This place

As I look around my apartment this morning, and reflect on the last three months here, so many thoughts and feelings arise. In two days, I will be moving back home from here. I will be resuming an improved version of my former life with my family. It will be improved in the sense that I will be spending more time with them, due to the fact that I will continue to work remotely from home for my employer. It will be improved as well, because I decided to continue my march toward retirement in spite of the fact that my practicum didn't work out; this will leave me more time to volunteer and thus enrich and expand my life and my comfort zone.

But looking around me, I find my thoughts drawn to the lessons and the skills I have learned while living alone, and to the ups and downs of having nobody to answer to in this place except myself. A common thread through it all is the truism that you never know what you can do until you are forced to do it. I've been forced to sleep alone, eat alone, work alone, amuse myself alone, wash dishes alone, take out the trash by myself, do chores without anyone's help, and many more things. 

And I have learned that I can do it. I have learned that I can survive living alone. However, I have also learned that it is a lot easier to do when I have support and connection with the people who love me. My phone has been my lifeline while living here; I talk with my husband three to four times a day on average, and I speak with my brother about once every day or so. My relationships with both of them have deepened in the last three months. 

I also find myself remembering the events of the last three months and how this place has been my "home base" - a place I could be myself - a haven from the stress of being in a practicum with a supervisor who was not a good match for me, and whose attitude and words reminded me too much of childhood traumas I have never fully addressed. This place has housed me, fed me, given me a place to sleep, to think, to cry, and to grow. 

My plants - and other friends...

And soon, I must say goodbye to it. And I find - to my surprise - that I have mixed feelings about that! 

I will miss the freedom to keep my own schedule and be able to listen to music or TV programs (read: Netflix) without using earphones. I will miss the ability to sit in my chair without removing a cat or worrying about cat hair sticking into my clothing (or anyone else's who might visit me). 

But I know that I will be able to bring back certain things with me - like the rugs I bought for the apartment. The big one will adorn my home office and the smaller one will be placed beside my side of our bed. My plants will be in my home office and some will go to their original perches in the front hallway. Others will go back to my work office (the ones that are poisonous to cats). The paintings my family bought for me will also go in my home office - and from the rest of the furniture, I hope to be able to make a livable space in the other room in the basement.

And I am looking forward to being able to be close to my friends and living (instead of just visiting) with my family again. Yes, even the cats - I have missed those furry folks! My own bed beckons me, as does my kitchen (which is over twice the size of this little one in my apartment...) and the other creature comforts: cable TV, access to exercise equipment for when the weather is bad, and oh yes, did I mention my family? And friends? 

But this place - as eager as I am to move and get back to all I hold dear - still holds some sentiment. 

It will be hard to say goodbye.

T.L.C.

The night before last, there was a "cat explosion" in our house.

They happen frequently. The three cats are sitting within sight of one another, and nobody knows who starts it, but it seems that all three of them jump as if zapped by electricity and they all race off in different directions. It's comical to watch! 

But this last time, someone zigged when they should have zagged. And one of the cats got hurt.  Of course, cats are not all that good at showing that they are in pain, but the kitty in question did have her hair all poofed out longer than usual for this type of event. Later, we saw her limping - and we thought she'd hurt a joint in her ankle in the back. We helped her, made a little bed for her in a large dog-crate with some litter in there and a couple of food dishes, so that she wouldn't be tempted to try to jump up on things or do too much, and today, she went to see the vet to get checked over. 

It turns out that it was a hip problem - a stretched ligament or tendon most likely - and the vet gave her an anti-inflammatory shot and gave us some medication to give in her food. 

This is our little Eris - named after the
goddess of Chaos in Greek mythology.
The photo was taken in April 2016.

We were concerned that her "brothers" - who are both bigger than she is - would take advantage of her weakness and try to bully her.

Quite the opposite. There has been quizzical trilling, sniffing, and reaching out paws to her, and one or the other of them is not far from her crate, keeping her company whenever they can. The oldest perched on her crate this morning, and was there most of the day (except for when she was at the vet's) guarding her and letting her know he was there by occasionally hanging his paws in front of the door, letting her sniff them. 

Both of the boys have been very gentle with her, and have not tried to engage her in playing (which to them means roughhousing!) They have stayed close, and have changed their favourite perches so they can see what she is doing in the crate.  What a tremendous model of tender loving care! The whole family has been so concerned for her, looking after her, making sure she is fed, comfortable, and settled down. The vet says that she will need to take it easy like this for another week and a half, and wants to check her over again on Monday just to see if there has been any improvement. 

Such care and love expressed toward a little seven and a half pound ball of cuteness... who has melted our hearts over and over again... and seeing her brothers take such good care of her is so heartening. It's so not what we expected, such a surprising display of concern and caring, that we are in awe.

It's so encouraging. I'm so grateful to have them all in my life. :-D



 

Quiet

It's quiet. But this time, the silence feels different than at other times.

I remember other times, other moments, even other places. For example, a week ago, as I was sitting in my dormitory room in Calgary, Alberta, with my roommates gone for the day and me finishing up breakfast, the quiet was deafening. I felt isolated, alone, trapped. I was thousands of miles from everyone I held dear, eating breakfast alone without their company, without their laughter and conversation, making do with my keyboard tray and my laptop as a makeshift table, and feeling incredibly homesick. Tears began to sting my eyes as they rose to the surface. 

Of course, it wasn't as bad as one time (one very LONG time) when I felt so very alone. My youngest child had died and the funeral was over, and the sympathies from well-wishers had tapered off, and I was (yes) surrounded by my closest family and closest friends ... but knowing that the tick, tick, tick of the clock would never again be interrupted by her raucous laughter or her crazy antics ... made the quiet an open sore.  I wanted to play the last video she sent to me just to hear her voice again, but it made my family sad, so I sat in the quiet - the cruel, taunting quiet - and suffered loss that no parent should suffer. 

A few days previous to the breakfast incident in Calgary, a classmate took me to "see the Rockies" - we drove up to Canmore, Alberta, (see my previous post) and I was increasingly in awe of the indescribable vastness of these wondrous creations, the closer we got to "The Three Sisters" peaks. Even though most of the time my classmate chattered away, in the core of me there settled a blissful quiet, where I was able to commune with my baby girl because she had seen the Rockies this close too, about a month before she died. It was somehow a shared experience, and in the inner quiet ... I felt close to her in a way I had not felt for a long time. And I knew she knew it, and that she was deliriously blissful and at Home, more than she ever could have felt here. I knew that she was okay, that her restless, anxious days were done. Happy tears slipped their way past my lower eyelids and slipped unhindered down my cheeks.  The quiet healed me, soothed me, comforted me. 

A black squirrel - July 19, 2017,
on the Mt. Royal U "Lincoln Park"
campus,Calgary, AB.
It nearly blended in
to the tree trunk...

A hare munching on fragrant white
clover, July 20, 2017

In Calgary this year, there were also times during the ordinary hustle and bustle of the day, when I sought out the quiet and made it part of my day; there, I could recharge my emotional batteries and gain strength to face whatever task was ahead. There was a lovely park on campus where I would linger either on my way to or from class, and sometimes both... being there seemed to restore my soul. Perhaps it was because it was so beautiful. I watched the water from the man-made waterfall tumble over the rocks and land in a little pool, close to an arbour with a little park bench inside; I smelled the roses and drank in their striking fuchsia, bold musical tones that sang to my eyes and caressed my nostrils in the breeze.

I was particularly drawn to the wildlife in Alberta. I got to see some amazing creatures there; to the locals they were a dime a dozen, but to me, they were remarkable: magpies, gophers, and hares abounded. Even the squirrels were different than at home: larger, and black instead of reddish-brown. They were fast too, so I was pleased to get a photo of one (see above, left). The quiet they produced in me was tender, almost a communal feeling. I felt somehow at one with my surroundings. It made being far away from home not quite so lonely. 

But the quiet today is different still.  It is a calmness, an assurance that all is right, that I am where I am supposed to be, that my family is not far away, and that I can rest and relax without worrying. I can close my eyes and know that when I open them, I will see the familiar - the jumble of cat toys and pillows, my books and papers, and the occasional cat walking across the floor or playing in an empty cardboard box. 

I like this quiet best of all.

One Step at a Time

Already the journey seems long. 

Every day drags into the next; there is a same-ness to them that is somehow numbing. Numbing feels good sometimes, now that the initial surreal-ness of the grieving process has worn off and the hurts (when they happen, usually unexpectedly) hurt worse. 

The problem with the numbness is that sometimes I forget how fragile I still am. 

And a large part of me just doesn't want to "go there." There are issues I need to work through, but try as I might, I just can't make myself open that Pandora's box. Looking within, I can tell that I do have unresolved feelings and that these feelings need to be addressed, but it's not an experience I look forward to having, because it involves allowing myself to be angry at someone whom I love dearly and whom I miss so much that it aches. 

When I have "impatient" or "self-critical" times like this, I try to think about what my counselor would say to me. Or what I would say to someone else who was going through this. And it helps me to turn the Golden Rule toward the mirror, to treat myself the way I wish to be treated, to be gentle with myself.

Grief looks different for every person and also for every loss for the same person. There is no right way to do it; there is no timetable to follow. It takes however long it takes and it takes whatever path it takes. If I am not ready to tackle a certain part of my process and I am truly honest with myself, I will discover (as I have so many times these last three months) that the part of the process for which I am not ready is not where I am supposed to be for right now, that I can let it go. It will return when I am better equipped. 

Right now I'm not ready to even look at my anger. I am currently at a different stage - psychologists call it bargaining - and part of that stage (for those who are dealing with a death) is a tremendous sense of guilt: the "if only" mentality. 

"If only" is not pleasant. But it's normal to feel those feelings. Realizing that all the "if only" statements in the world aren't going to change what happened has been a process in itself, and applies to each regret in turn; there is no 'blanket' coverage for it. Every time, the process is the same.  Feel the feelings. Look at them and figure out why they are there, and do what I need to do in order to look after myself. 

Image "Watering Stump" by rattigon at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

Objectively, I can see that going through the process in this way is necessary. Personally, I can't work through feelings of anger against someone else until I've faced my need to work through my own guilt and forgive myself for so many things. Some of it I've processed; that is progress. At least I can sleep past 1:30 a.m. without sleep aids now. 

It doesn't stop me from wanting this whole thing to be over with, though. I keep wanting to "skip to the end" but ... it doesn't work that way. I need to take one step at a time. And then I get to take the next step, and the next. Eventually I'll have worked through the tough stuff ... even the anger that I am unable to process right now. 

The blessing about going through the process as it happens (without borrowing trouble from the next step before I get there) will be that the memories, the good times that bring comfort and laughter - these will remain. It doesn't mean that I'll have stopped grieving, or that I have ceased caring, or that the pain will go away. It will just be different.

Maybe different will be good. I hope so.

Equilibrium

It's amazing how quickly something can command your attention and take over your life.

When I first joined Facebook over three years ago, little did I realize how much time it would take out of my routine. Not that it did at first. I would spend an evening catching up with friends. Then I'd turn on the computer right after getting home from work and before long, all my spare time was devoted to not just "lurking" but also posting things, playing games and liking or commenting on others' pictures or posts. That along with blogging, became my go-to place when I was home, especially if I was "bored."

Photo "Golden Brass Scales Of Justice" courtesy of Vichaya Kiatying-Angsulee at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

A few days ago, someone challenged me to take a look at what I spend the most of my time doing so as to determine what was most important to me. When I realized how unbalanced my life had become by spending so much time on social media (Facebook, Google Plus, twitter) and watching television, it was quite a shock. "If you could only spend 90 minutes a week watching your favorite TV series, or 'liking' and 'commenting' on Facebook," this person said, "would you feel out of touch somehow?" 

I had to admit that I would. 

Don't worry, I'm not going to sign off my accounts or anything. But the challenge made me think. 

Balance. Equilibrium. It's like my world had become top-heavy. Keeping in touch is great; enjoying yourself is great too. However, the routine of get-home-and-turn-on-the-computer-and-TV was close to becoming an obsession with me. Other things started to slide. Priorities re-arranged behind my back. Suddenly things were out of whack, and I wondered why I was feeling so out of sorts, like there was never enough time to do what needed to be done at the end of the day. 

When I started getting my priorities back into line, the balance I was seeking started to fall into place. Things that weren't necessary fell by the wayside. Stress levels reduced. I had more time to do what needed doing, to do what was most important. I started to enjoy the little pleasures again: the company of a good friend, the time to write, a good cup of tea, and the comfortable quiet of quality family time.

I'd missed that. 
I'm glad to have it back again.

Leaning against the door

Helen Keller said once, "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."

I understand the sentiment; I do. I know that there comes a time when we must move on. 

However, I also believe that it's normal and healthy to look at the closed door - whatever that is, for a while - and to ponder its meaning, whether or not that leads to restoration. Only then can we move forward. 

I also think that it's perfectly natural, after the door has been shut, to lean against it, to allow oneself to regret that the situation has gotten to the point of separation, to regroup, and to begin to accept the new reality. The scene is common when there has been a quarrel; the person goes out, closes the door and then leans with his or her back to the door. In those moments, the heart can begin to let go, to feel the shock, accept a previously denied truth, and eventually ask itself, "Where do I go from here?" 

How long that takes is anyone's guess. It's different for each person and even for one person, it's different depending on the situation, and/or the nature of the relationship in question. 

Photo "Massaging Shoulder As Very Stressed"
courtesy of Stuart Miles at
www.fredigitalphotos.net

When a relationship ends - for whatever reason - it hurts. That's okay. It's supposed to hurt. 

Sometimes, when the inner pain is deep, it even hurts physically. The mind-body connection is amazingly strong. A person can literally become sick and/or sore because of the stress associated with prolonged emotional upheaval.

At the same time, at some point in those moments - or days - of leaning against the door, comes a marvelous gift: the ability to breathe again. Oh, I don't mean the involuntary "in, out, in, out" stuff that the nervous system does automatically. I mean belly-breathing: diaphragm breathing. I mean unclenching those abdominal muscles you didn't even know were wound up tighter than a fiddle string - and allowing the physical tension to drain away a little bit with every breath. It's the kind of breathing you have to remind yourself to do, (medium slowly in as far as you can, medium slowly out as far as you can) or your body only does enough to keep itself functioning. I'm beginning to think of this deep breathing exercise as an internal massage. Or a spiritual yawn - oxygenating the psyche as well as the body, purging the toxins of lingering fear and resentment.

It's all normal; it's part of the process. As I've said so many times before, feelings are not good or bad. They just are. They were created to be a barometer of the inner climate, indicators of attitudes that affect health, behaviors, so many things. Tuning in to those feelings and finding out why they're there (in other words, drilling down to the attitudes behind them) does way more good than denying that they exist (perhaps out of some misplaced sense of guilt or shame, or fear of being seen as "weak.") How much better to carve out time to look after yourself, and to take however long it takes on a regular basis to process events and your emotional reaction to them.

Taking the time to find closure like that is another way to help yourself let go of things over which you have no control anyway (I'm talking to mySELF here) ... and gain the internal strength to look for that second door.

Soup for the spirit

EASY MINESTRONE (wheat-free)

One tetra box of chicken stock
1 cooked boneless chicken breast, diced
2 and 1/2 to 3 cups water (3 if using celery)
1 minced onion
1/4 diced turnip
1 stalk celery, diced fine (optional)
3 diced carrots
2 medium potatoes, diced
1 to 2 Tbsp summer savory
1/2 tsp pepper
1/2 to 2/3 can (5.5 oz) your favorite tomato paste
1/4 tsp ground ginger

Soup in the process of cooking vegetables.
It's so good on a wintry day.

Put the stock and water in a large (4L) pot with the chicken, onion, and turnip (and celery if you wish) and bring to boil. Lower heat to medium and boil uncovered for 30 to 40 minutes. 

Add carrots, potatoes, summer savory and pepper and continue boiling for another 20 to 30 minutes to meld the flavors together. 

Then add tomato paste and ginger, bring to the boil and reduce heat. Simmer for about 2 to 4 minutes, stirring frequently so the broth won't stick to the pot. The soup will be thick, something like the consistency of mulligatawny (or perhaps Irish Stew). However, the taste is like minestrone - without the seeds. Serve alone or with garlic bread.

When I awoke this morning and looked outside to see a snowstorm in progress, I knew today would be a "soup day." I'd seen ingredients last night in the fridge, so I decided to put my creative cap on at around 11:30 this morning. The result was a delicious minestrone-chicken-vegetable soup that stuck to our ribs and hit that "it's cold outside, let's hunker down" spot. My impromptu recipe appears above. It turned out better than I thought it would with no recipe to guide me.

One of the bonuses to soup in the winter is the way it helps with the humidity level inside the house, easing coughs and getting rid of that annoying prickling feeling inside the nostrils. 

A nice thick soup is "comfort food" too. It warms the insides. 

When the cold winds of discouragement whip all around me, when I just want to pull the covers up around my head and tune the world out, that's when I look for a good helping of soup for the spirit. I start to remember all the good things, all the miracles that have happened in my life, all the blessings I've been given. I surround myself with wholesome, hearty helpings of wonderful, uplifting music and the caring company of true friends. These things feed my spirit - they make me feel warm and cared for inside, grateful for even the smallest things and even more grateful for the big things. 

I let that simmer. I linger over the good feelings they give me. I dwell on those great experiences and as I do, more bubble up to the surface. And when the "soup" is just right, when the goodness of those gifts lends flavor to all the other things in my life which might be somewhat bland, I allow myself the joy of letting it feed my innermost being. 

It's okay. That's what soup for the spirit is for. 

The New Normal

I remember a time, not long ago, when I had to think about every reaction I had before I could decide whether to go for it or not. Something would happen and rather than "doing what came naturally," I would need to pass it through a filter, one that said, "Is this something over which I have any control? If it isn't, I need to let go of it!!" 

It felt awkward. I wasn't used to living like this. However, eventually I got to see some positive results, which motivated me to keep doing it. And, in some cases, the new behavior patters slowly superseded the old ones and I didn't have to think or be intentional about my responses to things. 

Responding instead of reacting started being the "new normal."  Then I started not even noticing that I was doing anything differently than before - unless someone else called attention to it. 

That's what happened yesterday. I forget most of the details, but there was a situation at home where someone wanted to discuss something that was quite uncomfortable for me because it involved me expressing an opinion I knew would not be well-received, risking losing my cool and saying something I would regret. In the past I would have clammed up, not said anything, let someone else speak for me, or I would have held it all in and then exploded, leaving emotional wreckage behind. 

However, that's not what happened. I made it clear that I didn't want to discuss the topic, but I realized that this was NOT something I could wriggle out of!! So ... I let my feelings be known in a respectful way, and I didn't fly off the handle doing it. I listened, accepted what I needed to, spoke my mind and then let the rest go. I didn't lash out, I didn't shoot a biting, sarcastic remark out there and stalk off, and I did navigate the conversation without hurting anyone's feelings or working myself into a lather. 

I got through it and then I forgot it. Just like that.

The next day, I heard about a conversation that an observer in the situation had with my hubby about how much I had changed in the last few years. She then started to outline the way I would have reacted and behaved before I started on my journey of inner healing. 

Her observations really kind of floored me ... not because they weren't true - they were - but because I'd come to expect the way I responded to the situation as "the new normal." It had become part of me to the point where I didn't have to think through every moment, every remark. 

That is encouraging. It gives me hope ... because I see how far I have left to go in this journey ... that someday I will look around at emotionally lush pastures and sunny skies, able to accept and to give help from and to those who need it and from whom I need to receive it. 

It'll probably take a while. Yet - I'll get there. . . one day at a time.

Waiting to blossom

Whether winter happens for you in December through March (and here in the Maritimes, it's more the end of April...) or June through August, the colder weather, the reduction in humidity, and especially the shorter days (and therefore less sunlight) can play havoc with people's moods and activity levels. There's a kind of pseudo-hibernation that seeps into the mind and sometimes even the body. 

Where I live, "cocooning" is very common. It's the tendency to hunker down inside the house and not go out except for necessities: groceries, gas, work, possibly church. People don't visit each other - or they have to make a special effort to do so. 

The last couple of months, I've been experiencing this kind of phenomenon more than usual. There's an almost imperceptible sense of being in suspended animation, of 'waiting' for something... sometimes not so patiently.  

About three years ago, I ordered a Hoya carnosa plant from a nursery in Georgia that specializes in those kinds of plants. They sent me three rooted cuttings and I planted them. ONE survived. It grew from a five-inch-long stem with three leaves on it to the size it is today, about four feet long from root to longest tip. 

This kind of plant has to be well established before it will bloom. So, I've been waiting and expecting it to produce bloom clusters - they fill the air with a heady fragrance that is intensified by the nectar that hangs in droplets from the center of each flower. So far ... it has not bloomed. I've seen signs that it's developing the "nibs" from which the flower clusters will eventually grow, but it's happening a lot more slowly than I'd like.

My Hoya - photo taken about three weeks ago

It is healthy; it is growing and sending out shoots, and the foliage is lovely. Yet I find myself wondering when it will blossom.

In a way, I feel like my life is like that plant right now. I know where I want to be, but it's like I'm in a state of pseudo-hibernation. I'm healthy and growing; I know I am ... but it seems the conditions are not right for flowering. 

I know that it will happen. I just don't know when. And there's a large part of me that longs for it to start happening NOW. 

What I need to understand about the plant is that it takes however long it takes ... and that in the meantime, I need to look after what's there. There may be only leaves, but maybe if I focus on keeping them healthy, Mrs. Hoya will surprise me. And the way I keep them healthy is by providing enough light, warmth, and the right amount of water and food to nourish the roots. 

The same applies to me. I just need to make it a priority to look after my growth needs, to nourish my roots (those parts of me that are hidden from view but which are crucial to my spiritual health) and to stay in the warm atmosphere of acceptance, and the light of unconditional love.

The Next Right Thing

"What went wrong?" she asked me.

I paused. "I guess the main reason it failed was that everyone who heard about this initiative felt it was a great idea, agreed that it was needed, even thought about participating, but when they realized how much work it would take to get better, and how long it would take, they just ... lost interest." 

The conversation had begun when I dropped by the community centre where for a year and a half, Codependents Anonymous had been meeting twice a month, and where, after much soul-searching and lack of attendance, we had decided to disband. I was returning the key the administrator had given me.

Our talk then ranged into a wide range of topics, sharing experiences in recovering from codependency, thought patterns we each battled in isolation, and we agreed that perhaps in a larger population base, we might find enough people who would be interested in doing whatever it took to be free from old, destructive patterns of thinking. 

Perhaps. 

How to build a ramp (or make a major lifestyle change):
Start where you are, do what you can TODAY, and
carry on from where you left off, tomorrow.

I got to thinking - after we had talked and parted company - about the tendency there is in human nature to quail when faced with a daunting task. One looks at the enormity of it all, and it's easy to get discouraged. That's part and parcel of the very kind of thinking that keeps people (like me) in dysfunction; it took a great deal of desperation for me to bite that bullet and start challenging my long-held beliefs about relationships, people, myself, God, and what I had considered important.

What I discovered after I started the process was that even though it was going to take a while, I'd start where I was: no apologies and no excuses, and then do what I could TODAY. I forced myself to NOT think about how far there was yet to go, how much there was yet to do - which was a big deal for me. Over and over I reminded myself that I was only responsible for doing the "next right thing." Of course, my definition (once I got into the process) of what was "right" started to undergo a transformation. 

I was surprised to discover that "doing the next right thing" and "being right about things" are mutually exclusive. The former is about humility and honesty; the latter is about self-aggrandizement and control. 

I learned - by making a lot of mistakes - to be kind to myself when I made mistakes or slipped back in my recovery; often I felt like I was making a step forward only to feel as though I was taking three steps backward. What was really happening was that I was blazing a new trail and making sure I knew where the path was by tamping it down, over and over again. I was practicing. I remember stopping myself when I started doing things the "old way" - even in mid-sentence - and forcing myself to do things the "new way." It felt uncomfortable at first because it was so new. I was terrified of where it might take me. I was afraid of the unknown, nervous that I wouldn't like the finished product, that I would lose more than I would gain.

Yet ... the results spoke for themselves, little by little, one day at a time. It wasn't long before my kids actually wanted to talk to me again. They weren't afraid of my reactions (or should I say, my OVER-reactions). My husband was visibly more relaxed around me. And ... I was happier. Freer. More peaceful. Even though I was still doing (with a great deal of help from above) what amounted to a total reconstruction of my attitudes and my beliefs about myself and my relationships, it wasn't like I was working in a vacuum with no hope of results until I was done. That was the beauty of it. The changes were small, sometimes frustratingly so, but they happened, and they kept happening. 

They keep happening even now. New doors, new challenges open up to me and all the while, I am learning more and more about boundaries, about self-care, about acceptance, about courage, and about really living life instead of just surviving it - even giving back once in a while. 

Dr. Bill Cosby (yes, he earned a Ph.D in Urban Education in 1977!) once said, "Decide that you want it more than you are afraid of it." 

For me, that decision was key. And ... it still is.

Creep

Of course it happens slowly. It can't happen any other way. 

If it happened quickly ... we'd notice. But over time, little things creep in and we give just a little to make room for them. It could be saying yes to too many projects, or letting the housework pile up, or taking on just one more extra-curricular activity for the kids, or buying just one more trinket. 

But one leads to two, and two leads to more - whether items, hours, or days. And before long, we look around and wonder how it all happened.

It's creep. Sly, seemingly innocent concessions we make. 

I do this more often than I care to admit. I get overwhelmed and wonder how it all happened, when "all I was trying to do was..." And so it goes. I want to be seen as a nice person (hm, sounds like fear of rejection to me), so instead of saying "No" when someone asks me to do something I would just as soon not do, I say "Yes" ... instead of setting that boundary.  Boundaries are hard. Enforcing them is harder. So I give in. Even if giving in is bad for me. 

Got this drawing HERE

After a while, I become obsessed and driven by what this one and that one wants, and the stress builds - and I start getting burnt out. The alarm bells start to ring. Eventually, if I ignore them, I get resentful of the people I'm trying to help. And the bells get louder.

The alarm bells didn't always ring for me though. I just wondered why I was so tired and unhappy all the time; after all, if people would only show a little appreciation, I'd be fine. Right?
Wrong. 
When I first started to embrace a lifestyle of looking after myself as one of the people with whom I was in a relationship (there's a thought!) and healing from past hurts, I'd catch myself doing this, spreading myself too thinly for others' benefit (or so I thought). I used to berate myself that it took me longer than what I thought was healthy, to realize I was doing it. The cycle would be three-quarters of the way through before I would figure out what was happening, and stop. As time went on, though, I noticed that I was catching myself sooner and sooner. And I was practicing my new behaviors of saying how I feel instead of stuffing it down inside somewhere. Not every time, but more times.

This is progress. This is not perfection. 
Thank God perfection is not my goal anymore; it used to be. I can give myself permission to fail. Not that I try to fail, but if I do, it's okay. I guess I accepted the notion that the only perfect One who ever walked this earth got nailed to a cross - and I'm not Him.

What a relief.

This lifestyle - this one day at a time, first things first, let go and let God philosophy on which it's based - is actually pretty good. I'm generally happy most of the time. Oh, I get flustered over things that occur, the weather, circumstances, just like everyone else, but I don't beat myself up about not being able to do it all and be superwoman any more. 

Well, not much. ;)

And that creep phenomenon? Thankfully, it doesn't get as far as it once did. 

Working at resting

It's normal and expected to work when it is time to work, although some people play at working (that's a different topic).  But often, I have a hard time resting. 

Less so now, but when I first realized the value of resting, it was like my skin had the jitters.  

Resting can mean getting enough sleep - and although that's important, that's not what I mean here.  I mean being in that state of mind that so trusts God and so lets go of the need to fix stuff that only He's supposed to fix (no matter how long it takes) - that the worries and anxieties don't have a chance to take root.  

It took me a fair amount of time to begin to learn how to rest ... actively. Yes, to work at resting.  I still have to work at it. 

Let me give an example - something pretty close to home.  

A while ago, my daughter decided that she wanted to apply for a Canadian passport.  The reason she wanted one was because she had / still has a friend in the States and she wanted to visit.  Maybe even to go and live there.  

My reaction?  Instant panic.

I got this photo royalty-free HERE

The questions abounded, big and little. What if it doesn't work out? how much will it cost us for her to travel / move all that way? will she be able to survive down there with no safety net? what about her plans to go to school or get a job here? are those put on hold or will they EVER come to pass? What will she do to communicate with us? Will I have to take her off my cell phone plan?  What if she gets stranded with no money of her own? What if she gets sick and has to see an American doctor - how much will THAT cost? Will we survive financially? And worst - what if we never see her again?  

On and on the questions tumbled, one after the other, especially when her passport arrived - just a few days ago.  I get a bit of respite from the questions once in a while, but they just keep popping up at odd moments, usually when I am trying to enjoy something else.  The panic grows if I let it, and sometimes it comes unbidden - even wakes me up and I have to work hard at dealing with it. 

Feeling those feelings of uncertainty ... isn't wrong.  It's okay to be concerned about a loved one, to feel unsure about the future. But when it takes over my life, when I can't sleep because it robs me of peace, then it is a problem.  And when I try to manipulate the outcome by using guilt and shame, or intimidation - it ends up pushing my loved one away and giving me the very outcome that I fear most.  

Every.  Time.  

It takes a great deal of effort to force my focus back onto the basics, the most important things, the fundamental truths of faith: God is in control. Of everything.  I have no control over outcomes; only He does.  He loves both me and my daughter; He will look after me ... and her. I need to relax my grip, to learn to let go.  The work part is in the fact that I have to keep reminding myself of what is most important.  

As the time draws closer and closer to her departure (not even sure of THAT date!) it's really tempting to panic all over again.  I can admit that I'm scared. That's okay - it's okay to be scared.  What isn't okay is for me to ping all over the place and react (usually badly) and let my fears rule my behavior.  

When I work on resting, I know peace.  The knots loosen in my stomach. I remind myself that letting go of my need to have my hands on it - even if she makes mistakes - is the only way to do that.  I accept what is.  Even if I am scared.

It's a lesson that I keep having to learn with every situation.  But I have the assurance that God's not going to give up on me.  And neither should I.

Stretching

My back went out this past Sunday night - sometime before Monday morning. It was a flare-up of a chronic problem - degenerative disc disease.  Sometimes the vertebrae go out of alignment.  The muscles react - or should I say, overreact - and clench tightly to try and keep the back from going "out" further.  The problem with that is ... it HURTS.

One thing about being in pain - you really cut out the non-essentials. And it's surprising how many things you thought were essentials ... aren't.  

But I digress. 

I knew early Monday morning, as soon as I awoke and put my feet on the floor, that I needed to go to physiotherapy; I was hobbling around and every step I took was agony.  Even sitting was way more than uncomfortable.  The pain was so bad that I called in sick and made an appointment to look after what was essential. After a visit to the doctor to get a referral to physio (as well as a prescription for some pain medication), and going through my first treatment, the pain lessened to manageable levels and I was able to get back to work the next day.  I was rather pleasantly surprised because usually my back is slow to respond to any kind of treatment, be it chiropractic treatments or physiotherapy. 

Here's the site where I got this photo.

My therapeutic regimen involves moist heat, electrical stimulation of the muscles surrounding my back, a bit of acupuncture, and some deep massage to "release" the clenched-tight muscles that have gripped my spine like a vise to keep it from slipping out of alignment.

But there is a home regimen too - some of which I can carry out at work.  It involves 20 minutes each of a couple of different exercises to stretch those lower back muscles.  

And stretch those they do.  Feeling that "pull" is pretty uncomfortable - but I put up with it for the benefits that I know will happen.  Not pain - my therapist is quick to tell me that - but a pulling feeling that is uncomfortable. Very, at times.  But the exercises are teaching my back muscles how to behave, how to let go, so the joints can slip back into place.  

It's going slower than I'd like - well, face it, I'd like it to be immediate!! But I can see a difference, day to day.  And in time, I'll not only be better, but I'll have the knowledge that I need in order to help prevent another flare-up.

In the meantime, I'm learning a lot - about how important letting go is, for one thing.  The back pain seemed sudden, but it had been building for a few weeks - a little tension here, and little clenching there, and finally my back jumped the rest of the way to pain, do not pass Go, do not collect $200.  And "not letting go" can creep up on my inner life too.  Little things I hold onto, little things I think I can handle without God's help, tiny things that niggle at me and I ignore them rather than dealing with them as they arise. 

I  need to let those go and relax my grip on them. 

They'll only end up hurting me (pardon the pun) in the end.

Bumpity-bump

I have a vivid memory from when I was six years old.  It's a happy memory.  

My grandfather lived down a long mud lane.  He drove a twelve-year-old Chevy truck built in the early 1950s with those bouncy-jouncy shocks that allowed passage over a dirt road but were pretty hard on the occupants.  He smelled like pipe tobacco and all the outdoors.  I loved him with everything I knew how to love with.  He never spoke a harsh word to me.  He was a short man - spry - and generous.  

This memory I have is brief.  It was of a day when my mother and I had been visiting him and Grammie at their house for the morning. I'd spent the morning exploring the property, going down to the edge of the lake, heading back up to the barn, visiting with the cows, hearing the grunts from the pigsty, trying to spy the kittens in the loft. And of course, sitting in Grammie's kitchen listening to her talk about the memories she had of my dad growing up, of adventures he had.  

Grampa offered to drive us back home after lunch, well over a mile if we were to walk, and the footing would have been difficult on that lane.  

We accepted.  

And here starts that memory so vivid I can almost smell the dust off the dashboard, mixed with the other smells I'll describe here. It's one of my earliest memories, so it's full of images, feelings.  Very potent.

Source (via Google Images):
http://www.classic-car-history.com/1947-1955-chevy-truck.htm

He got behind the wheel, and I sat in the middle between him and my mother.  

I loved riding in his truck.  It was so much fun!  Up and down, over the ruts and rills we would go, dangerously close to the edge on both sides of the lane. The ditch went down about fifteen feet on a sharp grade on both sides, so it was important to stay away from the edge.  Yet strangely, I was never afraid of him straying too close to the edge.  I only knew I was with Grampa, and he was driving us home, and that's where we'd end up. I felt safe when I was with him. It wasn't something I was consciously aware of, it just WAS.

Bounce, bounce, bounce...  He navigated the quarter-mile-long lane with calmness and aplomb, confidence and quietness.  I was enjoying the ride, being jounced around almost like a rag doll as we headed toward the main road.  And then I said what I always said, "Here we go again, bumpity-bump in Grampa's truck!"  And he laughed - but not in a shaming way.  His laughter said, "I'm enjoying my granddaughter SO much!"  He knew how to make me feel so important.  He knew neat things like that.  He knew lots of things my other relatives didn't seem to care about.  Like how to feed cows and pigs. That was cool.   


I don't remember getting back home, I just remember that little snippet of bouncing and enjoying the ride over that mud lane with all its ruts and rocks.

A little over a year later, Grampa would die in hospital of internal injuries, after his tractor wheel slipped off the edge of that narrow lane and rolled over and over on its way to the bottom of the ditch.  It truly was a dangerous passageway.  At seven years old, dragged to the scene in a panic by my mother after she received a phone call, I struggled to understand how come the ambulance was there, what had happened to Grampa, why they wouldn't let us near, how come he wasn't climbing up the side of the ditch by himself.  It all seemed so surreal, and totally disconnected from that care-free memory from over a year previous.  

I found myself just recently thinking about that ride with Grampa in his truck, how safe and protected I felt - and pondering in my adult mind how that at any moment we could all have plummeted to injury or death down into that same ditch.  

I guess it's because I'm covering some pretty rough territory lately and it feels rather scary.  And I suppose that it's God's way of telling me, "Trust Me.  I've got the wheel and I know the way.  It's going to be bumpy, too. But that's okay, I'm here.  And I'll NEVER leave you.  I will get you safely home."

Thank the Maker!

There's a line from the Star Wars movie (the original one) where the robot, C3P0, takes an oil bath - and as he sinks down into the warm liquid he exclaims, "Thank the maker!"

The scene only takes 5 seconds or so, but I remember thinking how rare it was to hear anyone be grateful to our Maker for such a little thing as getting clean, or having a need met.

Yesterday the whole family went to see my mom. She has a hummingbird feeder hanging from one of the eaves of her house, next to her living room window. My oldest daughter was outside at one point and happened to see a hummingbird zip in from a nearby tree, hover in front of the feeder for a few minutes, and whir out of there just as quickly as it came.

Moments like that sometimes get taken for granted. But it was special to her because she doesn't often see hummingbirds on our property.

She was thankful to have seen it, to enjoy the wonder of one of God's most amazing creations. A simple pleasure - sparking gratitude. What a concept.

How much more we have to be grateful for than simply the wonders of nature, as majestic as they are! How easy it is for us to become blasé about the miracle we walk in every day, the forgiveness of sins, the right standing we now have with God because of what Jesus did on the cross ... and let's not forget the empty tomb - and that blessed hope: the promise of His coming!!

I think it was a monk named Brother Lawrence who decided, after much meditation and prayer, to "practice the presence of God." He decided that whatever he was, in everything he did, that it would be God's. He discovered the secret that nature itself teaches us: being precedes doing.

This one thing transformed his life and gave him instant access to supernatural power to live a holier life from the inside out, not from religious rituals and rules. He put this into practice by praying before, during and after each task he did. In doing so, everything he was, everything he did became an act of worship. Even if we could remind ourselves to pray on the hour - some of us have chimes on our watches - I suspect we would become more aware of the constant presence of God with us.

Brother Lawrence's life was filled with menial tasks. His contribution to spiritual life was unnoticed during his lifetime, but someone found his diaries and started putting those together along with the letters he wrote to people. The letters were donated by those whose lives had been changed by their association with Brother Lawrence. We know through these writings that his whole life became one long, uninterrupted prayer of devotion - just like Keith Green wrote about in his song, "No Compromise."

Here are the lyrics -

Make my life a prayer to You; I wanna do what You want me to -
No empty words and no white lies; No token prayers, no compromise!
I wanna shine the light You gave through Your Son You sent to save us
From ourselves in our despair - It comforts me to know You're really there!

I wanna thank You now for being patient with me
Oh it's so hard to see, when my eyes are on me!
I guess I'll have to trust and just believe what You say,
Oh You're coming again, coming to take me away.....

I wanna die and let You give Your life to me so I might live,
And share the hope You gave to me - the love that set me free -
I wanna tell the world out there, You're not some fable or fairy tale
That I made up inside my head! You're God the Son - You've risen from the dead!
I wanna thank You now for being patient with me
Oh it's so hard to see, when my eyes are on me!
I guess I'll have to trust and just believe what You say,
Oh You're coming again, coming to take me away.....
I wanna die and let You give Your life to me so I might live,
And share the hope You gave to me - I wanna share the love that set me free!

(c) 1978

Where would that kind of passion, that kind of dedication come from - if not from a deep and profound gratitude and a conscious continual contact with God?

How many of the world's objections to Christianity would be silenced if we all (including me) lived like this?

And it all starts with three words -
Thank You, Jesus!