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.
Monday, August 23, 2010
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...
Monday, June 28, 2010
Shredder Therapy
This past weekend the Pumpkin and I had a garage sale to get rid of stuff we had both individually and collectively outgrown. A vast number of the boxes of stuff were delivered to my doorstep about a year ago by Renfrew. He assesrted the boxes contained things that he just knew I could NOT do without. As I unpacked boxes to sort and price, I realized that the contents were not, as Renfrew had asserted, MY stuff. No, they are clearly jointly owned items of the daily life I left behind -- at the same time I left our joint home. My repeated assertions were clear.
Or I thought they were clear. I did not WANT or NEED any of it. He could sell it, give it away, use it, bronze it or burn it -- it was part of what I had been evicted from. Just like he ignored so many truths that were mine over the dying days of our marriage, he ignored my truth about these things as well.
Thankfully, I am now at a point in my healing where I am able to shake the negative ions from my being as I turned my attention to the boxes and their contents. Although, my mind (being the dangerous and dark neighbourhood it often is) strays into the possibility he packed these boxes up specifically to rake my heart and spirit through the coals. He carefully put together collections of items and papers that would, once again, dredge up the sick and painful ache that until relatively recently throbbed whenever I thought of the last several years of our shared life. But the more realistic voice of the woman I am becoming (I really, really like her!) shrugs off these thoughts. Clearly my dark self was giving him far too much credit in actively plotting and conspiring even to not just break my heart but render it incapable of healing. No, he didn't plan what went in these boxes - - he just ignored what went in them.
I reach for one of the more recent boxes and realize that ignore is truly the operative in this situation. His new wife packed up this stuff -- at his request and direction. Apparently both she and I were under the impression he had sorted through the olio of books, photographs, letters and other papers for what he wanted or needed. As I set aside training materials for his career -- some of which are likely either 'protected' or 'classified' as his employer likes to label things -- I shake my head. I add to the 'give back' box photos of his family -- items from his youth that clearly have no place in my life and am almost knocked over by one letter that I know he once prized. It is a letter from his paternal grandmother -- a grandmother he did not meet until he was into adulthood and after he learned the man who actually contributed half the DNA that is HIM had died by suicide around the time Renfrew turned 18. This woman - whom he had sought out and taken long trips to visit - died when we were expecting our own child and I never had the pleasure of meeting her. A letter that contains her contribution to his search for his identity -- this letter is in a box packed up by his new wife and given to me as so much trash. I sigh and set the letter aside - knowing that it makes up a piece of the past that Renfrew spent his life trying to explain and sort out. That search may not seem so important while he is wrapped up in the intoxication of young love, but someday he'll get back to it.
Given that I knew I'd have several hours of only occasionally interrupted time, I took my paper shredder to the garage as a way to pass the time. If anyone had told me of the therapeutic uses for and healing powers of a paper shredder I would have thought they were grasping for another pop psychology miracle cure. But as I stood there sorting through old files and boxes, I discovered a freedom in the sound of the blades.
A folder marked 2002 revealed everything from cancelled cheques for my defunk law practice and paid household bills. As I pass the sheets of paper through the intermeshing blades watching them come out the other side in thin slips of paper I feel strangely peaceful. Like finally throwing out those notes from my first year universities courses once I'd graduated from my professional degree. Unpacking those boxes and putting the contents to rest has brought up feelings I've been ignoring -- probably because I wasn't ready to process them. I think they are ready to be taken out, set in the light, examined and recycled now -- at least I sincerly hope so.
Or I thought they were clear. I did not WANT or NEED any of it. He could sell it, give it away, use it, bronze it or burn it -- it was part of what I had been evicted from. Just like he ignored so many truths that were mine over the dying days of our marriage, he ignored my truth about these things as well.
Thankfully, I am now at a point in my healing where I am able to shake the negative ions from my being as I turned my attention to the boxes and their contents. Although, my mind (being the dangerous and dark neighbourhood it often is) strays into the possibility he packed these boxes up specifically to rake my heart and spirit through the coals. He carefully put together collections of items and papers that would, once again, dredge up the sick and painful ache that until relatively recently throbbed whenever I thought of the last several years of our shared life. But the more realistic voice of the woman I am becoming (I really, really like her!) shrugs off these thoughts. Clearly my dark self was giving him far too much credit in actively plotting and conspiring even to not just break my heart but render it incapable of healing. No, he didn't plan what went in these boxes - - he just ignored what went in them.
I reach for one of the more recent boxes and realize that ignore is truly the operative in this situation. His new wife packed up this stuff -- at his request and direction. Apparently both she and I were under the impression he had sorted through the olio of books, photographs, letters and other papers for what he wanted or needed. As I set aside training materials for his career -- some of which are likely either 'protected' or 'classified' as his employer likes to label things -- I shake my head. I add to the 'give back' box photos of his family -- items from his youth that clearly have no place in my life and am almost knocked over by one letter that I know he once prized. It is a letter from his paternal grandmother -- a grandmother he did not meet until he was into adulthood and after he learned the man who actually contributed half the DNA that is HIM had died by suicide around the time Renfrew turned 18. This woman - whom he had sought out and taken long trips to visit - died when we were expecting our own child and I never had the pleasure of meeting her. A letter that contains her contribution to his search for his identity -- this letter is in a box packed up by his new wife and given to me as so much trash. I sigh and set the letter aside - knowing that it makes up a piece of the past that Renfrew spent his life trying to explain and sort out. That search may not seem so important while he is wrapped up in the intoxication of young love, but someday he'll get back to it.
Given that I knew I'd have several hours of only occasionally interrupted time, I took my paper shredder to the garage as a way to pass the time. If anyone had told me of the therapeutic uses for and healing powers of a paper shredder I would have thought they were grasping for another pop psychology miracle cure. But as I stood there sorting through old files and boxes, I discovered a freedom in the sound of the blades.
A folder marked 2002 revealed everything from cancelled cheques for my defunk law practice and paid household bills. As I pass the sheets of paper through the intermeshing blades watching them come out the other side in thin slips of paper I feel strangely peaceful. Like finally throwing out those notes from my first year universities courses once I'd graduated from my professional degree. Unpacking those boxes and putting the contents to rest has brought up feelings I've been ignoring -- probably because I wasn't ready to process them. I think they are ready to be taken out, set in the light, examined and recycled now -- at least I sincerly hope so.
Friday, June 11, 2010
WHO is that woman. . . .
With fathers' day rolling up, I figured it would be nice to put together a photo collage for Renfrew of selected photos of him and the Pumpkin. With a sense of optimism I trundled down to my previously-mentioned craft room to dig out some shots from the 4 years we spent in the North, during which time Pumpkin went from a just out of diapers 3 year old to a wise and curious 8 year old. I already had an idea of the photos I wanted to use. Or if not the specific photos, the times and places where they had been captured.
One was a trip we made as a family to Maui the January of our last year in the North. One of the few 'perks' of getting sent to the back of blessed beyond by the RCMP is that they pony up the cost of a trip 'out' each year. I figure they really do this because they know how much psychiatric treatments for everyone in the family would cost. Not to mention the number of members they'd lose to the loony bin due to serious bush fever. That year we actually took two trips -- one to Maui in January and a second to Mexico in October. This was due to the wonders of 'fiscal year' designations.
Keep in mind this was near the end of our tenure in the brush and I was close to my almost total break with reality and plunge into the black jaws of depression that fully blossomed with the melting snow in May. In January I was still very good at playing my role. I was working very hard convincing myself and anyone around me that I was 'happy, happy, happy' and being a loving supportive wife and small time career woman. I played that part so well, I think I almost believed it myself.
The second clutch of photos I was looking for were from the Mexico trip. This was after my depressive break but before we had relocated to the Sunny South. That time was a confusing and difficult one for me. I had come to grips with the very real depth of my despair and depression, and knew it was a slow climb back to normal. We had informal notification of our transfer, but the official paperwork had not yet been sent. It was a period of limbo. Like all liminal periods, it was a time when identity was in flux and everything was subject to rapid change.
From the time it was confirmed we were getting out short of the normal five-year sentence. . . err. . . posting, I began to breath a bit easier. However, until I saw the transfer order in writing, signed by someone with a lot more hooks on his shoulders than Renfrew's local commanding officer, I was suspicious and frightened they would find a way to keep us up there for another year. Perhaps it is because I grew up living next door to my hometown RCMP detachment. Perhaps it is from working several years for a large souless corporate entity myself. Perhaps it was a bit of paranoia layered with my depression. I just wasn't convinced we were going to get out of Dodge short of the five years that are required at this particular location.
Flipping through these photos I was looking for the images of Renfrew and Pumpkin . . . frolicking on the beach in Maui . . . dancing on the catamaran that took us snorkeling in Mexico. I found those but I also found something I hadn't banked on. I was struck dumb by photos of a woman I did not recognize. She resembled me and was wearing clothing I could identify as mine. But she was clearly sad. . . beyond sad. Behind the staged smile for the camera there was an emptiness. Something was dead, or at least on life support. It was so clear in her face. She felt trapped, caged and was getting ready to chew off a limb to get out of the leg-hold trap.
Now, more than five years later, I can see what was probably obvious to many of those around me. I was sinking in a quicksand bog of pain and loss. Now that I have had time and distance to unpack what made that time so destructive, I think I understand the undoing of my marriage and my sanity more clearly. There was no one thing. There is no moment or event I can point to and say: "AHA!" It is not like unearthing a diamond in the Arctic. It is more like gently brushing away layers of sand from an archaeological site to reveal a fully and vibrant civilization. The process is slow and painstaking, but worth the effort.
Lately I have been reading a lot of memoirs - - mostly written by women around my age about the joys, pains and realities of facing middle age and the stuff of life. One particular description struck me and has stuck with me. The author, in describing who she has become, proclaimed that the person she now is someone who her former self could not have 'picked out of a police line up'. Looking at those old pictures of me, when I was someone else, somewhere else I feel that in reverse. The woman I have become is so far removed from that sad, trapped, angry woman I would not identify her as me in any kind of line up. She is part of a past that has made me who I now am. I thank her for helping me grow. And I send her love and compassion, becuase I know that she is only beginning a period of great growth and, consequently, great pain.
One was a trip we made as a family to Maui the January of our last year in the North. One of the few 'perks' of getting sent to the back of blessed beyond by the RCMP is that they pony up the cost of a trip 'out' each year. I figure they really do this because they know how much psychiatric treatments for everyone in the family would cost. Not to mention the number of members they'd lose to the loony bin due to serious bush fever. That year we actually took two trips -- one to Maui in January and a second to Mexico in October. This was due to the wonders of 'fiscal year' designations.
Keep in mind this was near the end of our tenure in the brush and I was close to my almost total break with reality and plunge into the black jaws of depression that fully blossomed with the melting snow in May. In January I was still very good at playing my role. I was working very hard convincing myself and anyone around me that I was 'happy, happy, happy' and being a loving supportive wife and small time career woman. I played that part so well, I think I almost believed it myself.
The second clutch of photos I was looking for were from the Mexico trip. This was after my depressive break but before we had relocated to the Sunny South. That time was a confusing and difficult one for me. I had come to grips with the very real depth of my despair and depression, and knew it was a slow climb back to normal. We had informal notification of our transfer, but the official paperwork had not yet been sent. It was a period of limbo. Like all liminal periods, it was a time when identity was in flux and everything was subject to rapid change.
From the time it was confirmed we were getting out short of the normal five-year sentence. . . err. . . posting, I began to breath a bit easier. However, until I saw the transfer order in writing, signed by someone with a lot more hooks on his shoulders than Renfrew's local commanding officer, I was suspicious and frightened they would find a way to keep us up there for another year. Perhaps it is because I grew up living next door to my hometown RCMP detachment. Perhaps it is from working several years for a large souless corporate entity myself. Perhaps it was a bit of paranoia layered with my depression. I just wasn't convinced we were going to get out of Dodge short of the five years that are required at this particular location.
Flipping through these photos I was looking for the images of Renfrew and Pumpkin . . . frolicking on the beach in Maui . . . dancing on the catamaran that took us snorkeling in Mexico. I found those but I also found something I hadn't banked on. I was struck dumb by photos of a woman I did not recognize. She resembled me and was wearing clothing I could identify as mine. But she was clearly sad. . . beyond sad. Behind the staged smile for the camera there was an emptiness. Something was dead, or at least on life support. It was so clear in her face. She felt trapped, caged and was getting ready to chew off a limb to get out of the leg-hold trap.
Now, more than five years later, I can see what was probably obvious to many of those around me. I was sinking in a quicksand bog of pain and loss. Now that I have had time and distance to unpack what made that time so destructive, I think I understand the undoing of my marriage and my sanity more clearly. There was no one thing. There is no moment or event I can point to and say: "AHA!" It is not like unearthing a diamond in the Arctic. It is more like gently brushing away layers of sand from an archaeological site to reveal a fully and vibrant civilization. The process is slow and painstaking, but worth the effort.
Lately I have been reading a lot of memoirs - - mostly written by women around my age about the joys, pains and realities of facing middle age and the stuff of life. One particular description struck me and has stuck with me. The author, in describing who she has become, proclaimed that the person she now is someone who her former self could not have 'picked out of a police line up'. Looking at those old pictures of me, when I was someone else, somewhere else I feel that in reverse. The woman I have become is so far removed from that sad, trapped, angry woman I would not identify her as me in any kind of line up. She is part of a past that has made me who I now am. I thank her for helping me grow. And I send her love and compassion, becuase I know that she is only beginning a period of great growth and, consequently, great pain.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
I am HERE
And those 'aha' moments just keep coming. For the past 20+ years I have lived in a state of 'almost', perpetually waiting for some magical event or demarcation of time to announce both to me and to the world at large (not that the world at large cares, I realize now) that I am THERE. Truth be told, even through five houses in four communities, Renfrew and I never really, fully committed to a place. Boxes were always left to be unpacked later and pieces of furniture tucked away because we had no place or use for them at a particular time. It was like we were just visiting EVERYWHERE we called home.
This has carried on to my present living situation - - minus Renfrew. I have both a dining room suite and a bedroom suite that belonged to my grandparents and parents respectively. Though both are 'in use', both are also awaiting the magical transformation of refinishing. Admittedly, I have started on the dining room suite and 3 chairs sit in my garage awaiting several coats of new colour and new seat cushions. The headboard to the bed has been striped of its many layers of stain but that is all that has been done to the bedroom set except for purchasing a new mattress and boxspring which, if set upon the bed frame, would totally obscure the headboard. Just when did mattresses need to be thick enough for the pea feeling princess's comfort?
After taking an inventory of my crowded craft room -- with boxes of photographs and memorabilia from 20 years of marriage plus some and my home office -- what it lacks in style it makes up for in a catch all for the detritus of my life, I realize I need to start somewhere and begin to make a 'THERE' for me to settle into.
Let me say I KNOW there is no 'THERE'. It is really HERE and I have spent enough time in prayer and meditation to know that HERE is where I want to be -- every minute of every hour of every day that I have left on this thrill ride we call LIFE. As I often remind many of my dear friends, we are human BEINGS not human DOINGS. I have been so busy 'doing' or not doing that I have lost stopping to just BE and enjoy the peace that comes from that.
So, I am starting at the heart. I am doing what my dear Mother wanted for years and what I have been ignoring for more time than I want to admit. I am cleaning my room -- or more accurately cleansing my room. While I cannot twitch my nose and have the bedroom set magically lose 70 or so years of stain and dust, I can start living my life like I am really HERE.
What does it mean to be HERE? It means that I am throwing out or giving away whatever does feed my spirit and create beauty in the room where I spend my hours closest to the Divine. I'm not sure what this will look like, but I will when I see it. I realize that I owe it to those I love, I owe it to the Divine and I owe it to myself. I am HERE.
This has carried on to my present living situation - - minus Renfrew. I have both a dining room suite and a bedroom suite that belonged to my grandparents and parents respectively. Though both are 'in use', both are also awaiting the magical transformation of refinishing. Admittedly, I have started on the dining room suite and 3 chairs sit in my garage awaiting several coats of new colour and new seat cushions. The headboard to the bed has been striped of its many layers of stain but that is all that has been done to the bedroom set except for purchasing a new mattress and boxspring which, if set upon the bed frame, would totally obscure the headboard. Just when did mattresses need to be thick enough for the pea feeling princess's comfort?
After taking an inventory of my crowded craft room -- with boxes of photographs and memorabilia from 20 years of marriage plus some and my home office -- what it lacks in style it makes up for in a catch all for the detritus of my life, I realize I need to start somewhere and begin to make a 'THERE' for me to settle into.
Let me say I KNOW there is no 'THERE'. It is really HERE and I have spent enough time in prayer and meditation to know that HERE is where I want to be -- every minute of every hour of every day that I have left on this thrill ride we call LIFE. As I often remind many of my dear friends, we are human BEINGS not human DOINGS. I have been so busy 'doing' or not doing that I have lost stopping to just BE and enjoy the peace that comes from that.
So, I am starting at the heart. I am doing what my dear Mother wanted for years and what I have been ignoring for more time than I want to admit. I am cleaning my room -- or more accurately cleansing my room. While I cannot twitch my nose and have the bedroom set magically lose 70 or so years of stain and dust, I can start living my life like I am really HERE.
What does it mean to be HERE? It means that I am throwing out or giving away whatever does feed my spirit and create beauty in the room where I spend my hours closest to the Divine. I'm not sure what this will look like, but I will when I see it. I realize that I owe it to those I love, I owe it to the Divine and I owe it to myself. I am HERE.
Sunday, May 9, 2010
Happy Mothers Day ...
Ever since putting down the sod at my new house 2 years ago, I have been trying to get rid of several rather stubborn clumps of dandelions. With apologies to my dearest Mother (whose favourite flower was the dandelion), I sprayed the entire area with "die wee die" before I put down the sod. After the persistent Taraxacum managed to push through the thick sod and sprout lovely yellow blooms, I then pulled out the herbicide and applied it individually to them. They still came back. Then I dug and pulled and tried everything legal to get the darn things to find a new home (there is a lovely vacant lot just a short distance away). I am now convinced they have roots of steel - - or maybe that stuff they injected into Hugh Jackman in Wolverine.
Because I am attempting to become more environmentally friendly, and honestly, because the toxic chemicals seem only to make the weeds healthier, I went to the internet for ideas on how to eliminate the dandelions in my lawn in a 'safe' way.
What I was really looking for was instructions on how to build a dandelion electrocution device. Seriously, many years ago Renfrew and I had a neighbour in Edmonton who explained how his late father had used a 12 volt battery and some wires to essentially ZAP dandelions. This was as we were all out in our adjoining front yards trying to reduce the dandelion population. I almost regret not telling my ex to go grab a big battery and get to work trying to duplicate the execution system. As creative as I am searching on the 'net (I have the reputation of being able to find ANYTHING on the net for friends, family, clients, strangers. . . I was a born research geek and the internet has given my desire to just KNOW things a wonderful tool.) the closest thing I could find about zapping weeds were some very technical research papers about microwaves.
Many of the other removal techniques I ran across were ones I've tried without success. One of those was pouring boiling water on the offending weed. Maybe it was because I tried it during a late summer heatwave, it did not have the desired effect and actually increased the problem because they got water. Another method suggested pouring good old vinegar on the dandelions. A clerk at Home Depot suggested getting out the drill and drilling a hole in the centre of the plant and pouring in herbicide. Suddenly my mind did one of it's synergistic leaps --> boiling vinegar into a drilled hole! YEAH -- combine gardening with POWER TOOLS. I love power tools. . . I'm the girl who mourned the closing of Prudhomme Hardware in Edmonton -- the last of the great hardware stores.
So I am going to take my lovely red cordless kettle onto my front step and boil up the vinegar! I let you know how it turns out. . .
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