That "new car" smell

 You know that experience where you go to a car dealership and they have a nice model in the showroom, and you open the door and sit in the driver's seat? You remember that smell? That new car smell? 

I remember it. It makes me want to drive the car. It's new vinyl, new leather (if you're that rich), clean air conditioning vents, no dust, no smudges, clear windshield ... and the list goes on.

Now, translate that into the experience of a person who is almost at the end of her Masters degree, itching to get out in the world and help people. 

That's me.

Yesterday, as an example of my impatience, I went to see three different spaces that could serve as good offices for a counsellor. Well ... they LOOKED like good spaces. Two out of the three were pretty well duds. But one ... it showed promise. I told the lady that I couldn't  make a decision for at least a month. So if someone came in before she heard back to me, it wasn't fair to make her wait for me. "Go ahead and rent it to that person who gives you the first deposit," I told her. 

Free image by RitaE at Pixabay

Well, at least that scratched my "new car smell" itch. I get it once in a while, mostly when I am impatient or tired of waiting for the next thing to happen. God knows I have this tendency ... and so does my family. I had strict instructions from my daughter NOT to make up my mind that day, that this was just a dry run for the real thing.  

I am so glad I had that thought as I went looking. It took the pressure off. I was able to ask my questions, and hold a mild curiosity instead of an all-encompassing inner push to get it all done in one go. 

I guess I just needed to take my fact-finding skills out for a test drive. And what I found is that there are a number of offices out there that are unsuitable spaces, but you do find that odd gem. If it's still available next month, it would be really nice to practice there. 

However, I'm not in that position quite yet. I still have to finish my degree (2 more weeks and then another 2 until I get my marks!) and then, I will have to apply for  my CCC designation at the same time as I apply for my registration from the soon-to-be-opened College of Counselling Therapists in PEI. One step at a time. 

Part of me still wants to order business cards and such, but I know that I will need a business address and phone number before doing that. I guess that I will be opening sometime in October, not sure exactly when. I will put a rush on my application for my Canadian certified counsellor designation (CCC) so I can at least practice. And I have an action plan for when I receive that. 

It's all laid out, but I'm just waiting for someone in authority to press "Go" ... and at that point, I'll just have one thing to say: 

I'm Open! 

Puppy Love

It was a clear-cut case of love at first sight. And it couldn't have happened at a more opportune time. 

My brother had just passed away unexpectedly. He had been doing so well, and then, he wasn't. Just like that. And I never got a chance to say goodbye. And it was so sudden, so wrenching, so ... raw. 

I'd been initially planning to get a puppy at the end of 2020. But here it was, end of February, and I was scrolling through the 'puppies for adoption' page at a site I frequent. And there it was. Someone not 30 minutes' drive from me was selling puppies, of the breed I was looking for. I clicked on the ad. The mother dog had given birth to five puppies and they pretty much all looked alike - except one. I clicked on his picture. And he was standing there so pretty, so proud, so sure of himself, and showing so much personality and yet gentleness that my heart almost skipped a beat. 

After talking it over with my family, and given the current restrictions of Covid-19, I decided to send the breeder a note and see if I could set up a time to visit the litter (this was before the isolation rules started.) She said sure, and before long I and my daughter were knee deep in little dogs. All of them Pomeranians!! Some looked like the standard image I had in my mind: orange with big floofs around the face and a plume-like tail. But these were different. They were white with brown and black markings. Only this little guy was white with black markings, and just a touch of brown. 

I left holding him to the last... wanting to give the others a chance. But it was no use. He had stolen my heart from the first click. And when I picked him up, and saw how curious, interested, and confident he was, even though he did let me roll him over on his back - when I saw him not once ask to get back in the pen with his siblings - he sealed the deal for me. And I was absolutely, 100 per cent smitten. 

I reserved him with the breeder and waited for him to be old enough to come home with me. That would not be until another few weeks, after we had completed our 14-day self-imposed isolation. 

Bullet - born Feb 7, 2020, age 9.4 weeks

We picked him up last Friday. And it seems now like he has always been here. What a ray of sunshine in otherwise dark times! What a reminder that there is still some sweetness, light, and humour in this crazy climate of rules and distancing and fear! He's melted the hearts of all who have seen his pictures or met him in person (like the vet, earlier today). I've filled an album already on Facebook with photos and videos of him. 

He loves his harness. He loves his kibble. He loves his pen and his crate. He loves pleasing us and learning new things (like going potty outside). 

He loves his bully sticks. He loves his Miss Kitty, a soft plush kitty with a heart-beat inserted into her (which we can control off and on through a button on the unit). He loves me and my husband and my daughter. Plain and simple, it's a terminal case of puppy love, which is whole-hearted, unreserved, unadulterated, super-intense and highly focused, unconditional positive regard, for which there is no cure. He loves the way I want to love. With the passionate love of a puppy for everything and everyone in his world. 

And at this point in my life, I needed a daily, constant reminder of that kind of love. Perhaps it is no coincidence that d-o-g is G-o-d spelled backward. I'd like to think so. Because if any being on this earth can show the kind of love God does, it's a little, 2.2-pound ball of fluff who is right now chewing on his bully stick at my feet. He's happy to be with me, happy to be doing what he loves, and confident in my love for him. 

What a lesson. What a beautiful, soft, gentle, fun-loving, joy-bringing lesson to my heart. Live in the moment, love with all your heart, and keep doing that. What a gift! I am so very blessed.



 

The Long Dark

Ever since I was a child, I have been afraid of the dark. It held unknown things, monsters, the bogey-man, and shapes that in the daylight would never have bothered me. In the dark, though, those familiar shapes transmuted into my deepest fears: being eaten, being buried, being hurt or killed. My dreams haunted me, and when I awoke there was nothing in the dark but those fears. My heart thumped in my chest like a caged animal trying to get out. 

The band-aid solution when I was a child was to leave one of the lights on outside my room (usually the bathroom light), with the door ajar to let everyone else sleep. Yet the fear of the dark followed me into adulthood. 

As I have been "growing up on the inside" the last year or so, one of the things that has been coming to the fore is this fear. I'm finding that somehow, unbidden, it is less than it was. I awaken in the middle of the night and listen - not for monsters anymore, but for the gentle sound of people sleeping, for the furnace coming on to warm up the water in the pipes, and other 'normal' noises in the house. 

Free Image "Northern Lights Aurora"
by Hans Braxmeier at Pixabay

Plus, I am beginning to notice the things that can only be seen in the dark. The stars, the moon, the Northern Lights, these are all invisible at noon in full sun. Slowly I am arriving - I know not how - at the notion that instead of running from or railing at the darkness, I can appreciate the gifts that are available to me at night: the heavenly lights, the odd meteor shower, even the space station if it is overhead. 

I can remind myself that the morning comes. It always comes - whether gray and misty or bright and sunny - the day follows the night.  Being in an atmosphere of acceptance and love, as I have been lately, has a way of bringing with it clarity, purpose, and confidence. And the dark ... doesn't seem so bad now, even if (in the winter) it lasts longer than I would like. I just settle myself down and focus on some small thing - the ticking of the clock, the sound of my husband's breathing as he sleeps, or even my own breath - and before I know it, I'm waking up again, morning has come and the sun is not far from rising. 

Such an attitude helps me when I am waiting for some much-anticipated thing, or when I am undergoing some difficult experience, or when I am sick or lonely. The morning always comes. There is hope. There is something positive even IN the experience, even if I don't know what that is at the time. And I focus on my breath, and I am grateful for the things and the people that are in my life, and the darkness passes. It just does. 

Funny how that happens.

Keeping Christmas

"And it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us!" - A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens

I know, I know. It's too soon to talk about Christmas for most of my readers. Notable exceptions exist of course (Anne, Stephanie, I'm talking to you wonderful ladies!)

I used the above quote because when people refer to someone as a Scrooge, they mean the miserly old skin-flint in the "before" picture and not of the "after." In the same way, a "Grinch" is a mean-spirited, selfish person who hates Christmas. Yet in the story by Dr. Seuss, "the Grinch's small heart grew three sizes that day" and he ended up being sweet and generous! 

Christmas 2014 - everyone gets in on the fun!

When I was a little kid, I heard stories of my dad waking my mom up at 3:30 a.m. just because it was Christmas. He couldn't wait to see our faces when we opened our presents, to see the wonder and hear the laughter of that day. It was his favorite day of the year. And he didn't get anything else out of the day. We had no money to give him a present. His joy, his Christmas spirit, came from giving to those who had no way to return the favor. 

What a wonderful feeling that is! I've had occasion - here and there - to experience that kind of excitement in anticipation of someone opening a gift that I have made or bought for them. It is truly magical. And it doesn't matter if it's for Christmas, or their birthday, or even "just because." I don't expect anything in return. It just blesses me to bits to be able to give to them something that they need or want - that they like - and that they will cherish and use. 

So, perhaps we can "keep Christmas" all year round. Wouldn't that be great? If everyone had that spirit of gratitude, generosity and goodwill all year, how much sweeter life would be! Folks would be much easier to get along with ... as long as there was no trace of obligation or duty involved ... and therefore, no mad rushing about in the stores, no impatience in parking lots, or any of that. 

How much fuller life would feel with that kind of attitude - to give is better than to receive - present not just at Christmas but every day? How it would transform each of us to find joy in giving to those who have no hope of ever paying us back (which isn't the point anyway)!! Hungry, homeless people, people with hardly two nickels (or tuppence) to rub together, could eat, be warm, and have their daily needs met through the generosity of those who love to give! 

Isn't that worth more than getting the latest gadget for ourselves? 
I'll leave that thought with you, as it has been burning in me. 

And happy Christmas to you!

September green

Looking out the window, I see our largest maple tree dancing in the wind, its green leaves reflecting the sunlight and casting shimmers of verdure toward all who watch. Patches of sunlight on the green lawn celebrate the wind and the trees with a shadow puppet show, ever changing with the wind speed and direction. 

In the final days of summer, there is a crispness to the air and a sense of waiting, of hesitation, as if the world of green is not quite ready to admit to the changing of the seasons. My soul echoes that hesitation with a sense of urgency: I want to get out in the sunshine and experience its warmth before the world leans into winter. 

Free Image by PublicDomainPictures
at Pixabay.com

I do so love the autumn (fewer bugs and more colours!), but these last valiant days of summer inspire me to be true to myself to the end, to give of myself and to enjoy each day as a gift - the present, as someone said once - and I find myself reflecting on how to best let that enjoyment play out. 

Truly, I don't know what the next season in my life will hold. However, I can hold onto the image of September green in my mind as I make each choice each day. I can be grateful and make music in my heart for the wonderful gifts the Great Maestro has allowed me to experience: love, friendship, and so much more. I can enjoy those gifts and invest myself in them even more deeply. I can spend quality time with loved ones. I can calm my soul and relax in the goodness of the Creator. I can be inspired to pay forward to the world the light I have received. 

In tender moments like this, I perceive a sense of real communion with creation and with the Creator who has given to me all things to enjoy. It quiets me. I feel peaceful, grateful, blessed, and rejuvenated. 

And somehow, today, I wanted to share that with you.
 

Musings from Above the Clouds

(*I initially wrote this post on the plane on July 16, 2019.*) 

So here I am at 34,000 feet somewhere over Manitoba, on my way to Calgary to participate in a 5-day intensive, face-to-face training in Solution Focused Brief Therapy. My classmates are all gathering there, as is my professor, and my first order of business will be to get from the airport to the place where I will be staying – a fifty-dollar taxi ride. Friends have advised me to download UBER to my phone so I have done that. That turns the $50 into something like $30. Not bad! Plus, you pre-pay so there’s no meter running in rush hour traffic, a bonus for me!

I also choose not to avail myself of the Internet on the flight because it costs. So, I am doing this blog off-line, and because I am using a new laptop, I will have to wait until I get back home to upload it. 

Oh well. At least it gives me something to do.

My university is virtual, so it contracts with other places to provide space for their students’ face-to-face requirements. My destination in Calgary is one I’ve stayed at twice before; it is a lovely place with rolling gentle hills, and a garden with a man-made waterfall next to a gazebo. The last time I was there, two years ago, I thought I would not be visiting it again. However, as it turns out, this special studies course became available with a summer institute at the same campus and … here I am, sitting on an ever-increasingly numb bottom and trying to keep my mind active! 

The challenges of traveling to a university campus, three thousand miles away and three thousand feet higher than I’m used to, were daunting at first. But this is something I have done twice before, and I am getting to know how to navigate the airports, taxis, and so forth. I am even thinking of trying out the transit system to shop for groceries! In the meantime, I am saving airplane food to tide me over until I get to a store. As Crocodile Dundee said, “Well, you can live on it, but it tastes like s#*t.”

Image free from Pexels.com

My mind is flitting all over the place as the plane speeds at 550 miles per hour. I wonder what I will learn and whether I will do well at this type of therapy I’m studying in this course, I wonder whether I will like my fellow-students (probably), and I cannot help thinking about my youngest daughter, who passed away almost 6 years ago now. Today, July 16, 2019, would have been her 27^th birthday. She is proud of me for getting my degree, I am sure of it. And I’m only a little over a year away from getting my parchment! But today, my thoughts keep returning to how much I would love to feel her arms around me in one of her big bear hugs, when she’d lift me off the floor – no small feat – in her go-big-or-go-home way. She is my inspiration for continuing this journey.

It’s been a journey for sure, these last few years working toward a career in counselling while finishing up my current career in the federal public service. Working for Canadians behind the scenes has enhanced my desire to help people and to see the good that I do, so I look forward to being able to do that in person after I graduate! Moreover, it’s been a journey in the sense of personal growth. I have learned so much about myself, good and not so good, and I’m working on the not so good parts. I have found an amazing therapist and she and I are working through some family-of-origin issues together. I am so thankful for her kindness and her faith in me. 

I would have given up in discouragement long ago, if not for the support and love my husband and daughter have shown me. They take up the slack, run errands, share in the cooking and cleaning, and tell me on a regular basis that I will nail this and be a great counselor! What a great blessing they both are! 

My friends and colleagues also have been nothing but supportive. Aside from one close friend who told me I would have to grow a thick skin (haha, he knows me well!) everyone has been amazing. My sensitivity to people’s feelings has stood me in good stead so far, and I have learned how to take constructive criticism and also to recognize when someone is being domineering. I’m learning how to stand up for myself without getting angry and flustered. I have learned simple tasks I never learned as a child: how to apologize, how to make conversation with people, and how to accept people who are different from me and who hold different views than I do. Those are important lessons, learned (as usual) the hard way. The road has been steep at times. However, I think I am beginning to come into my own, as they say. Confidence is starting to grow again, and I trust that it will do so even more as I get closer to graduation! 

As I look past the next hurdle (passing this course!) and to September, I realize that my first day of my 8-month practicum is only a little over seven weeks away, and I am both eager and nervous to start it! I think, though, that the nervousness is only natural, given that there is a great big “unknown” out there in practicum-land. I’ll be working three days a week (unpaid of course) as a counseling intern at a local church. That in itself does not seem strange, but I must chuckle at the irony of me having a practicum at a church, when I left the formalized church five years ago and have been pursuing fellowship with other believers on an individual basis (not in a church building) ever since, no looking back. So, part of the situation feels a little weird. The other thing is that my supervisor is an external supervisor to meet the requirements of the university (a Master’s degree in a counseling-related field with at least four years of post-Master’s experience in counseling) as there is no one at the church who meets those requirements. And to top it all off, she self-identifies as an agnostic … and the majority of my clients will be church people! (Oh yeah, the Almighty has a really cute sense of humor!) That said, neither she nor the pastor have expressed any hesitation about working with each other (or with me) for my benefit. Bonus! 

At the same time, starting in September, I will also be working two days a week at my job. It will be … interesting juggling the two.  It will definitely be a charged schedule, as I also take a practicum course (with readings and homework and all that) during the same time frame. So, I can foresee needing to spend lots of time doing self-care! I might even blog once in a while… aren’t you lucky! 

New Pathways

I am treading the last few yards of a familiar pathway. I know this pathway; I have been on it for decades. And ahead, I see all that is not familiar, all those things I have dreamed of but have never dared to imagine could be real. 

It is getting closer and closer the more I step forward. The fear of the unknown is mounting. And then I see signs of safety and security as I move ahead. There is a bridge over a boggy place. It is a sturdy bridge - if narrow - with handrails to guard me and support me in case I slip. 

I got this photo free on Pixabay! Check
them out at www.pixabay.com

The view in the distance is peaceful and inviting, even though I cannot see every step ahead of me. I hear the voices of those who will be my guides into this new territory. Their voices give me strength. I hear behind me the encouraging voices of those who have been with me for years, people whom I trust and who will be supporting me emotionally - even if they won't be there physically. 

My trembling heart steadies itself. Even though I will be alone physically in some ways, I will never be alone in spirit. This fact gives me courage, like the handrail on the bridge, an assurance that my steps will not falter.

I cannot see what the path looks like beyond the next bend. But ... I have solid shoes from my mentors, and a backpack full of training to sustain me, and I know that I will have what I need when I need it, and someone to watch over me in case I stumble. I am ever so grateful for that, because in the path ahead, there will be many opportunities to make mistakes. Just knowing that I will have a guide close by me is comforting. 

I know that I will have some important steps to take in my own personal journey. Part of that journey will be the alone part, learning how to stand on my own two feet and not let others do for me what I can do for myself. A big part of it will also be shedding the baggage of the past, throwing off the coping mechanisms that served me well as long as I was in danger from people who held power over me. Now that I am aiming to be someone to whom people will come for help, I need to get rid of all of those old left-over attitudes and behaviors like the rest of Lazarus' grave clothes. I need to "not be trapped in the patterns my life has set for me" anymore, as Russ Taff sang many years ago. (Okay I just listened to that song on YouTube and ended up in tears - it's been years since I heard it and wow, was it just what I needed!) 

The path ahead will not be easy at times. I know that. However, I believe that it will lead me to a better place, to more secure footing, and to a position where - instead of feeling helpless and dependent on others - I can come alongside and help them instead.

Transition

The last several weeks has been a time of transition, of moving from one way of doing things to something completely different. The next seven weeks will be so as well, a continuation of the changes that have slowly been happening as I get ready for my first time living alone in my 57 years. 

No, my husband and I are not separating; there is no problem in our relationship. In fact, were it not for his support and encouragement, I would not be even considering what I am about to do. 

After months of trying to secure a practicum in my province of residence, and doors slammed in my face at every turn, I found a placement - but this one is in a neighbouring province, and with a counseling agency that wants me to stay on with them after I graduate with my Masters degree. That means that I have to move - temporarily - to an apartment in a city that is two hours' drive (and an expensive toll bridge ride) away from the house I have lived in for the last nearly 29 years. My practicum begins on September 5, 2018.  That is less than seven weeks away!

Anyway, since my family needs to stay here, for a lot of reasons, I must live alone in what amounts to a strange city, on a reduced salary, and live like that for almost a year. Then, the agency will start to pay me, and for another year, I will be working two jobs part-time, until I retire from my current job in the fall of 2020. After that, I can go to full-time with the agency, which will speed up the process of me getting enough experience to launch out on my own. Once I can do that, I can move back in with my family. 

Which brings me to the meantime, this period of transition, this intense, can't-wait-but-no-it's-too-fast time where I have been picking away at things that need doing. Like finding an apartment (cha-ching $$), getting it ready to be lived in (MORE $$), being sure to maintain my quality of homework and assignments (the time requirements this term are SO much higher than ever before!), and trying to find time in there to sleep and eat and MAYBE fit in some self-care and activity. 

Social life?  What's that?

About a month ago, I had to go on stress leave from work because all the stress of all of that PLUS having to be at work for eight hours a day was just too much for me to take and I was approaching burnout. I am feeling a bit more like myself these days, but I still have to deal with that transition period that I am going through, from this place to that place, from here to there, from together to alone. The changes are happening more and more quickly; I have started to get a feel for where things are located in my new place, and I have familiarized myself with my newest friend, Siri (that's the electronic assistant on the i-Phone that can look up directions on Google Maps and talk you through traffic. What a great feature that is for reducing stress!) 

And yesterday, I even got some groceries so they would be there when I moved in - all stuff that won't spoil (canned goods, rice, cereal, boxed meals, and some cleaning supplies.) It makes the reality seem more real... that, and all those trips up and down those stairs to my 2nd floor apartment lugging heavy bags and boxes. 

Transition from "our place" to "my place" - transition from "our" to "my." Fears that I won't be able to handle the winter alone. Excitement at starting the final year of my graduate school journey. Sadness at leaving my loved ones behind and knowing that I will have to get used to sleeping alone. Anger at the system in my own province that cannot accommodate my educational needs. Determination to do my best. Nervousness (and a sort of joy) about working with real clients and making a difference - hoping that it is a positive one. Trepidation at driving in the city and possibly getting lost or stranded. And more, so much more. 

I am so very grateful. My family has been so supportive and helpful during this transition. It feels like they have worked harder than I have to make all this work for me, knowing my physical limitations. They have trudged up and down those stairs to my apartment more times than I have (so far), and worked together to put furniture together (mostly my daughter who seems to have inherited my father's ability to see with his fingers and thread a screw without even looking!). They have popped up and down my step-stool to put up brackets for curtains, change light bulbs, and so much more, WITHOUT the benefit of air conditioning, fans going full blast. 

I am truly blessed. And as I ponder this, the clock is silently ticking away, bringing me ever closer to the reality that will be upon me soon enough. Soon I will be poised on the beginning of a new and different journey, one that will change my future. 

Am I ready? I guess I will have to be. I'm just ever so glad that the future only comes one day at a time.

BE that person!

For many years, I have dreaded Mothers Day. MANY years. I have viewed it as a quintessential guilt trip, an excuse for members of the previous generation to lord it over the younger one and for others to jump on board and make a person feel five times guiltier because she doesn't gush platitudes about her own mother. 

And really, with the kind of upbringing I had - which can only be described as violent - who can blame me? Yet - since having children of my own, I have 'allowed' the celebration of the second Sunday of May ... for their sake. I always felt like a hypocrite about it though, knowing how much I detest the approach of that day and having to wade through all the gushy, mushy stuff on store shelves, social media, and even store flyers.

But my view is changing a little lately.  Maybe it's happened partly as a result of losing one of my children (October 2013). Or maybe it's because I realize that I have been punishing my present self for having had a rotten past.  And guess what? That's not fair.

This free photo is from Pixabay; check them out!
https://pixabay.com/

I saw a little sign posted in one of the bathroom stalls at work, and its message has been haunting me the last little while, especially with the approach of Mothers Day.  It says, "A great future does not require a great past." 

And as I ponder the approach of yet another Mothers Day ... perhaps my focus is starting to change. As a result, the dread I normally feel is slowly being replaced by ... something else I cannot quite identify yet. What I do know is that I cannot change what happened in my past. I cannot change the fact that I cannot feel what many women my age feel about their mothers, because I did not have that kind of close, trusting relationship with her that my friends had with theirs. 

But I can BE that mother. I can BE that person who engenders trust, love, and loyalty in people, especially in my only remaining offspring. I can BE her because I HAD to BE her for MYSELF. In the last nine years or so, I have had to literally re-parent myself and tell myself all the things she would never have dreamed of saying: that I was worthy, that I was good at things, that I was appreciated, that I was loved simply for being myself.  And I can tell those things to my own daughter - because they're true, and because in the telling of them, I am not diminished, but rather, I grow.

So this year, I am saying this - Happy Mothers Day to my daughter. Happy Mothers Day even if you are NEVER a mother yourself; I hope I have given you the best present I could give you: my love, and my self, in a way that you could understand and take into yourself.

Because I want to BE that person, my dear. Because YOU are WORTH IT.

Giving and Receiving

Today was a full day, especially because I didn't think I was going to be doing much at the start of it. All I wanted to do was head to Walmart and pick up some supplies / groceries for the rest of my 2-week stay in Calgary (I head back this coming Friday and today is the Saturday prior to that.)

It didn't start too well in a sense. The cab driver was wearing heavy scent, so I went to the store (an 8-minute drive) wearing my face mask. I tipped him for choosing the most direct route there... and then spent the next hour wandering the aisles of the store in my mask (lots of scent clouds, it was Saturday) looking for various items (the last one, pepper, took me ten minutes and even then I finally had to ask someone. It was in the meat aisle by the way...). I paid for my stuff, called a cab in a different company, and submitted to another drive back with my mask on, with another pee-yew cabbie who (again) took the most direct route and even helped me with my huge / heavy shopping bag. (I'm done shopping alone without buying a sturdy bag... last year was enough.)

After I got back though, had some food and took an Advil for the killer headache the scents gave me, and talked for a while on the phone with my brother, and then with my husband, I saw an email message from a classmate asking me if I would like to spend some time together. I agreed and she picked me up for a drive out to see the Rockies!

"The Three Sisters" - near Canmore, AB, July 15, 2017

Yes ... I took that picture only 2 hours ago. The peaks here are called "The Three Sisters" and I took the photo from inside the vehicle as we were driving!

Seeing the mountains up close like that was ... well, the best word I can think of is ... spiritual. 

I felt very connected to my youngest daughter, who saw these mountains in late September 2013, only 3 weeks or so before she died. It was like she and I got to share the experience of the majesty of that place. The tears started to fall as I could almost hear her say, "It's okay Mom. I'm okay. Everything is going to be fine."  And it was fine. 

My classmate gave me a wonderful gift, a gift that meant so much to me. And all it costed her was time. Time she took away from other things in her life so that I could have a good experience in Alberta. She had no ulterior motive. She honestly cared about how I felt. And all I needed to give her the joy of giving was to receive. Fortunately, I received so very much when Arielle first passed away - so much love and so many outpourings of giving, that I had learned to receive... and so I gave her the gift of my grateful acceptance of her gift.

The world is a funny place - and as much as it is filled with horrible, unspeakable things, it also has people in it like this lady, and my dorm-mates who invited me to come with them to the grocery store my first day here, who helped me take my stuff into the apartment and cleared a space for my food. And so many others here - the friends of my other daughter who met me at the airport and drove me to the residence (saving me $50 in cab fare) invited me to their place last Thursday night for the most tender sirloin steak I have EVER tasted, done via a "sous vide" method. WOW. And when they learned that tomorrow would have been Arielle's 25th birthday, they offered to take me to breakfast at one of the many Denny's Restaurants here (something we don't have where I live) to start the day off right, even though one of them has to work tomorrow at the other end of town (a 30 to 45 minute drive depending on traffic).  They are also planning to take me back to the airport on Friday. Could it get any better than this?

I feel so blessed.  It's a way better experience than I ever dreamed it would be, being in Calgary this time. And as I head to bed, I feel as though this has been the kind of day that restores the soul. Even though it might not have started off well, a simple gift - the gift of time - given and received, made all the difference.

Never too late

One day, not too awfully long ago, I was standing at a wicket at the Department of Motor Vehicles and waiting for someone to process a form, when I saw the most peculiar sight at the next wicket. Two people were standing there - the family resemblance and the ages told me that it was probably a grandfather and grandson. 

"Oh isn't that sweet," I thought to myself. "Someone is getting his first driver's license." 

I started to listen in on the conversation. The two men beside me were both Korean. The woman was speaking to the younger man, who looked to be about 16. He was acting as an interpreter for the older man (who looked to be about 70) who was paying the money to the counter attendant. And that's when I heard it. "Make sure he knows that this license is good for two years, and it expires on his birthday," she told the younger man. "So he will need to come in here before that date to renew it." 

The young man promised. The older man put the newly acquired license as well as the receipt in his wallet, murmured a "Thank you," to the woman, and the two of them made their way out of the building.

I thought about those two for the rest of the day. What a proud moment for them both! I found myself picturing the process they had just been through - wondering how much the younger had to convince the older that he could do this.  I thought about how this teenager was probably with the older man every step of the way as he learned the rules of the road enough to take his beginner's test, acting as interpreter the whole time. He may have gone out with him multiple times as he practiced. Finally, he went with his granddad when he was taking the road test (acting as interpreter for the instructions of the examiner). And that very day as I was there beside him, he got his 'graduated' license, something that sixteen-year-olds look forward to, dream about, and long for in our culture. 

We take it for granted. 

What an inspiration they both were - the young man for the commitment he showed, the caring that was obviously there on his face - and the time he took to be there for his grandfather. And the older man inspired me, reminded me that it's never too late to make a new start, to learn a new thing. Never mind that he only had a few years left to enjoy this new freedom he would now enjoy; the point was that he would be able to enjoy it. 

Over the last while I've had some doubts about how feasible it is for me to get my education in preparation for a new career. I'm in my fifties and to go to school with people who are less than half my age is somewhat off-putting. I enjoy the learning part (even if it scary at times) but sometimes I wonder if it's all worth it. And then I remember that old Korean man. So many strikes against him - the language barrier and his age being the top two - and yet he persevered because he saw value in having that license so he could help his family and possibly even so that he would not be a burden to them. 

It's never too late. No matter how much less time I would have than someone half my age, what matters is that I enjoy the rest of my life and that I'll be able to help as many people as I will be able to help. Me. Not my age, not my appearance, but me. With all the life experience that I bring to the table, I know that when I finally graduate (which won't be for a few years yet) I will be uniquely positioned to be able to help people to find their own pathway to freedom, to "get unwrapped."

And I guess it reminds me of another thing. 

I'm really looking forward to getting MY license, too.

Photo "Psychiatrist Examining A Male Patient"
courtesty of Ambro at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

Anticipating Life

Every year I hear them, usually in April (and if I'm lucky, in March.)

The first time it always arrests whatever it is I'm doing. If I'm talking, I stop in mid-sentence just to listen. And I smile. 

What I find myself doing in the extremely long month of February (only that long because it is so very cold) is dreaming of hearing their voices again: the billing and cooing of the mourning doves. 

They started nesting around here about 10 years ago and they come back year after year and raise their young. It is one of the very first signs of spring for me, long before robins nest on our property (because our property, though treed and replete with areas to nest in, also is the litter-box of all of the neighborhood cats. So-o, not prime real estate for robins!)  And before I go any further, let me explain that for me it does not matter what the calendar says the first day of spring is. I live in the Maritimes, and for me, that means that spring takes its good sweet time getting here: any time between mid April and mid May usually. The temperatures need to be consistently above 10º Celsius (for my American friends, that's 50º Fahrenheit) for at least two weeks for it to be "Spring" for me.

Photo "Two Mourning Doves" courtesy of
Liz Noffsinger at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

More and more often as February turns to March and beyond, I find myself listening each morning for the contented cooing of the mourning doves, singing soothing songs of hope, devotion and peace to my discouraged, apathetic and stressed-out heart. I do it without even realizing it. They come back to this area while winter still has me in its gnarly, sadistic grasp and they speak reassurance that warmer times will come. And I so need that reassurance: even though my brain knows that spring always does come, my heart comes to the brink of despair every year.  It is not enough to hear someone say that they have seen pussy-willows, or that they've seen robins hopping about. These things are hearsay and I've always been about first-hand experience.

And it is not enough for me to simply survive winter, to grit my teeth and bear the cold, the bulky clothing, the slippery footing, hoping that it will eventually pass. I must know that I know that I know that there will be an end to it. Not to know it intellectually, but deep in my inner being. The song of the mourning doves accomplishes that. It gives me that assurance which carries me through to the time when spring actually does come.

And every day that I don't hear them, there is a vague disappointment - not a conscious one to be sure, at least not often - but there nonetheless. And my heart has to process the lack of reassurance and reset its hope again for hearing that sound, the harbinger of spring even while winter thinks it "has" me. 

"Maybe tomorrow," my heart says to itself. "Maybe tomorrow they will be here."

And so I live today, this 24-hour period, accepting what is. And I live in anticipation of dove-song, knowing it means that life and green and warmth will come again. And soon.

What it takes

I had a rather interesting experience the other night.

I got a chance to role-play as a counselor with someone who is also studying to be a counselor, just as I am; she played the role of the client - which for me was quite the thing because she has more experience than I do at being in a counseling role!

Since I am bound by counselor-client confidentiality, I can't tell anyone what we discussed. However, I can talk about something that happened that meant a great deal to me in that few minutes and in the few minutes that followed, as my group members gave me some feedback of what they observed me doing and saying.

Before I do, though, I need to make a confession. 

I didn't know whether or not I would make a good counselor. I wondered if, after all was said and done, my courses passed and then entering my practicum (estimated time of arrival for that will be Spring 2015) ... whether I was really "cut out" for counseling.

I had heard people tell me that I would be a great counselor. I had gotten support and encouragement from my family, from my friends and from colleagues. And I appreciate everyone's faith in me. It really helps.

But that night was different. That night there were people listening to me, watching me, and evaluating my responses in "real time".  People that have already been in the leather chair, so to speak. 

My office space inviting me

I was so incredibly nervous. I found myself fumbling, grasping for words. And then as I listened to my "client," it happened. I became engrossed in her story. I started listening rather than thinking of what to say next. 

When we were done (the whole thing took under 10 minutes) my colleagues (including my "client") told me what they thought. Honestly. As they described my skills to me from their objective points of view, it was such a boost to my confidence level. It was also a relief that perhaps I hadn't been barking up the wrong tree when I decided to pursue this degree, and it made me very grateful that I had an opportunity to practice these skills in a safe environment (instead of being thrown into the deep end! and I'm not a swimmer, folks...) 

What I'm learning as a result of these interactions and my readings is that even if I don't have a particular skill, I can develop that skill with practice. And if I DO have a particular skill, I can hone it with practice. Plus, if I need to get some feedback or talk about an area that I feel I am weak in, I can talk to someone who has been at it for a lot longer, and gain some insight from him or her. 

I'm not in this alone. And whether or not I have 'what it takes' ... I have people around me who will make sure that I get it. 

That's worth a whole lot to me.

Getting Swept Away

Hubby and I have been picking away at a renovation project in our bedroom. The window (an old slider one) has needed replacing for a few years, and the room has had the same carpet in there ever since we moved in, in 1989. Over the years we got rid of one piece of furniture and bought another, so after a while, nothing matched anymore. 

So, last fall we began making plans to replace the carpet with laminate flooring, and the project got put on hold because other things took priority. 

However, this spring we decided to have it done, once and for all: new window, new floor, and new (and matching) dressers and night-stands.

The window was first to be replaced. A few days ago, a couple of people came to the house and replaced our window with an energy-efficient casement style window. It works great!!

For the past couple of weeks, hubby has been lifting up the carpet. Unknown to us, there were two layers of it in there: the emerald green we knew, and under it - well, let's just say that the previous owners were into the 70s African savannah tree-house motif or something. Eww. And let's not even imagine the dust and the mess.

Anyway, lifting up the carpet meant that we had to unearth the storage bins that seemed to be hidden everywhere. And all of them - I say red-faced - were filled to the brim with my clothes, clothing that I'd accumulated over the last ten years. All different sizes and styles were all jumbled up together - some pieces were winter pieces I had forgotten I owned and had bought new ones, and others were pants as small as size 8 Petite (yes I know that this is not considered small by some standards - but to me it is!) 

Bin by bin, I stood and sorted clothes by destination: closet, dresser, donation, garbage. It was daunting, but I took each bin as it came and dealt with each piece with a critical eye.

Photo "Dustpan And Brush On White" courtesy of artur84
at www.freedigitalphotos.net

Some of my old favorites were painful to release: they were chock-full of memories of thinner, healthier times. I could picture how I used to look in them. Those were the hardest ones to let go, because they were all tied in with the hope I've had for many years: "Maybe I'll fit into that again." It was the vain hope of turning back the clock that kept me stuck in the never-never land of eternal discouragement when I couldn't measure up to a younger, much thinner me. Letting go of that unrealistic hope was not pleasant. But let go I had to - and after an hour, there was a garbage can full of items, plus three and a half large leaf bags full of various-sized pieces to donate to a local thrift store. 

And you know, afterward, I felt differently than I thought I would. Yes, it was tiring, and yes, it was dirty and I had to take a break from it once in a while because the dust was flying so much and quite frankly, my back couldn't take much more standing still in one spot. However, when I'd sorted the last piece, I felt ... freer somehow, unencumbered, as if the future was not tethered to the past anymore and that if my size changed, I could have the pleasure of shopping for new things that fit and flattered me in the moment. Not ten years ago. 

Sometimes it helps me to simplify my life; lately, it had gotten rather cluttered with a lot of baggage - emotional, spiritual, and mental - that simply didn't need to be there. Doing my "clean sweep" helped to remind me that there are things that are worth holding onto, and there are things that really aren't, and need to be released so that there's room in my life for new things, better and more enriching experiences, and fresh ideas. 

I think that tonight I will sleep well, and I am glad that tomorrow is a new day, full of promise and potential. Everyone needs a fresh start - and I am part of everybody. And it's okay to pare off what doesn't belong and keep only what fits. It helps me stay in today. 

And you know what? Today is pretty good.

Hurry Up and Wait

Last night I took the plunge. I applied for admission into a graduate-level university program. 

I've been talking about doing this for a couple of months, and since the decision to "move up" my start date from spring 2014 to fall 2013, it's occupied more of my thoughts and my time.

The deadline for applications for students wishing to begin their program in the fall semester is July 31. So lately, knowing that time can pass quickly, I have been in "hurry up" mode. I had conversations with potential referees, worked on my application letter, reviewed my finances (several times) and slowly, things started to fall into place.

I realized a couple of evenings ago that I had compiled everything that I was responsible to get together except a copy of my curriculum vitae (resume). Since my old Mac computer had all the versions I had for use at home (and since it is now "toast" and I'm using a Windows 8 platform which won't read the jump drive I had made containing all my documents), I had to remind myself to send a copy of the resume I have at work to my home email, which I did yesterday. And last night, after a long day at work, I still couldn't wait (ummm, see the title) to start working on it to take out job-specific jargon and replace it with information that anyone could understand. 

Before I knew it, it was after midnight. I had started my application online, and I was attaching my c.v. and my application letter to it and hitting submit - when it hit me. 

I was doing this. I was really doing this. 

It's a peculiar feeling: uneasy, unsure, hopeful, nervous, excited, scared, and determined all in one big ball of "I don't know what to call this." Me, who is almost never at a loss for words - especially in print. 

Part of me was freaking out. Just plain freaking out. That same part of me still is. My life will change so much - if they accept my application - in the next few months; what I do in the run of a day will barely resemble my "normal" routine now. It will be a LOT of work - and I will not have much time to do much of anything except work and study. 

For a while, I remind myself. Only for a while. 

Until that starts, though, I am back to waiting. A frenzy of activity and then .... nothing. Zippo. The only things missing from my application are things I don't have any control over: my transcript being forwarded to the institution and my references sending in their recommendations for my candidacy. 

Photo "Daily Planner With Pen" courtesy of
BrandonSigma at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

So, June will most likely be spent doing just what I'm doing now - only with the added flavor of anticipation and all those other things I mentioned (in varying degrees on various days or moments). 

And I'll be checking my email more often. 

I'm sure that other projects will come along to occupy my mind between now and the time I hear back from the university. Life does go on: my daughter is still recovering from surgery and learning to walk again (so impressed with her determination!), there are a couple of previously scheduled renovation projects that are happening in the next couple of weeks, and the weather is warming up (finally) so I'll be taking more time to appreciate that, because it lasts such a very short time here! 

And there is a lot to be said for the slogan, "One day at a time." (Sometimes, it's "One moment at a time"!) For today, I get to spend time with my husband and daughter, and run a few errands in town, and weed out my closet and all the tubs of clothing that I had set aside last fall. 

That ... I can do. I don't even have to hurry up. OR wait. 

The Open Door

When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one which has been opened for us. - Helen Keller

In my last post, I talked about giving myself time to let go, to lean against the closed door and process the natural emotional reactions behind letting go, before looking for that opened door to which Helen Keller referred. 

It's kind of funny how life has a way of telling you it's time to move on. Like having an opportunity you thought was open for you way up the road, suddenly appear before you.

Let me explain.

A few months ago, I began looking into the possibility of furthering my studies. I have an undergraduate degree - and this has opened doors for me in the past and made it possible to work in a job that I enjoyed - but a combination of events has birthed a desire in me to make more of a difference to the world than I am now. 

I had decided that, because of certain financial projects that were in the works for this year, I could go back and get my graduate degree starting in May 2014. It would give me time to take care of those projects and then to save up for my tuition. I even looked around and chose the school and the program I would be taking. 

And then, a door closed in my life. That one closed door had a number of repercussions I had not expected on several of those expenses I thought I would have - and as I sat at breakfast with my husband this morning, he took something I had mentioned in passing last night, and ran with it. He gently suggested that I could go back to school sooner. Much sooner. Like in September - only a little over 3 months away. 

Gulp.

Within the space of about 10 minutes, we were talking about logistics, finances, schedules, and division of labor. 

And I felt it happen. 

"Blank Paper Sheet And Pin" photo courtesy of
Witthaya Phonsawat at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

The page was turning. That open door looked a LOT closer. 

Nerve-wracking? OH yes. Yet, as we discussed it, I recognized the sensation of anticipation - almost excitement, right along with all the nervousness and trepidation. 

I'd stopped leaning against the closed door. I was standing on my own two feet and pondering opportunities instead of regretting what couldn't be. 

It was almost surreal, like I was in a time warp - the world in slow motion around me. Voices muffled; all that existed was this pivotal moment.

The sense of pervading peace and serenity, even in the midst of uncertainty and near-panic, was unmistakable. This was it. This was the next right thing. This was something I needed to do.  For ME. I needed to do this to look after myself, to challenge my limits, to overcome obstacles, to practice self-discipline, and eventually to give back to the world.

Oh, did I mention that my graduate degree (Master's) would give me the opportunity to register as a certified counselor? Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you that part.

☺

There is something very gratifying about turning that new page, that page with nothing written on it yet. For a writer, there's a little thrill when opening a new notebook, sliding a hand across a clean page, and preparing to write that first word. It's almost as if that first word is the most important one, even if it is a small one. 

This is a small word. 
I. 
The next word is a verb. 
I want. 
What do I want? I want to make. 
Make a difference.
A difference in me, a difference in others.

So ... guess what?

The door is before me. And I'm reaching for the doorknob.

An Almost Everything Week

So I guess those of you who read this blog know that my daughter dislocated her kneecap on November 30, 2012, and that she's been attending physiotherapy while being monitored by an orthopedic surgeon.

When she went to see him in January after five weeks off work, the knee hadn't come along as quickly in healing as the specialist had thought. We asked why he didn't order an MRI. "These soft-tissue injuries generally settle on their own," he replied. "In all my years of doing this, I've only seen one situation where the patellar dislocation was hiding a deeper issue in the underlying ligaments, and the patient needed surgery to correct it. Besides, we only have one MRI machine for the whole Island. When you see me again in three weeks," he turned to her and spoke directly, "if you are not smiling when you do, I'll order the MRI." 

On February 5, she wasn't smiling. He ordered the MRI. "When the hospital calls you with a date, ask to be put on the cancellation list," he advised her.  "In the wintertime, with people in the country not wanting to chance the road when there are 'a few flakes' and the forecast is nasty; it shouldn't take long."

It took a few days to get the paperwork in place. She called the hospital herself after waiting almost a week. "Oh yes," they said. Your date is June 19th." 

(Gulp). She immediately asked to be put on the cancellation list. They obliged! 

Then we began noticing how often we had storms on the weekend this year. When it wasn't the weekend, it was a civic holiday. We prayed. "A storm, just a little one, to discourage someone from making the trip? Please?" (Was this me, the one who HATES winter, praying for a STORM??) Yet, we'd seen her hobble from room to room. We knew she was going to need surgery. We knew in our guts, "The sooner the better." That was this past Monday - the civic holiday when it was storming and the Island shut down for hours.

"Kingdom of Cold" courtesy of Evgeni Dinev at
www.FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Two days later, (this past Wednesday) with freezing rain and snow forecast for later in the day, she and her father went for a few errands. She got a temporary handicapped permit so that it would be easier for us to park and get in and out of places while she was recuperating. She paid her insurance premiums for her work's health care plan. 

Then, when they got back home, there was a message waiting on the voice mail. "This is radiology calling. Can you come in for 3 pm?" Her heart sank; it had been left over an hour prior to her return. 

Forty-five minutes later, the phone rang. "Are you still interested in that 3 pm appointment?"

OH yeah. With bells on! 

She managed quite well, and soon afterward we were laughing and joking over how quick it all was and how the promised storm held off until we were home!

I also started deepening my understanding of how ironic and quirky God's sense of humor is - using the things I hate most about winter to our benefit, and after all the complaining I'd been doing this year about the cold! Oh, He's a witty One. ;)

Anyway, the next morning, Thursday, she called the surgeon's office. "Can I get an appointment? I just got my MRI yesterday afternoon." They booked one for March 8. Wow - about 2 weeks, not bad!

Yesterday morning, Friday, she got yet another call. "This is Dr. ____'s office. We have the results of your MRI. The doctor wants to see you as soon as possible. Can you come in today at 11:15 to discuss?" 

A quick exam to confirm the MRI findings was all that he needed ... and so he told her what the results were. Without getting all technical, when she dislocated her kneecap, (this happened three times after the initial injury, all within a week and a half of it!) three ligaments were stretched permanently and were now too lax, making the knee unstable and more prone to dislocating again. Those ligaments, every time she re-injured, got frayed against the back of her kneecap, which runs along a vertical trench-like groove, like a taut rope fraying against a length of wood. 

This needed to be repaired by shortening the now too-long ligaments and securing with screws. 

Surgery.

"While I'm in there, I'd like to shift the focal point of your knee because it's off-center," he told her. This involves operating on the tendon that goes from the bottom of the kneecap to the top of the shin-bone, separating it from the shin-bone and re-attaching it more toward the center of her stance. What this will do is correct that knock-knee problem she's had since she was a baby and prevent her from hurting it again. 

Once all her (and our) questions were answered, he wrote the requisition for surgery. Right on the requisition, he wrote, "Place on cancellation list." 

Before she even got a surgery date.

Of course, they'll send her information in the mail with her "if not before" date and instructions for pre-surgery... yes. But usually she'd have to wait for that information and THEN call to be put on the cancellation list. 

We got the impression he was trying to bump her to the front of the line. Just an impression, you understand. Perhaps he was feeling a little guilty that he'd waited so long? that she was the one exception in the last 20 years that he hadn't counted on?  Perhaps.

We're just so glad that the wheels are moving, that this will be over sooner rather than later, and that things can get back to normal and she might even be better than before she hurt herself! 

Was it only a month ago that someone (who shall remain nameless) turned to me at the kitchen table and said that he was not convinced that God cared about us? 

Hmmm.

That same person turned to me last night and said, "You know, I think I'll start a gratitude journal. I forget so easily."

*happy sigh....*