Isolation

Today marks day five since my husband tested positive for Covid. He tested positive in the evening, but that morning I kissed him good morning as couples tend to do. What he hadn't told me is that he already felt horrible the night before. (Sigh). 

Blame aside, I think we just got a little complacent. COVID-19 has been around 2.75 years. We had never gotten the bug, so maybe we thought vaccinations were enough, especially at home. 

But vaccines are not the only way to protect the ones we love. We'd forgotten that. And with restrictions lifting for some, people are not as protected as they were at the beginning of this long-term siege.

So, when I awoke this morning feeling completely drained, crappy, and sore all over, one of the first things I did was take a Rapid-test. (Grr, I hate those things...) and it came back negative. I was, quite frankly, disappointed from a very selfish perspective. I missed the company of my best friend and soul-mate. 

However, if there's the off chance that what I have is NOT COVID-19, but some other virus, it would not be good for the two of us to be together to give what we have to each other. 

Picture by Firmbee at Pixabay

 So, I'm writing this from our half-renovated den in the basement. Daughter and I brought the puppy's pen and crate downstairs, set up my computer, charging station for my phone, a few blankets, and supplies I'll need for looking after the puppy, for as long as I'm here. It is so very quiet down here - no TV, just the noise of the heat pump whenever it's on. Part of me wonders how my back will handle the sectional's cushions; time will tell I guess. It has to better than sleeping in my recliner in the living room!! I even brought down a kitty night-light for the night time. (Pitch black is not an option for me.)

If tomorrow finds me testing COVID-positive, then it's back upstairs for me and the pup, and sleeping in my own bed. But whatever the outcome, I will not run the risk of putting my beloved husband in danger. That's what all the vaccines and the masking and the hand-washing are all about.

It should be an adventure, at least.

Always Something

 Life has a way of unfolding in ways we don't expect most times. It seems there's "always something" that happens or that surprises us. 

This time, after two and a half years of being so careful, getting vaccines, wearing masks, and washing hands when others were just not wearing their masks or washing hands, it happened.

My husband tested positive for COVID-19. Almost immediately my daughter and I did rapid tests and tested negative. However, it means that because I am in a position of trust, I must also isolate for 14 days to make sure that I have not caught the virus. And if I have, I must reset the clock and start my 14-day isolation. (I know that's not what the current guidelines say, but my daughter is immuno-compromised and so are some of my clients.)

The busy-ness that I noted rising in my office calendar last week is now put on hold as I contact my clients and reschedule their appointments OR offer them a video session instead of in-person. That's okay; I'm prepared for that.  

Life will always throw things, people, and circumstances at us and the best we can do is to accept, live in the moment and the day, and keep our priorities straight. Priority for me right now is looking after myself and my loves at home. It's all good.

Hashtag Fiona2022

Fiona - Hurricane Fiona - took her good sweet time roaring through Atlantic Canada last Saturday, September 24, 2022. The intensity of the wind was about 150 kph, or 90 mph... a Category 2.  I know others have had worse, but it's the worst this little corner of creation has ever seen. In a hurricane, there are mini-tornadoes that twist around such things as tree trunks and transformers and literally rip them apart, leaving them looking like some giant hand reached down and broke them like individual matchsticks. 

The next-door neighbour's 100-foot-high maple came out by its roots, crashing  over power lines on both sides of the road, its crown landing on another neighbour's lawn across the street. With it, it took out the power pole that his, our, and two neighbours across the street were connected to. Lines severed, pole smashed into four pieces. Fortunately the power went out a few minutes before that.  

Neighbour's maple -
its roots exposed for all to see.

Base of the power pole
shattered.

We were spared the tragedy that so many experienced: damage to their homes and vehicles. In both cases, there were close calls! 

But we lost a good third of the trees on our property, mature shade trees and evergreens alike. And in the wake of that kind of devastation, seeing that other still-standing trees were weakened so the next storm might bring them down on someone's house - perhaps our own - led to the decision to cut down a few more of them. And yes, we have been grieving the loss of these, our dear tree friends, tall sentinels of our home and providers of shade and privacy. 

Yesterday, as the sound of chain saws filled the air from power company crews and others working in the neighbourhood, I noticed something that hadn't been there before: there was more light in our back yard. Those shade trees, while providing protection from exposure, had been blocking valuable sunlight from reaching our backyard garden and fledgling apple trees. 

And since the storm had demolished our neighbour's privacy fence, the sunlight could reach his beautiful landscaping. 

But the most amazing thing for me was that I could look across the neighbourhood and see something I wish I could bottle and sell: the people who live in these houses were helping each other, pitching in and sharing information and resources, and reaching out to connect with each other.

Fiona took away.  She took away a LOT; there is no doubt of that. The topography of our landscape and of our communities is forever changed. Some things will never come back; others will take decades. But Fiona also gave. She gave us a renewed sense of community. She gave us friends we didn't know we had. She gave us compassion and empathy for each other. She spurred our generosity. 

If there is a light in this darkness, I think it could be that.

The Hollow Place

 Most everyone has at least one hollow place in their lives: a place that has marked them and left them scarred, empty, unfulfilled in some way, and aching. 

For some, it's the loss of a loved one. For others, it's a dream destroyed. For still others, it's a ruptured relationship. There are so many places like that. Even when the wound heals, there seems to be a hole left behind, a place that is irreparably damaged. 

I got to thinking about this as the 9th anniversary of our daughter Arielle's death gets closer and closer. This past July, she would have turned 30 years old. That birthday was a little harder this year than the last one ... for some reason. Grief has no rules, it seems.

Free photo by Ulrike Mai at Pixabay

About six or seven weeks before she died, she sent me a video of herself just ... being her. She talked about what she was doing in that moment, gave us a tour of her surroundings, and talked about missing us and loving us. I've played that video many times, more often lately - the sound of her voice is somehow comforting now.

And even though most times it doesn't "hurt" exactly to realize she's no longer here, there's still that hollow place, the place left over, the healed edges of grief. There's that empty feeling, call it the "new normal" as I've been known to call it, but in that, there is the knowledge that there is no going back. There is only moving ahead. There is only looking for ways to honour her memory. There is the acknowledgement - and the gratitude - that we had here here with us, even if only for a short time. There is the hope that someday, we'll see her again... someday.

But that hollow place remains. If I had chosen to live there, to keep the edges of that wound raw and torn, to torment myself over and over with the fact that I had experienced a loss that no parent should ever know (and believe me, the temptation to do that was real!) I would have been stuck there, unable to heal, unable to move on, unable to live life as she did: with zest, with joy. 

Yes, that hollow place exists. I don't deny it, nor do I deny that there is pain there sometimes, in the most unexpected of circumstances (like a smell, or a song, or a memory). I've learned to accept those as part of the never-ending process of grief, and I feel my feelings and honour her memory.

It didn't come easy. But it came. 

And I guess that if I had any words of comfort to you in your own hollow place, it's that the grief never stops BUT it changes shape. It heals as you move on ... and honour the empty place, as you let people love you in ways you can perceive. Moreover, it's possible to eventually help others with their hollow places because you know what it feels like, and you can allow space for them to feel what they feel and heal at their own pace. You can realize their hollow place isn't going to look like yours, necessarily, but the healing process is the same. Time is irrelevant. But it's LOVE that heals.

Living with Crows

Years ago, when we first moved into our neighbourhood, we had a problem. The problem was CROWS. They pecked at and destroyed our garbage bags that we put out by the road, strewed things from it all over the road and the lawn, made so-o much noise in the mornings so we couldn't sleep in, and basically we considered them a nuisance.

My husband even got a pellet gun and shot pellets into their tail ends. They didn't pierce the skin but they hurt, and the crows learned very quickly to stay away from our garbage. They recognized him too, and knew when he had the "sting-stick" with him. In time, he didn't even have to raise the gun to his shoulder.

Smart. (No pun intended.)

When our oldest daughter was in her early teens, suffering from ischemic migraines that left her bed-bound for days at a time, she heard a crow outside her window, cawing as though he was a 12-year-old boy whose voice was changing. She named him "Buck" - and looked forward to hearing his voice. In a couple of years, Buck had offspring and they learned how to caw like him. It became a joke in our family, as we called him "Buck-buck-ba-CAW" ... and slowly our attitude started to change regarding these creatures that we had always seen as pests. 

We noticed their family groups. We noticed how they mated for life and how,when widowed, they would be taken in by their relatives. We heard them feeding their young. We watched them and their social interactions. 

"Black Crow" provided free by
MapleAmber at www.pixabay.com

We found different ways to discourage them from destroying our garbage bags. We would spray Javex on the bags to mask the food smells inside - and the crows were smart enough to leave that stuff alone. Nope, not edible.

And then, about 2 years ago, we got a little dog, a Pomeranian. When he was about 6 months old and had all his shots, we started taking him for walks. And the crows noticed. We observed them as they observed us walking our little guy around the neighbourhood, stopping when he stopped to pee and poo. They watched us pick up his poo in little bags, and when we moved past their sight, they flew to a different tree or pole closer to where we were, and continued to observe our behaviour, and his as well. Sometimes he would try to catch one; it would stay where it was until he was about 10 feet away, and just hop into the sky and fly off. I could imagine the crow chuckling to itself.

That's when we started noticing other, more amazing behaviours. Near our neighbourhood, there are a pair of eagles that hunt small animals and birds. The crows set up sentinels spaced at various intervals throughout the neighbourhood. They would watch the eagles and warn each other when the eagles got too close. They were especially vigilant when we were taking our little dog out for a walk. They would band together and chase the eagles away, dive-bombing them and just being a nuisance to them so they would stay away. 

And it worked! 

These one-time pests had accepted us into the community and were looking out for us. They protected our little guy from a predator that could kill him. (Collars have been found in eagles' nests). 

So, now we use a white noise machine so we can sleep in when we want to, and we have learned to live with (and appreciate) the crows. 

Funny how attitudes change.

My Safe Place

 The other day, I was sitting in a virtual classroom with 90 other students, when the professor asked us to each participate in an exercise designed to evoke a feeling of safety, of feeling supported, loved, and comforted. He asked us to focus on a moment, a memory that was both vivid and that would produce those feelings.

Immediately, my thoughts wandered to all the possible memories I could have chosen: me being in my grandparents' barn hayloft with a mother dog and her pups, or me talking to my uncle's Percheron horse as a nine-year-old girl, my grandmother making new potato hash browned potatoes... but I rejected all of these and chose something more recent: one time I awoke in the middle of the night as a grieving mother, sobbing into my pillow, and feeling my husband's arms around me. His presence, his unspoken support, his love, his comfort - they were all tangible. 

As we went through the exercise, our prof engaged all of the five senses. As he drilled down into the memories we each chose, he was able to bring them front and centre. When it was done, I was one of many who dabbed at their eyes.

It was a powerful experience for me, both during and afterward. My eyes filled with tears of gratitude, of love, of letting go of that pain, of a feeling that I was kept safe and sheltered from the horrible storm in my heart. The feeling stayed with me long after the exercise was over. Each time I thought of that moment, the same feelings came back. I had discovered a new Safe Place, one to which I could return when I felt overwhelmed, anxious, depressed, or threatened. 

Free photo by Pexels at Pixabay

Our professor took us through that exercise so that we could experience for ourselves the power of emotions and the need for acknowledging them in our lives and the lives of our clients. Point. Taken.

Shortly after I wrote the above words, my kitten, Willow (aged 7 months) crawled into the space between me and the arm of the loveseat. I started petting her head and neck. And then she lifted her head, looked at me, and crawled up on my chest and laid down, her face nuzzling under my chin. She stayed there for a good fifteen minutes, soaking in the love, absorbing the sense of peace and calm in my body and in the room, and dozing off amid soft purrs. 

For a few minutes, I was her safe place. 

When she was all filled up with comfort and with love, she got up, hopped off my chest, and went to her perch on the cat-tree to groom herself and survey her domain. Cats position themselves where they can see their people as a way of marking their territory. We are her people. She feels at home here. Now, she has returned to the back of the loveseat, and has laid down just behind my left shoulder. Her left front paw is on the back of my upper arm. She has fallen asleep. Connection. Trust. Safety. Love. Peace.

That's the feeling everyone needs to feel. I need to feel it; she needs to feel it; you need to feel it. And we need to feel it often. At least once a day, Willow comes to me for that feeling of safety and love, usually right before we settle down for the night. It's security for her. It's belonging for her. It's Home to her. 

We can call that return to security whatever we like: grounding, meditating, centering, breathing, pranayama, enjoying the moment, going to our happy place, or whatever. For me, it's going to My Safe Place. As part of a healing and growing process in my life, it's essential. And it feels SO good. It's designed to - because we are each designed to connect, to feel safe, to feel settled and secure. 

 * ♫ ♪ ♫ *

If you want to learn more about living a lifestyle that lets go of the past and releases the future, you can try my book, after which this blog is named: Get Unwrapped!  It's not long, but it's worth reading slowly. Get it here: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/91697

New light - Thoughts under the stars

 The clock nears 2 a.m. I cannot see the stars, but I know they are above the clouds, each one singing its song in the symphony of the Universe.

Free image "Milky Way" by Pexels at Pixabay. 

I sit alone at my computer with only the sound of the refrigerator behind me and the peeping frogs of tinnitus pulsating in my right ear to break the silence. 

The dog, confused at my early emergence from my cocoon of blankets, watches me sleepily from the hallway. 

An open cookbook is to my left, a reminder that I will try that recipe for English muffins when I eventually start the day; hopefully I will have slept before that. To my right is a shiny white mug that I use to encourage myself to drink more water. 

I notice these things but I attend to my writing, to calm my racing thoughts. This happens occasionally, these bouts of insomnia that I have learned to accept and do something else until I feel tired enough to go back to bed.

My thoughts turn to the sleeping ones in my house. The cats of course - they sleep over 18 hours a day - and my husband down the hall, oblivious to my insomnia, snoring softly. I hear him whistle occasionally in his sleep, pent-up breath escaping like a distant boiling kettle. I imagine what it must be like to breathe all the time through half-congested nostrils. To have to choose between breathing and eating, for only one can be done at a time; his allergies make him miss so much of what others ... what I ... take for granted. I shudder.

My daughter stops by and checks on me. I explain my insomnia (or what I think caused it this time) and she brings me a heating pad for my aching belly - in this body I pay for every pleasure, it seems, with pain - this time it was a prolonged belly-laugh earlier this evening at some silly thing that happened. She and I understand each other's pains. She's a good person, one I am honoured to call my friend as well as my child. She goes back to her bedroom and wishes me a good night. The heating pad helps. Or was it just her love and care for me? Perhaps both. Definitely the love.

And in this relative silence, I sit and type out my thoughts. Blogging relaxes me; it gives me an outlet and orders my thought process so that it doesn't race along, pinging off the walls of my mind like some freshly-released pinball. Yet the thoughts this time are not regrets or flashbacks - those rip at my soul, but not tonight.

Tonight I am ... grateful, pensive, even (dare I say it?) happy. I am unaccustomed to this new way of being. The change came just this morning when I was watching old reruns of The Big Bang Theory. It was near the end of the series and Leonard, who grew up in a loveless home, realizes his mother is using him again to further her career, as she did when he was a child and all through his growing-up years. 

He becomes very angry ... and she gaslights him, ignores him until (she says) his tantrum is done. At the end, he finally decides to forgive her, and comes to tell her so. She hadn't asked for his forgiveness, and told him that. But he forgave her anyway. And his words (paraphrased below) pierced my soul to the quick. "I forgive you because ... I'm just going to have to accept you the way you are, and realize that you will never change. And maybe someday, you will learn to accept me the way I am."  She sits in silence for several seconds, and says, "That feels good. To be forgiven even though I didn't ask you to do it."  He is silent. And she gets up and for the first time in his life, she hugs him. And he hugs her back. No questions, no conditions, no ground rules, Just one simple act of kindness. 

And yes, I cried.

Free image by
Evgeni Tcherkasski at Pixabay.com

The scene reminded me that there are certain people in my life who need forgiveness and who will never change. And maybe it doesn't matter if they do. They need it anyway. And more than that, I need to give it to them. No questions, no conditions, no ground rules. Just one simple act of kindness, repeated over and over and over again, until the healing is complete.

I said to someone earlier this week that miracles happen every day. And a miracle is no less a miracle if it happens slowly and gradually. Just like my little light here that I shine is no less amazing than that of the stars that seem so dim but are really enormous and magnificent. That there even IS light is amazing. And just because I cannot shine as brightly as the sun (or as brightly as other people whom I admire) doesn't mean that I should stop shining my own light, or that I should even dim it. It could be that somebody, somewhere, might be just as inspired as I am by what little light I can shed.

I think I can go back to bed now.

Whether I sleep ... is immaterial.