"C" is for "Count your Blessings"

Seriously, this blog isn't long enough for this . . .let's see . . . Max, Scully (my dogs) . . . Charlie, Reese (the boyfriend's dogs who are currently hanging at my house), Midnight, Mumble (my household felines), Shadow (boyfriend's cat, not visiting - - the zoo only travels so much) . . . my new job. . . my old job. . . all the jobs I've ever had.  . . . my ex-husband and his wife . . . our KID (she really tops the list) . . . my Mom (she still guides my steps everyday) . . . my wacky wonderful family (including, but not limited to, my 4 sisters and 1 brother, all the 'in-law' siblings, my nieces and nephews, my great nieces and nephews, my great-great nephews --no nieces yet) . . . my friends (best GIRLFRIENDS EVER) . . . these are all obvious.

But I'm also thankful for every loss I've ever had.  They gave me perspective to not sweat the small stuff and to appreciate the GOOD.

I'm thankful for every time my heart was broken.  It healed stronger and fuller.

I'm thankful for having a 'challenging' childhood and youth . . . gave me much grist for the writing mill.

I'm thankful for every single person who reads anything I write.

Yes . . . I have concluded life is ONLY blessings . . . it is just some of them come disguised as tragedies.

"B" is for "Be Kind"

In A Course in Miracles it is said that to find inner peace we are to tell our brother he is right, even when he is wrong.  This, to me, is the definition of choosing to be kind over right.  I spent the first 45 years of my life "right" fighting . . . I wanted to RIGHT, Damn it.  At the end of the day, being right did not 'work' in a real sense.  Sure, I won arguments, but I lost relationships.  When my life (as I knew it) ended, I realized that being right was wrong.  I learned to accept that my 'right' wasn't everyone else's.

Now, I will always choose to be KIND.  Give a little. . . give a lot. . . be gentle with all those you encounter. See how your life changes.

A is for "Accept Differences"

Okay, because I tend to follow good suggestions and I found a blogging challenge on Slappy in the Face's blog, I joined up to  . . . . my family can hear me screaming:  "Me too!  Me too!".  So I have signed up to do the Blogging from A to Z Challenge.  Rather than depend on my slightly busy and addled brain to come up with something for each letter, I am borrowing the alphabet from the lovely plaque I purchased shortly after the end of my marriage and which has hung in my living room since.

So, today is "Accept Differences" . . .

My girlchild has observed that "there are so many different people . . . everywhere. . . wow. . . they are sooo incredibly beautiful."  Yeah, she's smart that way.  She and her friends are amazing . . . they are creative, funny and willing to be themselves.

It gives me faith in the future and hope for the next generation when I see these young people.  They are funny, charming and as different as snowflakes.

I think that Christian traditions talk about and 'a child shall lead them'.  To that I (who professes no religious affiliation, but who is firmly embraced by the Spirit that is the Universe) say:  Let's follow these children.  Love unconditionally.  Judge no one's choices.  Be PRESENT.  Show up for life and LIVE IT.

I guess I am a quilt snob . . . or maybe just a purist.

I was raised by a family of women who quilted.  It was how we celebrated - - new babies, new marriages, new beginnings.  When I was no older than about 6 or 7, I remember sitting on a step stool at an orange patterned quilt that was for my older sister and proudly adding my own stitches to the pattern.  Funny I didn't notice that the next day they looked much smaller and neater than when I first did them.  (Apparently, either my Mom or Grandma had redone them after I was safely tucked into bed.)

Over the years, my technique improved.  We did a lot of quilts.  Every new baby received a baby quilt . . . most quilted on a fabric we call tricot, which was a slick and finely knitted polyester of some sort popular in the 1970s.  These quilts did not involve patchwork, but instead had large designs of animals or flowers drawn on them, generally with fabric paint -- oh yes,  Artex Paints .  We quilted deer, bunnies, baby chicks, lambs . . . in fact, the Pumpkin's 'lovey' is the same lamb pattern that we used back then. 

At some point, my mom became enamoured with patchwork.  Not just any patchwork, but patchwork made from polyester double knit.  She made quilts for each of her grandchildren, mostly in the log cabin pattern.  She made me one of bright yellow and purple . . . my favourite colour combination when I was a teen.  Some she tied with contrasting wool and some she quilted in a crows' feet stitch. 

Handmade quilts were part of my life since forever.  They were pretty much all I had ever known.  My paternal grandmother made a raft of 'crazy quilts' and I recall using them to pitch tents along the picket fence that surrounded our house. 

I knew that other types of quilts and blankets existed.  One of my friends had Ibex blanket sheets on her bed.  These were thick, heavy warm sheets.  Other friends had what were called thermal blankets which had a strange waffle like weave.  But to me, none of these were what belonged on a bed.  Perhaps the only exception in my family was the use of chenille bedspreads over quilts.

It has been many years since I quilted beside my Mom.  The very last quilt she made before her hands became too sore and her eyesight too dim is one for my daughter. 

My sister PA and I carry on the quilting tradition.  She makes quilts for babies and new couples.  The Pumpkin's 'lambie' blanket was made by PA and is what my baby arrived home from the hospital wrapped in.  I am not quite as prolific as my sister, but I have made many quilts for myself and for friends over the years.  Baby quilts are made using the same wooden 'frames' that were used by my grandmother and perhaps by her mother before her.  They are plain 1x2x4s that are some wood that is both strong enough not to sag under the weight of the quilt and soft enough to easily thumbtack the quilt in place.  For larger quilts, I have several times purchased pine 1x3x8s, but they always end up getting cut up for projects after the quilt is finished.  Eight food lengths of wood are not easily stored.

My sister uses frames made from PVC pipe that look like this:

I had a set many years ago, but I do not recall what happened to them.  Undoubtedly they were lost or given away during one of my many moves. 

Since I am planning to make some larger-than-baby-size quilts, I went in search of a set of these frames.  Now, keep in mind I live in a large city in Canada, where generally there are several suppliers of any item you could imagine needing.  I had priced them out at the chain fabric store, but thought that I might find them at a better price at one of the boutique quilt stores (where amazingly most quilt-related items are priced lower than at the chain).  A couple of weeks ago I went in and as I wandered the aisles looking for where quilt frames were kept, I became slightly confused.  Upon reaching the back of the store and not seeing anything resembling quilting frames of any kind, I trundled back to the front to do another search.  Finally I asked one of the clerks where they kept the 'quilt frames'.

She took me over to look at something like this:

I said, "No, I want QUILTING frames.  You know for actually 'quilting'?"  I mimed the action of quilting up and down by hand.

She called to one of the more senior clerks who advised:  "Oh, we don't carry those."

I'm sure the look on my face was something to behold.  I crinkled my forehead and said:  "But I thought you were a QUILTING store?"

When she pointed back to the machine set up, I said, "I'm sorry but that is SEWING.  Sewing is done with machines.  Quilting is done by hand."  I left the store shaking my head. 

So I have accepted I am a quilt snob.  If it is done by machine, it is sewing.  I confess I did ONCE sew a small quilt on my machine. . .it was a handprint patchwork for my daughter's preschool class to raffle for a fundraiser -- I was sure I could feel my grandmother standing behind me shaking her head the entire time. 

When I conferred with my sister, she too said she had tried to make a quilt using a machine for the stitching.  But she JUST.COULDN'T.DO.IT.  We agreed that it just was wrong - - for us.  And that quilting by definition means using our hands.  It is putting something of US into the project.  Time.  Energy.  Blood. Not to mention the heritage of women sitting around a quilt in communal work.  Machine sewing is just so. . . so . . . individual.  And, even when I work alone on a quilt, I feel the presence of not only my mother but my aunts, my grandmothers and many generations before.

Maximum Fun

I am a dog person . . . and to a somewhat lesser extent a cat person.  In addition to the two bipeds who currently live at my house, we have a total of four quadrapeds -- two canine and two feline.  At one point we also had two snake-type (i.e. no-peds) but they both slithered off to the Rainbow Bridge.  This post is about the most junior member of the household.

Max turned five in November and he is very much like most 5 year old boy creatures.  He enjoys junk food (whenever he can lay his paws on it), sleeping in on the weekends, harassing his sisters (mostly the feline one, who I will admit seems to egg him on) and he will cuddle up if he thinks there is something in it for him.  He is cute and he knows how to use it to his advantage.

Now, Max came to our family when he was already almost two years old.  My cousin had rescued him from an owner who was unhappy that he was not a the 5-pound 'Yorkie' she believed she had bought.  She was planning to have him 'put down'.  There is a very special place in Hell for someone who would consider doing that.  Seriously, I do not care what his "papers" (not CKC variety) say, he is NOT a Yorkie.  He weighs a healthy 15 pounds and no matter how long we go between trips to the puppy parlour, his hair never gets long and silky.  He has a double-coat with a water-proof outer layer, like a Cairn or Westie.  My personal opinion (and that of my vet and her techs) is that he is an Australian Terrier -- pretty much breed standard in fact. 

Max was rehomed with me when my dear cousin's first grandbaby was born and she found her house overfull with 2 teens, a baby and 3 dogs.  Max fit into our household quite well, making friends with the senior canine (Scully, who was 13 at the time) and working out the pecking order with the two kitties. 

The first hint of Max's issues began when one of the Pumpkin's friends came for a sleepover. S is yet another of the Pumpkin's beautiful and creative friends.  The fact she arrived at our house wearing kitten ears and a tail (and no, it wasn't Hallowe'en) tells much.  However, for a girl who lives in a house of critters (dogs, cats and the occasional bird or other beastie she rescues when it is in need of TLC), she did not react well to Max's barking at the door.  For the record, the best way to 'react' when a dog barks and jumps at the front door (especially one where the owner is standing next to it and is clearly trying to work with it) is to stand still and let the dog be 'introduced' to you.  S, did not do this.  She RAN, which to Max meant "chase me and bring me down".  He nipped her ankle.  No skin was broken or blood drawn, thankfully. 

The next 'incident' was when we were walking around the local lake in our old neighbourhood.  Scully has always been good at meeting the proverbial 'puppies in your neighbourhood'.  Max, not so much.  He would bark and lunge.  One evening on our after supper walk, we met up with an adorable Golden Retriever Pup.  At first, I thought Max was just being 'dog' and greeting the baby (who was Max's size already).  The baby 'nipped' at Max (as babies are prone to do) and Max nipped back.  I was mortified.  The poor little pup's nose was scratched.  I apologized and got the owner's phone number.  When I called her back after we had gotten home, she said the pup was fine.   I suggested a rematch in about 8 months when said puppy would be 4 or 5 times Max's size.

Flash forward to last year after we had moved to Calgary.  Puppy walks through the neighbourhood were getting painful . . . with Max essentially 'going off' everytime he saw any other creature in the vicinity.  It did not matter if it was a squirrel, a bunny, another dog or one of the free-range neighbourhood cats.  He was also getting worse, not better at the door.  Finally, in an act of desperation we signed up for a class called "Goodbye Growl" and spent 10 weeks working on Max being able to be in the same space with another on-leash dog.  OY.  He wasn't the worst in the class, but he wasn't the star either.  I resigned myself to trying to work with him (reward him for staying calm when we would see other creatures on our walks) and accepting that this was just how his temperament was.

Recently I started dating a fellow who also has critters.  He has two adorable Bichon/Cocker Spaniel crosses who love, love, love the off leash parks that dot our city.  A couple of weeks ago we decided it was time to introduce the dogs.  I brought Max (Scully is getting too old for long walks, especially on chilly days) to the off leash park with the understanding that it might be a very, very, very short stay.  I pretty much figured Max would go completely psycho, I would scoop him up and toss him back in the car and that would be that.

Guess I underestimated the little dude.  Once off leash he was in his element.  He frolicked, he played, he made friends -- not just with my friend's dogs but with any number of assorted canines.  I spent most of the time we were there shaking my head in wonder and amazement. 

Max is a completely different critter when he can run free . . . He is happier when he gets some quality play time and I am a happier owner.

Now, if he could just stop wanting to kill visitors.....

Fifteen

I want to freeze this moment.  This moment with my child as I watch her step from childhood into the young woman who is already taking shape and forming inside her skin.  In 15 years she has gone from a tiny creature who would curl up on my chest and make 'girlie noises' to one who stands eye to eye with me and borrows my shoes. 

At 15 she is
curious about so much
and willing to look for her own
answers and not
simply accept.
She is a creative force
even when it seems she is
staring inertly at the screen of her laptop.
She sees the World as
a kaleoscope of beauty and
every person in it as a sparkling light . . .
our differences make us
spectacular - - she just KNOWS this.
My child
My Wonder - Full
partner in glee
My answer to a Prayer and a Wish.
Know Always you are
Loved.

Half empty, Half full

One of the 'big' issues that Renfrew had when he called 'time out' on our marriage was that I was always 'negative'.   At the time, I couldn't see it.  Now, I realize that I was spending an inordinate amount of time focusing on the empty part of the glass.  There was a dark cloud following me, sort of like Schleprock in the old Pebbles and BamBam cartoon.

But, in fairness, we both were.  It is an unavoidable trend for a person who is unhappy...even if they, themselves, can't see the unhappiness.  It leaks out.  Like when you try to pour 8.2 ounces into an 8 ounce travel mug.  Not a lot leaks out, but what does escape stains your clothes and often burns your hand.  Unhappiness colours everything in your world to the point you don't even notice the grey filter over your lens.

When "the worst thing that could happen", happened; followed by the "even worse thing that could happen" within hours, I got a wake up call from the Universe.  Did my negativity attract the bad stuff?  I doubt it.  Bad stuff happens in everyone's life.  Mine just decided to all happen in the space of 48 hours. 

In my journey to where I am now, I made a conscious decision to look for the positive.  And believe me, there were many days there was not a lot of it around.  At the start I spent most of my time accepting condolences on the double whammy life had handed me.  After a while I realized I had to reframe those events or they were going to pull me irretrievably into the Pit of Despair.

The easiest reframing was dealing with Mom's death. 

Don't get me wrong, I miss her ever minute and wish I could not just ask her what she thinks about the things going on in my life -- work, parenting, romance -- BUT ALSO hear the answer clearly. 

But Mom and I had talked about death.  Not hers specifically, but that is what we were really talking about.  She spoke to me of friends who were taken to the hospital and who had lain, somewhere between alive and dead for weeks, months and some even years.   She talked about, Glenn, a distant cousin of ours who was a fixture at our house when I was growing up, hiding out from his religious sister, drinking coffee and playing cards.  Glenn slid into dementia before he died and spent a period of time in the local nursing home before being released to the next life.  To Mom both of those fates were much worse than death.  Mom did not want to linger.

She also did not want to move into a 'care home'.  My sister and I had broached the subject of maybe moving into a seniors' apartment complex the summer before.  Suggesting perhaps Mom would be more comfortable in a place where she would have people around to socialize with and where the day-to-day chores would be taken care of by someone else.  She was pretty adamant:  "My next move will be out West on the hill next to your Father." 

Yup, that pretty much said it.  After decades of caring for others, she was totally happy in the small, but comfortable ground floor apartment where she lived for the last 14 or so years before she died. She did not want to end her days dependent.

When she died . . . at 85 after a year of less than quality life caused by a bout of shingles that had started almost a year earlier . . . I knew she was at peace.  She had the good death she had wanted. 

The end of my marriage. 

Well it was harder to find the silverlining in that event.  I still loved my husband.  Part of me wanted to believe he was just 'going through a phase' and that he would end up back on my doorstep asking to put things back together.  Let's just say I wasn't ready to process that particular loss yet . . . it took another year, at least, before I not only accepted that the marriage was over BUT also that it had not been as blissful as I had wanted to believe.  At least in the last few years. 

Once I made that paradigm shift, I realized that while Renfrew and I had continued to inspire growth in each other (for me helping the other person grow is a big part of what defines a marriage), the ONLY type of growth we had been encouraging was negative.  Instead of bringing out the best in each other, as well we did for many years; we now brought out the worst.  Renfrew's growth is his to tell.  My growth was in the areas of sharpening a nasty tongue, prolonged pouting, sarcastic comments, ice freezing glares and generally bitchiness.  I now acknowlege that for about the last year or so, I wouldn't have wanted to live with me. 

Now I realize the real death knell to our marriage was simple:  We stopped being KIND to each other.

I can also now frame the loss by what I have gained. 

We get along . . more than just being civil to each other . . . we are able to participate in things together and to be a part of our child's life.  She sees us laugh together and cooperate.

The end of our marriage did not negate the good years we shared or the love.  Love (as I've said before) is the true content of ALL relationships.  The form of our relationship as 'marriage' was no longer working for either of us.  The form of our relationship as dear friends who share a history and a child is what IS now.  It is still one of love.

From the end of our marriage, I learned I could forgive and make peace.  I cannot emphasize what a true GIFT this is.

The end of our marriage brought a new friend into my life in the form of Renfrew's new wife.  Some people marvel that I like her.  Well, why on earth wouldn't I?  Renfrew is still basically the same person he was when we chose each other.  Stands to reason that he would chose someone similar to me.  And that she is.  He always had phenomenal taste in women.  In fact, there are times I think Renfrew gets a bit nervous when the Pumpkin, she and I are plotting together.

The end of our marriage has brought other people into my life.  A new career and new co-workers.  A move and new neighbours.  And last but not least a new man who is becoming part of my life.

Yes, my glass is more than half full these days.  It runneth over.