and Congressman Weiner
and Chris Brown
and Tiger Woods
and John Edwards (the politician, not the guy who talks to dead people)
Your recent shenanigans have provided me with many teachable moments with my 13 year old daughter that I could not have scripted better. Seriously.
One of the biggest challenges facing the parents of teens in this technological age is dealing with what our kids put out there on internet.
Some of my friends have elected to completely shut off their children from any internet access. No Facebook. No Youtube. No email. Whether or not their kids are logging in on the sly, I cannot say but this strikes me as reactive and not terribly useful longterm.
Eventually kids grow up. They reach 18, graduate from high school and move out. The parental ability to set boundaries and enforce consequences for choices ends then and all we can hope is that something we taught them sticks. The World takes over in the consequence department in a way that parents cannot even dream of. Those consequences can be life altering and long-term.
Forbidding kids to have an on-line presence reminds me of the town where I grew up, when I was growing up there. My hometown is one of the officially 'dry' towns in Canada. Liquor licenses are a non-issue and there is no liquor store. Rooted in the community's strong Mormon legacy, drinking is not just frowned upon, it is pretty much outlawed. [Drinking coffee is similarly sanctioned but I, as a true rebel, delighted in taking my thermos of coffee to the weekly Student Council Meetings when I was in grade 12.]
Now, here's the funny thing. Outlawed as it may be, alcohol is available for the asking. One of my friends father's ran a 'bootlegging' business, bringing in beer, wine and liquor from a nearby city and re-selling it to members not only of our community but also to the large aboriginal population on the Reserve that abutted the town. Roadtrips across the American border into Montana contributed to the thriving economy of a 'wide spot in the road' town less than 50 kilometers to the South. American beer was popular in my old stomping grounds long before 'importing' became popular and brands began to span the world.
One phenomenon that happened often was running wild after high school by many of my devote Mormon classmates. Moving away from home to work or to attend college without a parental supervisor was a double whammy for many. In a city where alcohol is a part of life on a daily basis, kids grow up watching the adults in their lives making choices. Whether the choice is yes or no, it is made on a regular basis -- at restaurants, dinner parties and other gatherings. For the most part, this was not a regular part of my classmates world. I can recall going to dinner with a friend and her parents and when the server asked Mom and Dad if they would like wine with their dinner, the NO was dished up with a look of righteous indignation at even being asked the question.
Anyway, suffice to say that for young adults who had rarely, if ever, seen examples polite refusals of alcohol to suddenly be thrust into the wonderful, wacky world of being an undergrad -- well, it was a recipe for bad choices. The 'no' muscle had not developed. The 'be polite' muscle was overdeveloped. More than few of my friends spent much of their first few years of post-secondary education in a daze. Granted, most of them returned to the fold sometime around their 21st birthday (remember, in Canada drinking age is 19 everywhere except Alberta where it is 18).
So, what does this have to do with the internet and philandering politicians and other public figures? Plenty.
Those parents who believe they can protect their children by keeping them away from the World Wide Web are not only naive, but also setting up their kids for failure in many ways. It is only by controlled exposure to what is out there that our kids learn to say yes and no with their own conviction (not conviction borrowed from their parents or friends). It's kind of like getting your kids inoculated against small pox, exposure to a small amount of cow pox boosts their immune system and the deadly virus cannot set in and kill them.
Having larger than life examples of 'what can go wrong' is a wonderful teaching tool. All of the goof ups of the past few years have helped me open up a dialogue about real world consequences of private choices. Once the Pumpkin quit giggling herself silly about the Congressman's name, we were able to talk about not only how foolish it was for him to take and email those photos but also about how male hormones can make even the most educated, responsible adults behave stupidly. I think the discussion ended with something along the lines of: "So, Pumpkin, if a grown man, with as much to lose as he had, was willing to let himself be overwhelmed by hormones, can you imagine how little control and/or sense a teenage boy has? . . Yes, you are correct, less than none."
Tiger Woods opened a discussion of the importance of not only honesty and fidelity but also of the importance of making sound choices when selecting life partners.
The Governator. . . well it was a wonderful blend of fidelity issues and attitude. When he stated he didn't get the big 'problem' with his behaviour, both of us were stunned. I suppose if he had a spouse who was okay with such choices, there would not have been any harm. But even a Canadian with limited education in U.S. political dynasties knows that Ms. Shriver would be sensitive to sexual dalliances. Clearly he didn't check with her before hand to see where her personal tolerance level sat.
So, my child has an online presence. I (and her other parents) monitor randomly. She hasn't unfriended us on Facebook and she shares with me links to music, videos and stories she finds interesting. The dialogue is something I treasure. If I can slip in some 'life lessons', well, that is just a great bonus.
Friday, June 17, 2011
Monday, June 6, 2011
Sweating with the Yogis
Anyone who knows me, knows I am NOT an athlete. Never have been; never will be. I have tried any number of fitness programs over the years -- Spa Lady, aerobics classes, weight lifting, mountain biking, swimming, Curves, yoga and, very briefly running. In the last couple of years, I have accepted that my fitness abilities are best suited to walking my two canine units, short-term yoga classes and the occasional adventure in virtual sports on the Wii.
Now, the reality is I am approaching 50 and I would really like to be around long enough to see my now teenaged daughter produce a grandchild or two (in the far, distant future). I also want to be healthy enough to spoil the said grandchild and return it to my dear daughter.
My elder sister who has ten more trips around the Sun than I do started doing 'hot' yoga about three years ago. Shortly thereafter she started proselytizing like a recently reborn Christian just back from an encounter weekend with Billy Graham. Like most of my family members, I rolled my eyes and figured she had clearly cooked her brain in the yoga class.
I had concluded several years ago that my view of exercise is like my view of sex and spirituality. It is a private matter and I am most comfortable pursuing it in privacy. I have never been into performance in any of these pursuits. Quite simply I like to sweat and to pray in private.
So, when I moved to Calgary several months ago I was surprised to discover my new residence is less than 10 minutes from a hot yoga studio that is affiliated with where my sister goes in Edmonton. Before I moved I had attended a yoga class and found that I was comfortable working on my flexibility and strength with a small class. Practice and not performance being the philosophy behind the class.
After several weeks of trying to find a yoga class near my house with a schedule I felt I could manage without driving myself crazy to rush home and get to class after work, I was slightly frustrated. At many studios (and particularly the ones in my neighbourhood), classes were run on a set schedule where it was necessary to commit to a specific time each week. Anyone with a child knows this is hard to maintain. Add to that I now have something that occasionally resembles a social life and things get dicey. How do I find a place where I can bend and twist on a regular enough basis to get some good out of it but that does not tie me to a schedule?
On a lark, I decided to check hot yoga studio's class format. Well, it is essentially set up with all classes being 'drop in'. It also featured a "$20 for all the sweating you can do in one week" introductory offer. Seemed like a good idea so I scoped out the class times and emailed my dear sister to get her advice on 'sweating with the yogis' etiquette.
Take a towel. Just like The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy -- always have a towel and DON'T PANIC. Actually, two towels are the best idea. One large one to go on top of your yoga mat, which will get as slippery as an eel in a canola oil plant. Without a towel for traction, just standing upright on your mat is a challenge. A smaller, hand-size towel is good to have to wipe the rivers of sweat off your face during class. Both towels will be drenched by the time you are done.
Remove all make up before class. Seriously. This is not a time for vanity and not removing eye make up has a couple of undesirable outcomes. First, rather than giving you an attractive, doe-eyed look, the profuse sweating will result in a goofy raccoon-eyed appearance. Second (and more important), melted mascara and eye liner will be washed into your eyes by sweat. You will experience excruciating pain and you will cry.
When I arrived for my first venture into the land of sweaty bending, there were more than a few other people waiting for the class as well. I was comforted to see that while a few of them looked like refugees from a dance studio, there were more than a few who looked like normal (read "slightly fluffy") people.
Clothing choices ranged from the latest from Lulu Lemon to Costco brand yoga wear to t-shirts and shorts. Everyone carried a water bottle and the requisite towel or two.
After shedding my outer layer of sweatshirt and track pants, I eased my way out of the dressing room wearing yoga shorts and a top I'd picked up at Winners. Upon entering the yoga room, I found subdued lighting, a slightly rubbery floor and several people already quietly laying on their mats and relaxing. I found a spot near the back of the room and rolled my mat out lining it up with the stickers on the floor designed to keep rows straight.
As I rolled out my mat and covered it with a towel, I was surprised by the temperature in the room. Hot yoga is practiced in heat of between 35 and 45 degrees Celsius, or 100 and 110 degrees Fahrenheit. Perhaps my internal thermostat has gone wonky in my advancing years, but it did NOT feel terribly hot to me. In fact, given my druthers, I would gladly keep my house close to the temperature in the studio.
I am now several weeks into regular attendance at hot yoga. I can almost balance on one foot for more than a millisecond and there is a definite improvement in my flexibility.
Yes, I think I've found my 'sport'...it is non-competitive, calming and warm.
Now, the reality is I am approaching 50 and I would really like to be around long enough to see my now teenaged daughter produce a grandchild or two (in the far, distant future). I also want to be healthy enough to spoil the said grandchild and return it to my dear daughter.
My elder sister who has ten more trips around the Sun than I do started doing 'hot' yoga about three years ago. Shortly thereafter she started proselytizing like a recently reborn Christian just back from an encounter weekend with Billy Graham. Like most of my family members, I rolled my eyes and figured she had clearly cooked her brain in the yoga class.
I had concluded several years ago that my view of exercise is like my view of sex and spirituality. It is a private matter and I am most comfortable pursuing it in privacy. I have never been into performance in any of these pursuits. Quite simply I like to sweat and to pray in private.
So, when I moved to Calgary several months ago I was surprised to discover my new residence is less than 10 minutes from a hot yoga studio that is affiliated with where my sister goes in Edmonton. Before I moved I had attended a yoga class and found that I was comfortable working on my flexibility and strength with a small class. Practice and not performance being the philosophy behind the class.
After several weeks of trying to find a yoga class near my house with a schedule I felt I could manage without driving myself crazy to rush home and get to class after work, I was slightly frustrated. At many studios (and particularly the ones in my neighbourhood), classes were run on a set schedule where it was necessary to commit to a specific time each week. Anyone with a child knows this is hard to maintain. Add to that I now have something that occasionally resembles a social life and things get dicey. How do I find a place where I can bend and twist on a regular enough basis to get some good out of it but that does not tie me to a schedule?
On a lark, I decided to check hot yoga studio's class format. Well, it is essentially set up with all classes being 'drop in'. It also featured a "$20 for all the sweating you can do in one week" introductory offer. Seemed like a good idea so I scoped out the class times and emailed my dear sister to get her advice on 'sweating with the yogis' etiquette.
Take a towel. Just like The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy -- always have a towel and DON'T PANIC. Actually, two towels are the best idea. One large one to go on top of your yoga mat, which will get as slippery as an eel in a canola oil plant. Without a towel for traction, just standing upright on your mat is a challenge. A smaller, hand-size towel is good to have to wipe the rivers of sweat off your face during class. Both towels will be drenched by the time you are done.
Remove all make up before class. Seriously. This is not a time for vanity and not removing eye make up has a couple of undesirable outcomes. First, rather than giving you an attractive, doe-eyed look, the profuse sweating will result in a goofy raccoon-eyed appearance. Second (and more important), melted mascara and eye liner will be washed into your eyes by sweat. You will experience excruciating pain and you will cry.
When I arrived for my first venture into the land of sweaty bending, there were more than a few other people waiting for the class as well. I was comforted to see that while a few of them looked like refugees from a dance studio, there were more than a few who looked like normal (read "slightly fluffy") people.
Clothing choices ranged from the latest from Lulu Lemon to Costco brand yoga wear to t-shirts and shorts. Everyone carried a water bottle and the requisite towel or two.
After shedding my outer layer of sweatshirt and track pants, I eased my way out of the dressing room wearing yoga shorts and a top I'd picked up at Winners. Upon entering the yoga room, I found subdued lighting, a slightly rubbery floor and several people already quietly laying on their mats and relaxing. I found a spot near the back of the room and rolled my mat out lining it up with the stickers on the floor designed to keep rows straight.
As I rolled out my mat and covered it with a towel, I was surprised by the temperature in the room. Hot yoga is practiced in heat of between 35 and 45 degrees Celsius, or 100 and 110 degrees Fahrenheit. Perhaps my internal thermostat has gone wonky in my advancing years, but it did NOT feel terribly hot to me. In fact, given my druthers, I would gladly keep my house close to the temperature in the studio.
I am now several weeks into regular attendance at hot yoga. I can almost balance on one foot for more than a millisecond and there is a definite improvement in my flexibility.
Yes, I think I've found my 'sport'...it is non-competitive, calming and warm.
Friday, March 11, 2011
My life mix tape. . .
I am reading Jodi Picoult's latest book, Sing Me Home. The main character talks about how one of her questions for potential boyfriends was for them to make up a musical mix tape that would describe them. This got me thinking . . . what mix tape (or ipod play list) would sum up who I am in ten songs. . . .
Number One - - and a testament to the person who shaped me more than any other -- is Joan Baez's "Honest Lullaby". Yes, I had a mother who sang to me an Honest Lullaby. From as far back as I can remember she did not try to explain away or sugar coat the less than perfect things that happened in my life. She did, however, encourage me to find the diamond in the pile of dirt. One of the life lessons she taught me is that NO experience is a bad experience, as long as you have learned something from it. I hope I am able to pass that legacy on to my child. . .
And if you should ever wonder
How the years and you'll survive
Honey, you've got a mother who sings to you
Dances on the strings for you
Opens her heart and brings to you
An honest lullaby
Number Two is Jewel's "Life Uncommon". This song speaks to my deep belief and feeling that our world will not be saved by violence and hate but only by love and kindness. This is the song I listen to when I am feeling broken by the World.
And lend your voices only to sounds of freedom
No longer lend your strength to that
which you wish to be free from
Fill you lives with love and bravery
And we shall lead a life uncommon
Number Three is "The Long Way Around" by the Dixie Chicks. Yes, my friends from High School really did marry their high school sweethearts and move into same zip codes (okay, same Postal Codes -- I am Canadian) where their parents live. But I took the long way . . . I recently found that as much as I may have wanted to excise my roots from my life, those people who 'knew me when' and I share a common history that makes ALL of us better, kinder people.
No I, I could never follow
No I, I could never follow
It's been two long years now
Since the top of the world came crashing down
And I'm getting' it back on the road now
Well, I fought with a stranger and I met myself
I opened my mouth and I heard myself
It can get pretty lonely when you show yourself
Guess I could have made it easier on myself
Number Four is "Cool" by Gwen Stefani. This song is captures how, after 3 years and a lot of healing, I feel about my ex-husband and the 'space' I am in regarding our relationship. Although I, myself, have not found a new partner, his choice is a woman I genuinely like, respect and consider a friend and, yes, we are all 'cool'. Believe me no one is more surprised than I at the level of forgiveness and peace that I have reached after what was a painful loss. Guess between therapy and prayer, I found a way.
And I'll be happy for you
If you can be happy for me
Circles and triangles, and now we're hangin' out with your new girlfriend
So far from where we've been
I know we're cool
Number Five is Chinese Cafe by Joni Mitchell. What can I say, I kind of grew up on Joni, being the youngest sister in a pretty 'hippy' family. Joni's songs -- Chelsea Morning, The Circle Game, Big Yellow Taxi, Both Sides Now -- were the soundtrack of my childhood and teenage years, following my sisters around trying to keep up or figure them out (never did figure them out, but that's okay, I LOVE THEM ALL anyway). Now, as I am in what has been called 'midlife', Chinese Cafe paints the picture of my friendships and where we are collectively and individually. As I watch my friends become grandparents and realize that it is not necessarily a bad thing to become our parents.
This girl of my childhood games
With kids nearly grown and gone
Grown so fast
Like the turn of a page
We look like our mothers did now
When we were those kids' age
Song number six would be Great Big Sea's "Here and Now". It is a song about living our lives in the present. I wasted too many years speculating about a future that changed in an instant and beating myself up over a past that I cannot change. So, this is the anthem for my life in the NOW. Sometimes we all need to be reminded that the only time that we can impact is this moment. The thing about Great Big Sea music is no matter how bad I am feeling when I put it on, I am HAPPY by the end of the second or third song.
The hardest part of life
Is to live while you're alive my friend
So sing an unwritten song
Or repent for the deeds you left undone
This is Here
This is Now
It's the moment that we live for
And we just can't live without
Number Seven. No list of songs to describe me would be complete without something from P!nk. I think she is truly the 'voice' of her generation . . . The Pumpkin and I traveled to Seattle (Washington) to see her in concert and it was one of the most energizing experiences of my life. Three years ago, the song would have been "So What" (it was my unofficial anthem to get my through my divorce). But her newest song, F&ckin Perfect speaks to me on many levels. It is the song I wish I'd heard when I was an awkward 15 year old who believed she could not do anything right. It is the song I silently sing to my own 13 year old praying she knows she is PERFECT just being who she is called to be. It is the song I want ALL 13 year olds to know is the truth . . . be yourself and don't be afraid to find out who that is. Follow your inner voice and you'll be fine.
Made a wrong turn, once or twice.
Dug my way out, blood and fire.
Bad decisions, that's alright.
Welcome to my silly life.
Mistreated, misplaced, misunderstood.
Miss 'No way, it's all good', it didn't slow me down.
Mistaken, always second guessing, underestimated.
Look i'm still around
Such a tired game
It's enough
I've done all I can think of
Chased down all my demons
Seen you do the same
Number Eight is Rhiannon by Fleetwood Mac sung by Stevie Nicks in that ethereal voice that is both rough and haunting. When I was in my early 20s I changed my given names. I was the last of six children and the 'well' of names had sort of dried up by the time I came along. As I result I was named after my father's commanding officer (yes, a woman) and my aunt's dog. Not terribly special. Once I had established I wanted to be writer, I knew I needed a more literary name. So, with an affidavit and a couple of government forms, I changed my given name to a long version of my birth name and my middle name to Rhiannon.
She is like a cat in the dark
and then she is the darkness
she rules her life like a fine skylark
and when the sky is starless
All your life you've never seen
woman taken by the wind
Number Ten. "You Learn" by Alanis Morrisette. When I was pregnant with my daughter I overdosed on two particular albums, both by Canadian women. One of them was Jagged Little Pill by Alanis Morrisette. The other one. . . well, let's just say I recovered from my infatuation with it shortly after the pregnancy hormones stopped flowing. I am approaching the half century mark in my life and I remember hearing Gloria Steimen comment that women 'become themselves' at 50. To get to that place . . . the place knowing without a doubt who I am I have learned a lot of lessons. Most of the important ones were not fun or enjoyable during life's tutorials -- pain is a necessary teacher for the big lessons of life, especially if we are not paying attention the first or second time the lesson is presented.
"You live you learn
You love you learn
You cry you learn
You lose you learn
You bleed you learn
You scream you learn"
10 Linkin Park's "What I've Done" For a very long time after the end of my marriage, and the end of my first career, I was into self-flagellation. The level of regret and guilt rivaled that of my dearest Catholic and Jewish friends. [A discussion among girlfriends once came to the conclusion that while Jewish Mothers may have invented guilt trips, Catholic Mothers perfected them and set up the travel agency that books them.] Now, I was raised by a mother whose standard refrain was the guilt is a wasted emotion. It is passive and akin to stewing in one's own juices or spinning tires on an icy street -- a lot of energy is exerted by nothing comes of it. Slowly I let go of the guilt and found my way to forgiveness. I practiced by forgiving others - - people who had contributed to the debacle that had become my life. The last (and hardest) act of forgiveness was to forgive myself. I am still working on it, but I am happy to say that the periods of self-recrimination are much fewer and farther between. I no longer need a steamer trunk for my guilt trips. . . a light backpack is sufficient.
So let mercy come
And wash away
What I’ve done
I'll face myself
To cross out what i’ve become
Erase myself
And let go of what i’ve done
Put to rest
What you thought of me
While I clean this slate
With the hands of uncertainty
"For what I’ve done
I start again
And whatever pain may come
Today this ends
I’m forgiving what I’ve done!!!"
So. . . .what would be on YOUR life's playlist....
Number One - - and a testament to the person who shaped me more than any other -- is Joan Baez's "Honest Lullaby". Yes, I had a mother who sang to me an Honest Lullaby. From as far back as I can remember she did not try to explain away or sugar coat the less than perfect things that happened in my life. She did, however, encourage me to find the diamond in the pile of dirt. One of the life lessons she taught me is that NO experience is a bad experience, as long as you have learned something from it. I hope I am able to pass that legacy on to my child. . .
And if you should ever wonder
How the years and you'll survive
Honey, you've got a mother who sings to you
Dances on the strings for you
Opens her heart and brings to you
An honest lullaby
Number Two is Jewel's "Life Uncommon". This song speaks to my deep belief and feeling that our world will not be saved by violence and hate but only by love and kindness. This is the song I listen to when I am feeling broken by the World.
And lend your voices only to sounds of freedom
No longer lend your strength to that
which you wish to be free from
Fill you lives with love and bravery
And we shall lead a life uncommon
Number Three is "The Long Way Around" by the Dixie Chicks. Yes, my friends from High School really did marry their high school sweethearts and move into same zip codes (okay, same Postal Codes -- I am Canadian) where their parents live. But I took the long way . . . I recently found that as much as I may have wanted to excise my roots from my life, those people who 'knew me when' and I share a common history that makes ALL of us better, kinder people.
No I, I could never follow
No I, I could never follow
It's been two long years now
Since the top of the world came crashing down
And I'm getting' it back on the road now
Well, I fought with a stranger and I met myself
I opened my mouth and I heard myself
It can get pretty lonely when you show yourself
Guess I could have made it easier on myself
Number Four is "Cool" by Gwen Stefani. This song is captures how, after 3 years and a lot of healing, I feel about my ex-husband and the 'space' I am in regarding our relationship. Although I, myself, have not found a new partner, his choice is a woman I genuinely like, respect and consider a friend and, yes, we are all 'cool'. Believe me no one is more surprised than I at the level of forgiveness and peace that I have reached after what was a painful loss. Guess between therapy and prayer, I found a way.
And I'll be happy for you
If you can be happy for me
Circles and triangles, and now we're hangin' out with your new girlfriend
So far from where we've been
I know we're cool
Number Five is Chinese Cafe by Joni Mitchell. What can I say, I kind of grew up on Joni, being the youngest sister in a pretty 'hippy' family. Joni's songs -- Chelsea Morning, The Circle Game, Big Yellow Taxi, Both Sides Now -- were the soundtrack of my childhood and teenage years, following my sisters around trying to keep up or figure them out (never did figure them out, but that's okay, I LOVE THEM ALL anyway). Now, as I am in what has been called 'midlife', Chinese Cafe paints the picture of my friendships and where we are collectively and individually. As I watch my friends become grandparents and realize that it is not necessarily a bad thing to become our parents.
This girl of my childhood games
With kids nearly grown and gone
Grown so fast
Like the turn of a page
We look like our mothers did now
When we were those kids' age
Song number six would be Great Big Sea's "Here and Now". It is a song about living our lives in the present. I wasted too many years speculating about a future that changed in an instant and beating myself up over a past that I cannot change. So, this is the anthem for my life in the NOW. Sometimes we all need to be reminded that the only time that we can impact is this moment. The thing about Great Big Sea music is no matter how bad I am feeling when I put it on, I am HAPPY by the end of the second or third song.
The hardest part of life
Is to live while you're alive my friend
So sing an unwritten song
Or repent for the deeds you left undone
This is Here
This is Now
It's the moment that we live for
And we just can't live without
Number Seven. No list of songs to describe me would be complete without something from P!nk. I think she is truly the 'voice' of her generation . . . The Pumpkin and I traveled to Seattle (Washington) to see her in concert and it was one of the most energizing experiences of my life. Three years ago, the song would have been "So What" (it was my unofficial anthem to get my through my divorce). But her newest song, F&ckin Perfect speaks to me on many levels. It is the song I wish I'd heard when I was an awkward 15 year old who believed she could not do anything right. It is the song I silently sing to my own 13 year old praying she knows she is PERFECT just being who she is called to be. It is the song I want ALL 13 year olds to know is the truth . . . be yourself and don't be afraid to find out who that is. Follow your inner voice and you'll be fine.
Made a wrong turn, once or twice.
Dug my way out, blood and fire.
Bad decisions, that's alright.
Welcome to my silly life.
Mistreated, misplaced, misunderstood.
Miss 'No way, it's all good', it didn't slow me down.
Mistaken, always second guessing, underestimated.
Look i'm still around
Such a tired game
It's enough
I've done all I can think of
Chased down all my demons
Seen you do the same
Number Eight is Rhiannon by Fleetwood Mac sung by Stevie Nicks in that ethereal voice that is both rough and haunting. When I was in my early 20s I changed my given names. I was the last of six children and the 'well' of names had sort of dried up by the time I came along. As I result I was named after my father's commanding officer (yes, a woman) and my aunt's dog. Not terribly special. Once I had established I wanted to be writer, I knew I needed a more literary name. So, with an affidavit and a couple of government forms, I changed my given name to a long version of my birth name and my middle name to Rhiannon.
She is like a cat in the dark
and then she is the darkness
she rules her life like a fine skylark
and when the sky is starless
All your life you've never seen
woman taken by the wind
Number Ten. "You Learn" by Alanis Morrisette. When I was pregnant with my daughter I overdosed on two particular albums, both by Canadian women. One of them was Jagged Little Pill by Alanis Morrisette. The other one. . . well, let's just say I recovered from my infatuation with it shortly after the pregnancy hormones stopped flowing. I am approaching the half century mark in my life and I remember hearing Gloria Steimen comment that women 'become themselves' at 50. To get to that place . . . the place knowing without a doubt who I am I have learned a lot of lessons. Most of the important ones were not fun or enjoyable during life's tutorials -- pain is a necessary teacher for the big lessons of life, especially if we are not paying attention the first or second time the lesson is presented.
"You live you learn
You love you learn
You cry you learn
You lose you learn
You bleed you learn
You scream you learn"
10 Linkin Park's "What I've Done" For a very long time after the end of my marriage, and the end of my first career, I was into self-flagellation. The level of regret and guilt rivaled that of my dearest Catholic and Jewish friends. [A discussion among girlfriends once came to the conclusion that while Jewish Mothers may have invented guilt trips, Catholic Mothers perfected them and set up the travel agency that books them.] Now, I was raised by a mother whose standard refrain was the guilt is a wasted emotion. It is passive and akin to stewing in one's own juices or spinning tires on an icy street -- a lot of energy is exerted by nothing comes of it. Slowly I let go of the guilt and found my way to forgiveness. I practiced by forgiving others - - people who had contributed to the debacle that had become my life. The last (and hardest) act of forgiveness was to forgive myself. I am still working on it, but I am happy to say that the periods of self-recrimination are much fewer and farther between. I no longer need a steamer trunk for my guilt trips. . . a light backpack is sufficient.
So let mercy come
And wash away
What I’ve done
I'll face myself
To cross out what i’ve become
Erase myself
And let go of what i’ve done
Put to rest
What you thought of me
While I clean this slate
With the hands of uncertainty
"For what I’ve done
I start again
And whatever pain may come
Today this ends
I’m forgiving what I’ve done!!!"
So. . . .what would be on YOUR life's playlist....
Monday, March 7, 2011
Mom said there'd be days like this
I am now the parent of a teenager. Pumpkin, my amazing child, turned 13 this past month. And I'm waiting for the hurricane. The hatches are getting battened and the windows covered in plywood. I am heading for higher ground and pray that the next seven years pass without either of us suffering any permanent damage.
I remember my teen years. They were many things, but FUN was not one of them. At least not very often. Adding to the excitement was the fact that my Mother hit menopause the same time I hit puberty. Yes, it was the House of Hormone Hell -- especially in the 1970s when there was not the same understanding and balms for the biological storm that marks both of these transitions.
My child entered her teens by starting at a new school in a new city. We have moved from the small city where we've been for almost 4 years to a large metropolitan city. The move was for solid reasons -- Mom got a job here.
The one big reality when you are a single parent is that there really isn't anyone there to pick up the slack. Not when you are tired and sick. Not when the one nerve you had left is rapidly fraying and in danger of breaking. Definitely not when you lose your job. So, I did what I had to do when there was nothing that matched my skillset available in our old home. I branched out.
Don't get me wrong, Renfrew and the Other Mother (OM) are great parents. But reality, being what it is, we are not living next door to each other to share the daily benefits and burdens of raising our communal child. They have her with them 3 weekends a months. And even though our new home is substantially closer to them (30 minutes v. 2 hours each way), it is not practical for them to be involved in the day-to-day stuff.
It is what it is. And I am not complaining. Considering the fact Pumpkin was the result of much medical assistance and (in the end) Divine intervention, the very fact I have been blessed with the chance to be a parent is worth any price. The fact the child in question is smart, funny, talented and beautiful, well that is just icing on the already 10 layer cake.
In my tradition of looking at the positive aspects of almost anything, I am trying to focus in the strengths that she has been demonstrating. I realize that her deep sorrow and even anger at having to move away from her core group of friends is a testament to her intense connection and sense of loyalty. Her nervousness and angst at the new city and new school illustrate that regardless of her like or dislike of the situation, she wants to do well and find a way to 'be' in this new place.
She is, after all, my child. She is my Mother's granddaughter. She is my Grandmother's great-granddaughter. The line of women in our family stretchs back to pioneers who left the safety of their homes behind to find a future on the prairie. We have a tradition of adapting to where our lives take us. We are resilient and able to weather the storms.
So what can I say, but Mother Nature --> Bring it On.
I remember my teen years. They were many things, but FUN was not one of them. At least not very often. Adding to the excitement was the fact that my Mother hit menopause the same time I hit puberty. Yes, it was the House of Hormone Hell -- especially in the 1970s when there was not the same understanding and balms for the biological storm that marks both of these transitions.
My child entered her teens by starting at a new school in a new city. We have moved from the small city where we've been for almost 4 years to a large metropolitan city. The move was for solid reasons -- Mom got a job here.
The one big reality when you are a single parent is that there really isn't anyone there to pick up the slack. Not when you are tired and sick. Not when the one nerve you had left is rapidly fraying and in danger of breaking. Definitely not when you lose your job. So, I did what I had to do when there was nothing that matched my skillset available in our old home. I branched out.
Don't get me wrong, Renfrew and the Other Mother (OM) are great parents. But reality, being what it is, we are not living next door to each other to share the daily benefits and burdens of raising our communal child. They have her with them 3 weekends a months. And even though our new home is substantially closer to them (30 minutes v. 2 hours each way), it is not practical for them to be involved in the day-to-day stuff.
It is what it is. And I am not complaining. Considering the fact Pumpkin was the result of much medical assistance and (in the end) Divine intervention, the very fact I have been blessed with the chance to be a parent is worth any price. The fact the child in question is smart, funny, talented and beautiful, well that is just icing on the already 10 layer cake.
In my tradition of looking at the positive aspects of almost anything, I am trying to focus in the strengths that she has been demonstrating. I realize that her deep sorrow and even anger at having to move away from her core group of friends is a testament to her intense connection and sense of loyalty. Her nervousness and angst at the new city and new school illustrate that regardless of her like or dislike of the situation, she wants to do well and find a way to 'be' in this new place.
She is, after all, my child. She is my Mother's granddaughter. She is my Grandmother's great-granddaughter. The line of women in our family stretchs back to pioneers who left the safety of their homes behind to find a future on the prairie. We have a tradition of adapting to where our lives take us. We are resilient and able to weather the storms.
So what can I say, but Mother Nature --> Bring it On.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Abandoning Hope. . . .
I have to do a little bit of redecorating in my bedroom. Two years ago when we moved into this house, I got to decorate my bedroom exactly how I wanted it. For the past 20 years or so, my decore choices had been tempered by Renfrew's opinion. But this time, the only person I needed to consult on paint colour and fabric was me. I went with a pale sea green and adorned my walls with inspirational words and dragonflies.
One of the wall words is 'HOPE'. You know:
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all. . (E. Dickinson)
Hope, what was left in the box after Pandora did the mythical equivalent of pushing the red, do not push, button.
The problem with Hope is that it leaves room for doubt that things will work out as they are meant to. Hope is based on a belief that the Universe is NOT unfolding as it should. Hope is limiting.
Over the past few years, I have been studying a spiritual program called A Course In Miracles (the "Course"). The premise of the Course is that ALL unhappiness and misery comes from a false belief that we are separate from each other and the Universe. In Reality (with a capital "R") each of us is part of an organic and Divine wholeness that is what some call God. To get to what Christians call Heaven, Hindu's call Nirvana, Muslims call Jannah and Buddhists see as escaping Samsara, all we need to do is to 'remember' who we truly are.
This 'remembering' and the reunification of the Divine is inevitable . . . LOVE always wins. The question is, of course, whether it happens sooner or later. But even that isn't really true; since time, as Albert Einstein so correctly observed, is an artificial construct to keep everything from happening at once.
I was blessed to have been raised by a Mother who allowed and encouraged me to see the connectedness in everything around me. This Life, she taught me, was a classroom and my Soul was here willingly to learn lessons that would allow it to grow and mature. The Course has built on this foundation with the principle that EVERY interaction with another soul is part of my Soul's curriculum. Nothing is a coincidence.
Anyway, back to Trust v. Hope.
Looking back over my forty-some years, I see that a fixation on HOPE has messed me up. It kept me doing things in my life that clearly were NOT working with the belief that the next time it would work. I spent uncountless days focused on the future I was hoping for, believing I knew better than the Divine what I needed. This living in the 'hope' kept me from seeing the gems of wisdom and truth that were right in front of me in the NOW. It kept me from seeing the lessons that were presented to me.
So, I am turning toward TRUST. Learning to be in the "I don't know" moments when I am presented with a seemingly bad life event. Trusting that the Divine knows what I need to learn and trusting, even more, that the lesson is there and I need only ask that the lesson be shown to me.
One of the wall words is 'HOPE'. You know:
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all. . (E. Dickinson)
Hope, what was left in the box after Pandora did the mythical equivalent of pushing the red, do not push, button.
The problem with Hope is that it leaves room for doubt that things will work out as they are meant to. Hope is based on a belief that the Universe is NOT unfolding as it should. Hope is limiting.
Over the past few years, I have been studying a spiritual program called A Course In Miracles (the "Course"). The premise of the Course is that ALL unhappiness and misery comes from a false belief that we are separate from each other and the Universe. In Reality (with a capital "R") each of us is part of an organic and Divine wholeness that is what some call God. To get to what Christians call Heaven, Hindu's call Nirvana, Muslims call Jannah and Buddhists see as escaping Samsara, all we need to do is to 'remember' who we truly are.
This 'remembering' and the reunification of the Divine is inevitable . . . LOVE always wins. The question is, of course, whether it happens sooner or later. But even that isn't really true; since time, as Albert Einstein so correctly observed, is an artificial construct to keep everything from happening at once.
I was blessed to have been raised by a Mother who allowed and encouraged me to see the connectedness in everything around me. This Life, she taught me, was a classroom and my Soul was here willingly to learn lessons that would allow it to grow and mature. The Course has built on this foundation with the principle that EVERY interaction with another soul is part of my Soul's curriculum. Nothing is a coincidence.
Anyway, back to Trust v. Hope.
Looking back over my forty-some years, I see that a fixation on HOPE has messed me up. It kept me doing things in my life that clearly were NOT working with the belief that the next time it would work. I spent uncountless days focused on the future I was hoping for, believing I knew better than the Divine what I needed. This living in the 'hope' kept me from seeing the gems of wisdom and truth that were right in front of me in the NOW. It kept me from seeing the lessons that were presented to me.
So, I am turning toward TRUST. Learning to be in the "I don't know" moments when I am presented with a seemingly bad life event. Trusting that the Divine knows what I need to learn and trusting, even more, that the lesson is there and I need only ask that the lesson be shown to me.
Friday, August 13, 2010
I ate, I prayed, I loved . . .
Translating a book from the printed word to the screen is not an easy task. I remember about ten years ago listening to the 10 year old daughter of friend arguing with one of her classmates about the possibility of turning the Harry Potter series into a movie. Her position was that was beyond a bad idea because having "real" images would limit the imagination which is limitless (she was a smarty then, still is. . ). When I learned that a movie was being made of Elizabeth Gilbert's memoir, Eat, Pray, Love, I was a bit leery.
This book is close to my soul for a number of reasons, not the least of which that it was what I was reading the weekend my life turned to chaos in 2007. The day Renfrew and I had agreed it was time to pull the escape cord on our marriage, I picked a copy of it up in Chapters. Honestly, I did not handle the separation really well. I have 'quit' a lot of things in my lifetime --> choir, band, Math 30, to name but a few - - but my marriage was the one thing I never envisioned quitting. Even then, I saw our separation as temporary. Give the husband some time to sow the wild oats he didn't get out of his system before we met and then he'd come to his senses.
We met at our marriage counselor's office with the plan being to calmly discuss the way we would disassemble our life. Somewhere between my office and the counselors, I lost 'it'. The only thing I was capable of saying was: "You want this. You deal with it. The Pumpkin is out of school at 3, remember to pick her up."
For the next 48 hours, I hid at my friend's house alternating between laughing, crying and praying. Renfrew had 'helpfully' phoned a number of my friends to tell them we were pulling the plug on our ailing marriage. People I had not spoken to in months were phoning. I talked to some. My dear friend ran interference with others. I was just plain tired - - not unlike Liz Gilbert on the floor of her bathroom sobbing and asking God, politely for help. By Sunday morning, I felt almost human. Almost.
I stopped for breakfast and then headed to my Mom's apartment to break the news to her. She knew our marriage was in trouble, we had talked about Renfrew's disillusionment with marriage and with my anger at his lack of commitment. I had tried to call her but had gotten no answer and assumed she was out at the casino with one of her friends.
As I rounded the last corner to her apartment door, I saw the newspapers. Several days worth stacked in front of the door. I knew before I turned my key in the lock what I would find. My Mom was gone, just as my marriage was. They say timing is everything and this clearly was not how I would have planned such things. Honestly, this type of double whammy is what a Nicholas Sparks' book is made of. . . one of the ones that make even the most devoted romantics roll their eyes.
But there it was. My life. Change was being thrust upon me whether I was ready or not.
The words of Elizabeth Gilbert spoke to my broken heart and banged up spirit. Her journey around the world to find herself and God helped me to see that the only way past the hurt was through it. I set about phoning my siblings -- I am the youngest of six. By evening, we were all sitting around our mother's apartment talking through what would come next. The end of my marriage became an afterthought that week. "My Mom has died and the funeral is Thursday. Oh, and Renfrew and I are separating."
After the dust settled, I looked around and realized I needed to find my way in the world and the universe. Prayer was easy . . . I am a word girl. In fact, God and I have had many, many deep conversations over the past several years. I know when I'm on the right path because almost magically obstacles turn into opportunities. The Universe whispers 'yes' and a sense of peace arrives.
Meditation. . . that is a bit more of a challenge. I borrowed the advice of Liz Gilbert's Richard from Texas to help me sort out my feisty monkey mind. When Liz comments that she argues with herself when she tries to mediate, Richard tells her: "That's just your ego, trying to make sure it stays in charge. This is what your ego does. It keeps you feeling separate, keeps you with a sense of duality, tries to convince you that you're flawed and broken and alone instead of whole." And so, I wrestle my ego and try to ignore my monkey mind as it swings from tree to tree. I have moments of complete surrender, rapidly followed by the tumbling dominoes of whirling thought.
It has been almost three years since that weekend. My life has moved forward and I have found a deeper commitment to myself and to the Divine. I have learned to forgive and to choose love over fear. I have learned to practice forgiveness and kindness in my daily life. Friends observe that I don't get rattled by much anymore.
My Mom, while gone from this world, walks beside me and I feel her presence everyday. I see her in my child as she grows into an independent young woman. I hear her in my own voice -- her words are the wise and patient ones.
God is here too . . . not the patriarchal, anthropomorphic bearded man-god of my childhood sitting in judgment waiting to punish his children. No, the God that fills my soul with hope and love is everything and everywhere. I see God in many places: the face of my daughter, the rainbow after a summer storm, between the lines of a really good mystery novel, in the worn face of a homeless man. God, as I experience Him, is a cheerleader and champion for His children who lives the message of Corinthians by not keeping track of our wrongs, but rejoicing in the right.
The screen adaptation of Eat, Love, Pray is a visual kaleidoscope. And, while I had my doubts about Julia Roberts ability to morph into Liz Gilbert, she pulls it off. The supporting cast rise to the challenge of the rawness of the material. The 'transitional' boyfriend, David, is just impish and charming enough; and Ketut, the medicine man is beyond perfect. Billy Crudup's besot and confused portrayal of Stephen, the husband Liz leaves is sad and believable. (I used to be a divorce lawyer, trust me when I say I witnessed those type of 'negotiations' a multitude of times over the years.)
It was easy for me to visual the Italy part of her journey. I may not have been there, but the scenic vistas are the stuff of travel brochures. But India, and Bali. The ashram in India came alive and I could almost hear the mosquitoes buzzing around my head. The beauty of the Hindu wedding took me back to another wedding I attended over 20 years ago and, yes, it is as amazing and beautiful as portrayed. Bali was beyond anything I could have imagined on my own, despite Liz Gilbert's rich text.
Yes, it is a wonderful journey. I say pack lightly and tag along. . .
This book is close to my soul for a number of reasons, not the least of which that it was what I was reading the weekend my life turned to chaos in 2007. The day Renfrew and I had agreed it was time to pull the escape cord on our marriage, I picked a copy of it up in Chapters. Honestly, I did not handle the separation really well. I have 'quit' a lot of things in my lifetime --> choir, band, Math 30, to name but a few - - but my marriage was the one thing I never envisioned quitting. Even then, I saw our separation as temporary. Give the husband some time to sow the wild oats he didn't get out of his system before we met and then he'd come to his senses.
We met at our marriage counselor's office with the plan being to calmly discuss the way we would disassemble our life. Somewhere between my office and the counselors, I lost 'it'. The only thing I was capable of saying was: "You want this. You deal with it. The Pumpkin is out of school at 3, remember to pick her up."
For the next 48 hours, I hid at my friend's house alternating between laughing, crying and praying. Renfrew had 'helpfully' phoned a number of my friends to tell them we were pulling the plug on our ailing marriage. People I had not spoken to in months were phoning. I talked to some. My dear friend ran interference with others. I was just plain tired - - not unlike Liz Gilbert on the floor of her bathroom sobbing and asking God, politely for help. By Sunday morning, I felt almost human. Almost.
I stopped for breakfast and then headed to my Mom's apartment to break the news to her. She knew our marriage was in trouble, we had talked about Renfrew's disillusionment with marriage and with my anger at his lack of commitment. I had tried to call her but had gotten no answer and assumed she was out at the casino with one of her friends.
As I rounded the last corner to her apartment door, I saw the newspapers. Several days worth stacked in front of the door. I knew before I turned my key in the lock what I would find. My Mom was gone, just as my marriage was. They say timing is everything and this clearly was not how I would have planned such things. Honestly, this type of double whammy is what a Nicholas Sparks' book is made of. . . one of the ones that make even the most devoted romantics roll their eyes.
But there it was. My life. Change was being thrust upon me whether I was ready or not.
The words of Elizabeth Gilbert spoke to my broken heart and banged up spirit. Her journey around the world to find herself and God helped me to see that the only way past the hurt was through it. I set about phoning my siblings -- I am the youngest of six. By evening, we were all sitting around our mother's apartment talking through what would come next. The end of my marriage became an afterthought that week. "My Mom has died and the funeral is Thursday. Oh, and Renfrew and I are separating."
After the dust settled, I looked around and realized I needed to find my way in the world and the universe. Prayer was easy . . . I am a word girl. In fact, God and I have had many, many deep conversations over the past several years. I know when I'm on the right path because almost magically obstacles turn into opportunities. The Universe whispers 'yes' and a sense of peace arrives.
Meditation. . . that is a bit more of a challenge. I borrowed the advice of Liz Gilbert's Richard from Texas to help me sort out my feisty monkey mind. When Liz comments that she argues with herself when she tries to mediate, Richard tells her: "That's just your ego, trying to make sure it stays in charge. This is what your ego does. It keeps you feeling separate, keeps you with a sense of duality, tries to convince you that you're flawed and broken and alone instead of whole." And so, I wrestle my ego and try to ignore my monkey mind as it swings from tree to tree. I have moments of complete surrender, rapidly followed by the tumbling dominoes of whirling thought.
It has been almost three years since that weekend. My life has moved forward and I have found a deeper commitment to myself and to the Divine. I have learned to forgive and to choose love over fear. I have learned to practice forgiveness and kindness in my daily life. Friends observe that I don't get rattled by much anymore.
My Mom, while gone from this world, walks beside me and I feel her presence everyday. I see her in my child as she grows into an independent young woman. I hear her in my own voice -- her words are the wise and patient ones.
God is here too . . . not the patriarchal, anthropomorphic bearded man-god of my childhood sitting in judgment waiting to punish his children. No, the God that fills my soul with hope and love is everything and everywhere. I see God in many places: the face of my daughter, the rainbow after a summer storm, between the lines of a really good mystery novel, in the worn face of a homeless man. God, as I experience Him, is a cheerleader and champion for His children who lives the message of Corinthians by not keeping track of our wrongs, but rejoicing in the right.
The screen adaptation of Eat, Love, Pray is a visual kaleidoscope. And, while I had my doubts about Julia Roberts ability to morph into Liz Gilbert, she pulls it off. The supporting cast rise to the challenge of the rawness of the material. The 'transitional' boyfriend, David, is just impish and charming enough; and Ketut, the medicine man is beyond perfect. Billy Crudup's besot and confused portrayal of Stephen, the husband Liz leaves is sad and believable. (I used to be a divorce lawyer, trust me when I say I witnessed those type of 'negotiations' a multitude of times over the years.)
It was easy for me to visual the Italy part of her journey. I may not have been there, but the scenic vistas are the stuff of travel brochures. But India, and Bali. The ashram in India came alive and I could almost hear the mosquitoes buzzing around my head. The beauty of the Hindu wedding took me back to another wedding I attended over 20 years ago and, yes, it is as amazing and beautiful as portrayed. Bali was beyond anything I could have imagined on my own, despite Liz Gilbert's rich text.
Yes, it is a wonderful journey. I say pack lightly and tag along. . .
Sunday, August 8, 2010
This past weekend I spent the better part of two days with a group of people I spent 13 years with what seems like a lifetime ago. It was my 30th (yes, people three-zero) high school reunion. Most of us started kindergarten together under the tutelage of Mrs. Hamilton in a converted convenience store and graduated from CHS 13 years later on a warm day in June, 1980.
I am the first to admit that my school years were NOT the best years of my life. If my high school years had been a movie, I would NOT have been Ferris Buehler or one of the "Heathers". No, I was the geeky, bookish sidekick who spent a lot of time alone writing bad poetry and daydreaming about writing the great Canadian novel. Even now when I am dealing with teenagers and young adults, I promise them high school is NOT real life AND things always get better. Looking back from the crest of middle age, I can honestly say they were neither the best nor the worst years of my life. They were years that shaped and formed the woman I am today. They were the years when I cultivated friendships with women I still am proud to call my 'BFFs'. As the old saying goes: "We'll always be friends -- we know too much about each other."
In my own mind, I have re-written the high school experience I wish I'd had many times over past 3 decades. Anne Lamott wrote "Forgiveness is giving up all hope of having had a better past." I have reached a place where I see that what I experienced as painful exclusion and torment was only that because I defined it as that. I have chosen to define my past as a wonderful gift that has given me insight into the pain of others so that I can help guide them get through to the other side. The Course in Miracles has taught me that we are all innocent children of God, and that hurtful, pain causing acts come from a place of pain and fear. If spending 20 plus years counseling people in difficult life situations has taught me nothing else, it has taught me that each of us has a story and those who 'hurt' others are themselves deeply hurting. I wish I'd known that when I was fifteen.
I have now made peace with the childhood experience that really 'was'. I gave up all expectations and judgment of those I once viewed with fear and suspicion and trekked back to my hometown for the reunion. Seriously, it wasn't much of a trek, I only live 70 kilometres away. That being said, it is a different world defined more now by the time that has passed since that handful of years that spanned my transition from child to woman.
Over the course of the two days, at least half of our graduating class attended some part of the event. Some had come vast distances, combining visits to family with the old school memory trip. Oddly enough, many of my classmates still live in our hometown - - a few even teach at our old schools. Some never left. Some returned after spending years away attending school, building careers or chasing some ephemeral dream or quest. I know I speak for all my classmates when I say we are thankful to those hometowners who did the leg work to pull off the reunion.
Friday night started with a dinner where we got to sit and visit with each other. Thankfully someone pulled out nametags and a Sharpie. Once I reminded myself that I was not looking for my friends as much as I was looking for versions of their parents, I was able to connect names and faces. We have reached the point, as Joni Mitchell sings where "we look like our parents did when we were our kids age." After a Power Point presentation of old and new photos compiled by one of our more computer savvy classmates, we gathered on the stage for a group photo.
Saturday morning meant sitting on hay bales on a flatbed and being pulled through the streets of town as part of the rodeo parade. This is one tradition that has carried on through three decades of reunions. As with our last reunion, those pesky Class of 1990 kids started a water fight (or at least that's the 'official' story). Between ducking water balloons and tossing candy at the kids along the parade route we all had a lot of laughs. A few of our classmates had to be 'encouraged' to join us on the float (thanks, Rocky, for the football tackle skills you clearly haven't lost).
The day transitioned into a barbecue at the house of another classmate. Mother Nature gave us beautiful sunny weather for the afternoon. Children who were still young enough to be seen with their parents hung out and played together reminiscent of scenes from 30 plus years ago.
I honestly had been planning to head back home after the picnic and call it a weekend. But instead I did something I never did in high school -- I changed my mind and stayed for the after party at another friend's home. I was not the kid who went to parties and 'hung' out in high school. I felt too socially awkward and afraid to risk some reputation destroying faux pas. Besides I could never get my hair 'right' back then! I was happier to head out to the quiet of a local lake to fish and read. The drama of crushes and boyfriends was a foreign land for me, but I always had an available shoulder for my girlfriends when their hearts got bruised or broken.
I had also chosen to leave the dominate religion of my town when I was in grade 11. This singled me out as well. Even then I knew that my relationship with the Divine was going to be a journey filled with twists and turns. Narrow, predefined pathways did not make sense for me as I had already read enough to know that there were as many pathways to the God as their were seekers. After high school I heard some thought I was a Witch or Satanist. Guys and Gals, for the record, I do not practice Wicca but some of my best friends do AND since I see the devil as a mythical creation of the early Christian church to keep people in line through fear, I doubt I'd worship something that doesn't exist
Back to our evening at Ruby's. It was great to see and visit with so many old friends for a while longer. The highlight of the evening was calling one of our classmates who is struggling with the physical realities of cystic fibrosis. Shawn is and will always be part of Us . . . and we send him our love in his journey.
For those of us who have moved away from the home town, the trip back 'home' was an experience. Living so close, I actually get back several times a year. My Mother's grave is in the local cemetery and I visit her to discuss how things are going occasionally. My own niece is now the principal of the alternative school back home (yes, I'm proud of her beyond words). My eldest sister and her husband live in the house I grew up in. My grandmother's house has been sold 'out of the family' but I still drive past and can almost smell the cinnamon buns and sweet peas. I'm sure many of my classmates had similar feelings this weekend -- the Town is 'home' and yet 'not home' at the same time.
The changes in town were a frequent topic of discussion.
Kens' Confectionery, which had been a fixture from all of our earliest memories, is no longer. We all remember the bread pans filled with a variety of penny candies -- mojos, chicken bones, licorice babies, chocolate coins. The ice cream freezer (my favourite was lime sherbet). The Elephant Pink popcorn. These were the flavours of my childhood.
Our old junior high -- the EJ Woods School has been bulldozed into a vacant lot across from the high school and the current junior high has relocated to the other side of town. The high school itself has undergone major renovations and the hill we once slid down in old cardboard boxes has been truncated with the building that houses the alternative school program.
Places that were the staple of our 'hangouts' are long gone . . . restaurants that served pizza and Chinese food are long closed or morphed into other businesses. The Social Centre -- where we attended those awkward dances with flashing disco lights now houses the municipal administration offices. The 'Mall' which originally housed the A & W Restaurant is a ghost mall - with only the IGA grocery store remaining.
One hangout that was central to my childhood was the K bar B Drive-in. It was located through the block from my grandmother's house facing the highway heading to Waterton Lakes National Park. I used to walk through my grandma's lot, climb through a barbed wire fence, slip down the path next to an old grain holding elevator to reach the K bar B and the wonder of soft serve ice cream double dipped in chocolate. From the time I was in grade 1, my friends and I would trek to K bar B for summer treats. I drove by this weekend and the old drive in has been revived, renamed and continues on for another generation.
In many ways we (the class of 1980) are a snapshot of our generation -- marriages, divorces, remarriages; university degrees and college diplomas; children and (oh my) grandchildren; successes and failures -- all the bumps and bruises that mean a life lived. Many of us have buried our parents. A few have buried spouses and children -- wounds that touch us all through the web that is a shared childhood. More than a few of us have battled serious, life threatening illness, coming out the other end changed.
The reality of life and loss mean that we've lost a few classmates to the Grim Reaper. Perhaps we all felt the death of Colleen the hardest, because she was the first -- we were only one year past graduation when a car accident ended the life of a genuinely gentle and sweet soul. Her life ended before it started. Another car accident, almost 10 years later, took Darcy, one of our class's shining stars who was almost finished medical school. Illnesses have crept in grabbed members of our class while we were not looking. ALS stole Lydia when we had barely started living our adult lives. Her face smiles with curiosity and joy from the group picture of our kindergarten class my mom took one day back in 1967. Undoubtedly the next few years will reduce our numbers even more, and each loss will be like losing a uniquely coloured crayon from our box of crayolas.
The reality of our own mortality has humbled and mellowed us in a way that nothing else has. As far as I observed, we all got along and spoke kindly to each other over our short time together. We shared laughs and compared experiences raising children and living life. There were no jocks and stoners; no beauty queens and plain janes; we just WERE.
Each of us is on a journey. . . and walking together, no matter how briefly, helps remind us that, at the end of the day LOVE is all that will matter. So dear friends, I hold only LOVE for each of you, for LOVE is what we are. In the words of Sarah McLachlan:
It will be easy to look in or out
upstream or down without a thought
and if I shed a tear I won't cage it
I won't fear love
and if I feel a rage I won't deny it
I won't fear love
Peace in the struggle
to find peace
comfort on the way
to comfort
and if I shed a tear I won't cage it
I won't fear love
and if I feel a rage I won't deny it
I won't fear love
I won't fear love
I won't fear love...
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