin & his lovely wife & kids. So that was awesome. What was also awesome was cranking my tunes, & roaring up and down Highway 1 with nothing but the Jade Dragon and my thoughts for company. It was a good drive. Though even after 4 months I still have a hard time driving through Duncan and not taking the right turn into Mill Bay. I've really been missing Cowboy the past 10 days or so. Now that the rest of life is falling into place, I've space to think of him, to reminisce about the great times we had together, and to contemplate again what worked, what didn't work, and what was missing from my side. The terms "baby" and "bathwater" occur to me a lot. So a lot of my drive I was busy looking backwards - no regrets, just questions.

Honestly, and I know some of you will be surprised to hear me admit this, I have been very lucky in love. I choose a wonderful father for my sons. I have had fantastic friends who became lovers, who became friends again. One of my go-to people for 12 years continues to teach me and stand for me and call me on shit and make me smile and giggle and blush. Some have chosen not to be friends, and that's their prerogative, but it sure doesn't diminsh my affection and respect. And hellz ya, I've dated jerks, and learned from them as well.

And while I'm choosing not to date right now, it's no reflection on any of them. Two of them I would consider totally workable, possible, 'maybe someday' options if they were willing and interested and if we grew in ways that make us more compatible instead of less.

So all of that was on my mind as I descended the Malahat this evening. Cruising, passing, lane-changing, reminscing. And then this song came on. And I thought - hey! When did I read Michael Buble my journals?

I'm Not Surprised

Not Everything Lasts

Have Broken My Heart So Many Times,

I Stopped Keepin Track.

Talk Myself In

I Talk Myself Out

I Get All Worked Up

Then I Let Myself Down.

I'm slightly embarrassed to realise how like me the words are. And also slightly relieved that I'm not the only one. I'm drumming on the steering wheel, tapping my foot, singing at the top of my lungs! What's that, Michael, you too have

I Tried So Very Hard Not To Lose It

I Came Up With A Million Excuse

I Thought I Thought Of Every Possibility

And I'm smiling. And laughing at myself. And dreaming. And I'm promising the promises from the bottom of my heart as Michael sings

And I Know Someday That It'll All Turn Out

You'll Make Me Work So We Can Work To Work It Out

And I Promise You Kid That I'll Give So Much More Than I Get

I Just Haven't Met You Yet

And suddenly I'm 100% focused forward - excited about the future that awaits me as of January 1, 2011. I don't know who you are, or who I'll be then, and maybe you are someone I've already met and didn't recognise because I was busy looking at me. But my gosh are we going to have fun working it out!

I Might Have To Wait
I'll Never Give Up
I Guess It's Half Time
And The Other Half's Luck
Wherever You Are
Whenever It's Right
You Come Out Of Nowhere And Into My Life


And I Know That We Can Be So Amazing

And Being In Your Life Is Gonna Change Me

And Now I Can See Every Single Possibility

Deliciously Dull & Temporarily Chaste, or Fun with Homonyms

I promised the other day a deliciously dull update. In fact, I’ve never been so excited about having ‘nots’ in my life. Instead of feeling like these spaces are emptiness, all I see is freedom and choice and the ability to create what I REALLY want: Being Healthy, Wealthy & Wise.

So here are my THREE FREE’s for the rest of 2010:

Sugar Free

So far so good. It’s day three and my only symptom of withdrawl was actually because I wasn’t drinking coffee, which was an oversight, and not part of the overall Freedom plan. And, to be honest, my version of sugar-free and yours may be vastly different. I am eating as much fruit as I can – much more than I normally do. That’s because fruit has enough sugar to satisfy my cravings, but also a whole lot of other benefits I need that Dairy Milk bars – no matter which variety - simply don’t deliver. Fibre, vitamins, texture, flavour, fun. Dried fruit, fresh fruit, fruit smoothies. Yes, overall this likely doesn’t impact my blood sugars (which are just fine, thank you very much), but it does impact my overall feeling of health and vitality. And for a girl to go from 2-4 sugary snacks a day to fruit is a pretty big move. Especially when it just occurred to me, once the drama queen was adequately silenced on Friday night, that I don’t need sugar. I just don’t. All done. As my body uses up the sugar I've already over-loaded it with (something like a year's supply for a smaller nation, in the last 4 months) I'm sure I'll ease back on the fruit as well. But for now it's a good start. A balanced start. [committed sugar-free until July 18; will re-assess then]

Over-Draft Free

I have an overdraft on my chequing account. And it has been at least 10 years since I considered that over-draft anything other than ‘my money.’ Yes, I get charged both fees and interested when I use ‘my money’ to that extent, but it seems like my money none-the-less. Well, not anymore. For the first time ever, I’m excited about my budget. I’m excited about figuring out what it will take to replace the furniture I want to replace, how much I’ll have to save and by when to take myself to Paris, if there’s room for a family trip at Christmas. I have a fancy spreadsheet on my laptop that tracks actual spending v. Budgeted amounts and calculates both bar graphs and pie charts (I am such a sucker for colour coded charts!). And I have a simple, fun & always accessible app on my iPhone (based on the book & program Wealth Watchers http://www.ewealthwatchers.com/) that calculates my daily disposable income based on my fixed expenses, then tells me each day if I’m over or under that day’s allotment. Over time it averages, gives monthly totals, etc. And it too is colour coded (colour coding is clearly the secret to financial freedom). So really this promise is to track my spending every day and live to my budget; but I needed it to be 'free' and one benfit will definitely be losing the over-draft habit.

Man Free

Which, as we learned on Friday, goes hand-in-hand with my commitment to being drama free (or at least forcing the drama queen back into exile when she tries to regain her throne). And while I’d been toying with this idea, or resisting this idea, or wondering why on earth someone would want to do this since I ended my relationship with Cowboy in February, I made the decision over a week ago. And then I waffled. And then I thought that if I didn’t say anything to anyone I could just pretend I’d never made the promise to myself. And then I faltered and life got messy. And then I realised that the promises I make to myself are the ones that matter most. So, for the next 6 months and 9 days I am going to be dateless-by-choice & temporarily chaste. And no, those two things don’t necessarily go together (if you are a parent or son of mine, I’m sorry – this paragraph should have had a warning).

I have been discovering about myself and observing some behaviours I am not all that fond or proud of. And I don’t mean to sound like I’m judging myself, but, well, I haven’t yet learned how to respect myself and request the respect of others when all I want is for them to love me, to really really love me. Or how to show up as just me in a relationship instead of trying to gain information and evidence for who you would like me to be. Miss Lady suggested it long ago, but she's young - what does she know. And I could never quite get the idea out of my mind. And then last week while perusing the blog of a co-21.5.800-er I found a kindred spirit who'd been there, done that, an reaped the benefits

So for 6 months and 9 days I’m going to learn. Not through more trial and error, but through treating myself with respect and re-learning (maybe for the first time?) what I offer in a relationship. It’s already making a difference – last week I had dinner with a friend I’ve had a crush on for years, and instead of wondering what he was thinking ABOUT ME, and if I laughed too loudly or not enough, and if I’d made all the foods he likes, and ME ME ME ME ME I could just be with him and chat and laugh and get to know him as a person instead of wondering which trap is best to catch this particular prey. It’s oh so freeing not to have that in the space!

I thought of all these things choices while laying in my bed Friday. And then I slept through the night for the first time in months. I woke up Saturday full of energy and ready to focus on other people. And I spent the weekend mostly off-line and doing things I love. And I slept all night Saturday. And all night Sunday.

This low-drama life is something I could get used to. Who knows, if this keeps up I may even stop over-filling my schedule!

Hey hey hey

I had another 'never thought I'd get to' weekend this weekend. Last month it was the attending a once-in-a-lifetime Olympic medals ceremony. And this weekend it was sitting in a room full of smiling, laughing, happy people listen to the one-and-only Bill Cosby tell stories for an hour and a half.

My cheeks hurt from smiling. My soul bro's ribs hurt from laughing.

From the moment Mr. Cosby took the stage I was grinning like a school girl on her first field trip, on the edge of my seat, clasping my hand over my mouth to muffle my guffaws. Without a curse word or a suggestive line or an off-colour remark he had the whole 1500 person audience engaged and entertained.

No gimmicks - just a genuinely funny man, a comfy chair (at least I assume it was comfy), a side table with a water bottle and glass on it, and a sweatshirt that read "Hello Friend" in big colourful letters draped over the back of the chair.

I didn't want to blink in case I missed something. I had an honest worry that

It was a pretty special opportunity. Thanks, bro.

The Best of Times

It's February 1999 and I'm strolling down the avenue in New York City. No, not strolling - something more chipper and intentional, less quirky than prancing, more energized than ambling. It's my fifth or sixth day in Manhattan, and I am in love with life. Having raided Freckle's closet and that of at least 2 girlfriends before taking off, my outfit is the perfect combination of fashion-forward and comfortable - a black leather biker jacket, a long boho chic skirt, a soft feminine sweater, the uber long & muppety burgundy scarf I bought on arriving in frigid Greenwhich Village. I am present, in my skin, happy, and free in the most alive city in the world.

A man I barely notice until I can see the white of his smile is approaching me in the opposite direction. As we pass he says, "you are gorgeous - thanks for making me smile." And I laugh, and say thank you, and we continue on our divergent paths - he back to an office, or home for dinner (no, it's too early for that), or to meet friends & colleagues for lunch, and me on my way to the New York Public Library to be hushed and awed and moved.

That crystal moment is one of my favourite memories. I relive it like I'm still in it - feel the crip Eastcoast air in my nostrils. The blush warming my cheeks, wondering who heard our exchange. The leather squeak of my jacket as my arms swing freely. The swish of his wool coat as he turns to speak, and turns again to carry on. The only detail that's missing for me is what I was wearing for shoes. Did I have knee high black boots then? I imagine that I did.

Whenever I feel that memory coming upon me I know it's a good day - a day to savour. A day to celebrate being. Today is one of those days. I need nothing. I welcome everything. And I am free.

Double SCW Ink Income

I have my own business providing business communication consulting to other small businesses and community organizations. While it's going well, I'd like to grow it to the point that it becomes a reliable source of half of my income. Doubling the current monthly income would mean making $1200 in September.

How will I do that?

• phone all current & past clients and see what I can do for them now
• research additional grant options for current clients
• follow up on writing article ideas from friends
• attend business networking events 1x/month
• develop my LinkedIn account
• research available government contracts