Sometimes, I Even Dance

Goofball in full effect

Four years ago on New Year’s Eve, I moved into my new home.  My ex-husband and I had separated five months before but had continued to live in the same house up until then as I looked for work and we tried to figure out how to do this whole thing (yep, lived in the same house as my ex for five months…good times).  I found a place on Kijiji – a three bedroom house, the main floor of one side of a duplex – and as soon as I saw the ad, I knew it was the right place for the girls and I.  I got the keys and began moving my things in on December 31st, 2012.

It was a difficult night but a good one.  An important one, and it was so appropriate that I was beginning my new life with a new year.  I took my wedding ring off at exactly midnight because I’m dramatic like that sometimes (Drama?  I have a degree in it!).  I vowed to myself that I would move forward and find my way and be strong.

Tonight, my plans got cancelled and I find myself home alone again on New Year’s Eve.  But this time, it feels different.  Four years ago, I was lonely.  Tonight, I’m just alone, and happily so.  Four years ago, I was terrified.  Now, I have my fears but I am brave.  I have made it this far and I’m still standing and sometimes, I even dance.  Four years ago, I didn’t know who I was and I felt I couldn’t be whole on my own.  Tonight, I am in the company of someone I love to be with, someone I have come to know and finally care for: Myself. 

I know now that I am a good person.  I know that I am stronger and more capable than I ever expected and than was probably ever expected of me.  I know that I am a goofball and any man who doesn’t find me funny is not the man for me.  I know that I am my favourite and truest self when my sister is home with me and we are laughing.  I know I will beat you at Scrabble unless you’re my mother.  I know my daughters think I hung the moon and I know that I am deserving of that love and honour.

I know that I can be alone on New Year’s Eve in my bed with my wine and my early 90s hip hop and my comfy leggings and I can be perfectly happy.

My counsellor often says to me, “And do you give yourself credit for that?”  I have a tendency to view progress in my life as an act of fate, as the result of some good fortune and not, in fact, as a result of the hard work I have put into enacting the changes that have made that progress possible.  I look back at these last four years and it could be said that not much has changed.  I am in the same rented home.  I have fewer dollars in my bank account and am in fact making less money than I was then.  I am still single.  But these are not failures.  I have made a home for my children where they are warm and loved, a place I am always happy to come home to.  And if my furnace breaks down, someone comes to fix it with no cost to me.  That’s not too shabby.  I left the job that paid well but was costing me my mental health, and I’m now in a job that doesn’t give me a lot in my bank account, but gives me confidence and a feeling that I’m doing something important.  I’d still like to find love, but I no longer need to.  There’s enough love in this home to last me a lifetime and alone is not lonely.  Alone is dancing in your favourite dress lip synching to Montell Jordan’s “This is How We Do It” and no man can make me feel better than that.

Four years, and sometimes the pain of it all is a breath away and sometimes the memories are like the scenes of a movie I saw once and can barely remember.  The fact is that a lot has changed.  I’m not the same person I was then.  I am the woman excavated from her.  Under all that fear and doubt was this woman who I am proud to be.  Flawed and at times still flailing.  Imperfect and at times beautifully impolite.  But fierce and loving and talented and busting her ass to make this short life a good one.

2017.  We’re properly in the 21st century now, kids.  It’s the 21st century so let’s live like we understand how amazing that is.  This is the future.  We’ve made it.  And we can make this year whatever we want it to be.

Four years from now, I hope I am as happy as I am tonight, whatever happiness is to me then. Whether I’m full to the brim after a year of incredible experiences with my daughters, or because of a job I love, or because I’ve written something that feels like the gorgeous truth, or because I’m in a relationship that celebrates the best of who we are together and alone.  Or simply because I have a pretty dress to wear and Montell Jordan to play on my iPhone.

I wish you and yours this kind of happiness, too.  Turn up the music and dance and celebrate how far you’ve come and the amazing things awaiting you.  Happy New Year, dear friends.  Here's to a great one.

Fight or Flight

We gather up our things.

My nine-year-old daughter had a tough question for me yesterday morning.

The night before, we had talked a little about the U.S. election in progress.  I had shared with her my opinion of the candidates.  Without wanting to scare her, I explained that Donald Trump is not someone who will take care of the American people.  I said that he must have some good in his heart deep down, but his actions and his words are full of hate.

She was fascinated watching the first numbers start to roll in as polls closed.  As I tucked her into bed, I was optimistic that we'd see a Hillary Clinton victory.  I thought I'd wake my daughters up in the morning to tell them that a girl like us was going to be the next President.  I turned out the lights.  My daughter asked me to let her know if the numbers changed.  When a sudden burst in votes for Hillary came in around 9:30, I peeked in on my daughter to tell her the news but she was sound asleep, blissfully so.

I went to bed myself nearly four hours later, feeling nauseous and terrified. 

 "Who won?" she asked, the next morning.

I broke the news that Donald Trump had won.  I told her that I felt sad and worried for the American people.  For people of colour.  For the LGBTQ community.  For immigrants.  For Muslims.  For women like us.   I didn't want to share with her that I felt scared for us, too, for her and her sister, for her grandmothers and aunts, for myself.  I tried to reassure her that we are safe here in Canada, but I know full well that hatred knows no borders and we have our fair share of ugliness here, too.

I didn't know how to explain how a man such as this was elected, how he could possibly have the support of (nearly) half that country.  As I sat there in the morning light trying to find the right words, I realized that, among other things, I was going to have to explain misogyny.  Raising girls, I knew that it was a conversation (an ongoing series of conversations) that we were going to have to have at some point, but it now seemed an urgent task.  My voice broke as I said the word because I didn't know how I was going to explain that there are people in the world who hate her simply because she is a girl.  That some people believe that our bodies don't belong to us and that our ideas and feelings don't matter.  That we don't matter.  

I cried as I told her that there are people in the world who believe that some people are worth less than others, who hate people because of their skin colour, or their gender, or because of who they love.  I reminded her about the conversation we'd had after the Orlando nightclub shooting, about how love is love is love and I told her once again that she is free to love whoever she wants or to love no one at all.  I told her that she and I, we know better.  We know that skin colour doesn't matter and women are every bit as good and worthy as men.  

I stopped crying as I felt some of the fear give way to determination.  I said to her, "But we are strong women, aren't we?" She gave me a big, smiling yes.  We are smart, we agreed.  We are capable.  We are worthy.  We are going to do great things.

This won't be the last conversation we have about this and these won't be the last words I write on this subject but right now I'm still feeling at a loss for words.  I don't know how to keep my daughters safe.  I don't know how to keep myself safe.  I don't know how to choose between fight or flight because I want to do both.  I want to scream and protest and fight this thing but god, I also want to take my girls into the woods and leave this scary world behind.  

I don't know how to raise daughters in a world like this.  How do I teach my daughters to raise one fist in solidarity (or perhaps one finger) while at the same time wrapping their other hand around their keys in such a way that one key is pointed out, so it can be used as a weapon?  How do I teach them that there are many, many good men in the world but you should take your drink with you to the washroom until you're sure he is one?  How do I teach my girls to hold their heads up high and stand strong but also scope out where the exits are and who is nearby in case you need help?  How do we fight this and stand up for ourselves but also stay safe?

Who won?  I'm not sure anyone did.   

My daughter had stayed home from school that morning feeling sick and, sick as I had been feeling about the election results, I hadn't been too sorry to have some quiet time with her and some time to reflect.  But after our conversation, she seemed to be doing better and I was too, so I asked her if she felt well enough to go to school.  She hesitated and I could tell that she was feeling better but was reluctant to end our time together.  I was too, but I explained to her that getting an education is the first step to doing those great things.  We got ourselves ready to go.  

And maybe that's just what we do now.  Maybe it's not a matter of fight or flight.  Maybe we just get ourselves ready to go.  We gather up our things - our mittens and our backbones and our steel-toed boots and our tenacity - and we go out into the world and fight and we flee home to our loved ones and we gather up our things and we go out again and again until we get this right.  Until victory is ours.  

Hush

It's always darkest before the dawn

At nearly eight months pregnant with my second daughter, over six years ago now, we decided to go on a camping trip.  Not too far away - just an hour's drive from home and maybe a half hour to the nearest hospital, in case she decided to join us early.  My then-husband created the shangri-la of cots for me and my gigantic belly (in a tent made to sleep six) and shared a separate tent with our two-year-old, so that I would be comfortable.  As comfortable as one can be at eight months pregnant and camping.

The thing about being that pregnant is that you have to pee pretty well every 20 minutes, day and night.  So out I waddled several times through the night to the outhouse and back, flashlight guiding my way, on guard for predators and prepared to go full mama bear on any creature that crossed my path, except for maybe an actual mama bear.  But the forest was still and happy to have me.  Destination reached, mission accomplished, I trekked back through the warm, June woods to roll myself into my Camping Cot 3000 for another short doze before it was time to roll back out.

Near the break of dawn, I was on my way back from yet another outhouse excursion when I decided to veer slightly off course and settle myself by the still lake to watch the sun rise.  The sun was just approaching the horizon, warming the sky with the most vivid oranges and pinks on its ascent.  

All was quiet.  It was so beautifully quiet.  I felt like the only one on Earth.  Except, of course, I was two.  I held my hand to my belly and whispered to the little life growing inside me, nearly ready to come see for herself what this gorgeous world was all about.  I don't remember my exact words, but I know I wished her a big, happy life.

I sat in the silence as the sun rose above the treeline.  I watched as the wilderness took shape as it shed the darkness.  The outlines of the trees, the branches, the leaves.  The soft ripples on the water.   The stones lining the shore.  They slipped out of their nightgowns and dressed in details.

I stayed until the sun was in her full glory before returning to my cot, peaceful. 

The last few months of my life have been a little like that morning by the lake.  Not so much the circumstance as the hush.  A pregnant pause of a different kind.  I have wanted to sit in the silence.  I've been waiting for day to break.  

I believe with all my heart that true connection comes from vulnerability, which is why I write about my life with very few holds barred and why I continue to take risks - putting myself out there and wearing my heart on my sleeve - even though I may get hurt.  Even though I often do.  I've come to understand that this is what life is.  It's getting back up.  And it's helping others to do so, too.  

Vulnerability is a choice and a difficult one when there are so many reasons to pull up the drawbridge, but I came to a place, a few months ago, when I needed to do just that.  Sharing myself here, putting myself out into the world...it's exhausting.  I was tired of feeling all of the feelings and thinking so deeply about them in the service of this kind of writing I do - that I want to do - this writing about the world and life from the only perspective I have: my own.  I didn't want to mine my thoughts and feelings anymore in search of a universal truth and a pretty analogy.  And I was tired of being rejected.  My life had become such a series of rejections - from romantic relationships, friendships, jobs - that I had the (somewhat uplifting) thought that this might be really great fodder for a sitcom.  One with a lot of pratfalls.  You can only put yourself out there for so long before it becomes too much.  It became too much.

The hush settled over me like a blanket.  I didn't resist it at all.  I was sorry that I was leaving this place in silence without explanation, that I was not returning texts and phone calls in any sort of timely manner, but I needed to be quiet for awhile.  I needed to just listen for awhile, and wait for the day to break.

I'm still waiting, but there's a touch of pink in the sky.  The details are still blurry, but things are starting to take shape.  I'm still feeling rejected, but I'm steadying myself so that I can get back up.  I still prefer the quiet, but I'm whispering.

There's a life growing inside me but this time it's my own.  

Sisu

If you hang around Finnish people long enough (five minutes or so), you're bound to hear them talk about Sisu.  Sisu is a Finn term that is central to who we Finns are and what we're about, but it's challenging to define.  Here is Wikipedia's best attempt: "stoic determination, grit, bravery, guts, resilience, perseverance and hardiness."  The thing is, it's even more than that.  It's about taking action in the face of adversity.  It's about rising up and moving forward and keeping at it despite setbacks.  As noted later in that article, it's "a consistent, courageous approach toward challenges which at first seem to exceed our capacities."

Unfortunately, Sisu isn't sold in stores unless you count the multivitamins by that name, which I suspect, while helpful, don't really do the job.  Rather, Sisu is that inner strength that you tap into, or try to, when shit gets real.  I would argue that it's something you're born with, Finn or otherwise, although it sometimes feels elusive.  

To my mind, there are some important things that Sisu is not. 

Sisu is not infallibility. It doesn't mean that every move you make is the right one.  It means that you see setbacks as an opportunity for a running start to your relaunch.

Sisu is also not unflappability.  It is not about steeling yourself, grinning and bearing it, nor is it about denying the struggle and all the bad feelings and experiences that struggle brings.  It's about carrying on in spite of them.

Sisu is not a limited resource.  It is your full potential and the source of all you are capable of accomplishing and overcoming, which is more than you think.  It is always there.  Sometimes you have to dig deep, but it is there. 

As an imperfectly translated concept, the quality of Sisu is the topic of pretty animated discussion amongst academics and, I imagine, Finns who like their vodka.  I belong to the school of thought that Sisu is something that you can cultivate: that there are ways you can strengthen the pathway to this wellspring of grit and determination to improve ease of access for when you need it the most.  I've been thinking about how to do just that and these are a few of the techniques I'm trying:

• Be still. I think Sisu is what's left when all else falls away. It's that quiet voice that whispers "You got this" and sometimes you need to be still for awhile, away from distractions, so you can listen for it.
  

• Sit with it. Once you've sensed the Sisu within you, sit with it awhile. Get familiar with how it feels to be strong and capable, so you'll recognize that feeling within you when you most need to, even when the signal is weak.
  

• Trace the story of the Sisu within you. This is really more of that cognitive behavioural therapy technique I've talked about before that involves examining the evidence. Think about the times when you've thought you couldn't go on...and then you did. Once you get to thinking about it, you'll likely find that there have been a lot of times in your life when your Sisu has carried you through. And if it was there for you then, it is here for you now.
  

• Find inspiration in others. Sisu is what my great-grandmother surely drew upon when she travelled across the ocean with two young children (one of whom was sick) to follow her husband to Canada, a new home she knew nothing of, knowing she would likely never again see the family and friends she left behind. When I feel like I can't keep going, I think of her and I remind myself that her blood flows through my veins, that her Sisu is my own.
  

• Strengthen your Sisu. Think about other sources of strength in your life. These could be family or friends you love, motivational quotes or stories that inspire you, leaders or mentors who you look up to, or articulated goals that you're working toward that keep you focused. Consider keeping physical reminders of these sources of strength close at hand (i.e. photos of your loved ones, post-it note quotes, an illustration or magazine clipping that reminds you of your goal). For me, the two greatest sources of strength in my life are my daughters; they are the reasons I dig deep to call up my inner strength and keep going. It is appropriate, then, that my daughter wrote the word Sisu for me to include on my inspiration wall (above). Every time I look at it, I'm reminded that I possess a fiery Sisu of my own, and my little one and her big sister fan that flame.

(You know when you've said or written a word so many times that it begins to sound weird?  I think we're there.  Sisusisusisusisu.)

Ultimately, Sisu is not about being so strong that you never fall down but, rather, about getting back up when you do.  Chumbawumba really knew what they were talking about.  

As do the Finns, so you should really listen to me/them.  And you know what else will probably happen if you hang around Finnish people?  You'll be fed Finnish pancakes the size of your FACE.  

Hold up - Sisu may just be the power of pancakes.  Disregard all of the above.

How to Fall

Over the weekend, the girls and I took a trip to the playground, where an amazing thing happened: My little one, the firecracker, finally got the swing of the monkey bars.  

She made it two rungs, then fell.  She got back up.  She made it four rungs, then fell.  She got back up.  She fell straight away.  She got back up.  A few short minutes later and she had managed eight rungs in a row before falling, and she was beaming with excitement.  But she wasn't a big fan of the falling part.  

I found myself coaching her on how to fall.  I explained to her that, just like with learning how to do the monkey bars, falling takes practice.  "You've got to practice falling so you can learn how to fall without getting hurt." 

There are a few keys to falling safely, you see.

• You have to remain calm. You can't do the things you need to do to protect yourself from harm if you panic and flail about.
  

• You have to expect to hit the ground. Maybe there's someone to catch you and if so, that's wonderful. Safety nets and loving arms are fantastic for falling into. But they're not always there. Recognize that you are capable of controlling the fall and landing on your own two feet, when things slip out of your grasp.
  

• You have to fall with those two feet beneath you, so that when you land, you can hold yourself up. If you can get your two feet beneath you, if you can do whatever is in your power to help yourself, you can steady yourself and rise back up to standing.
  

• You have to bend your knees when you land, so you can handle the weight of the fall. You have to stay flexible so you can adapt to the new ground you're standing on and find your balance.
  

• You have to go easy on yourself when a fall doesn't go as planned, when all the things you've tried to do to protect to yourself have failed and you hit rock bottom and fall flat on your face. Not everything goes to plan and you did your best. Falling takes practice.

My daughter thinks that the idea of practicing falling is pretty hilarious.  That's okay.  She already understands the most important thing about falling:  You have to get back up.

Orlando

“What is this?"

Sometimes, kids ask difficult questions.  For example: A couple of years ago, on a regular Tuesday afternoon, I had picked the kids up from school and we were driving home when my daughter casually asked, “How are babies made?”

Whoa.  Hands at 10 and 2, Mama. Deep breath.  Buckle up.

That’s what we’re here for, as the adults.  We’re the ones to ask the difficult questions.  We’re the ones who are supposed to have the answers.  But sometimes, the answers aren't easy.

“What is this?” my eight-year-old daughter asked me, yesterday morning.  She was holding up a candle, a simple white candle pushed through the bottom of a white paper cup. 

I was given the candle at a vigil I attended Monday evening for the 49 people killed in the Orlando nightclub shooting.  The vigil was sad but beautiful.  Hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder, crying eyes to shoulder, we filled our city’s market square.  Nearly a thousand of us, someone has estimated.  We signed our names in a book of condolences.  We sang John Lennon's Imagine.  We observed a minute of silence.  Small acts of solidarity, but important ones.  

A young girl handed out little hearts her mom had crocheted.  She had given away over a hundred of them, her mom told me.  

Chalk hearts on the pavement, 49 of them, encircled the names of those lost.  I walked the path alongside them, read the names and ages, repeated them quietly in my head.  Anthony Luis Laureanodisla.  25 years old.  Javier Jorge-Reyes.  40 years old.  Akyra Monet Murray.  18 years old.  Far too many hearts, far too young.  I wished them peace.

“What is this?”  How do you answer a question like that?

I tried my best to explain the inexplicable. 

That 49 people had been killed at a dance party.  49 people who had family and friends and dreams for their lives.

That there are people in the world who think that men shouldn't love men and women shouldn't love women.  That those people who think that are wrong.  Love is love. 

That even though we didn't know those 49 people personally, there are many of us around the world who are grieving and gathering together.  That you don't need to know someone to love them.

I hesitated to tell them where this happened because although we need to say the word, we need to shout it, us grown ups who have to find the answers, to my little girls "Orlando" is the home of Disney World, the pinnacle of all things joyful.  I want them to know about what happened but I don't want them to be afraid.  Of that place, of anything.

"I like you, Mama," my five-year-old daughter said.  "Are you going to be killed?" 

Deep breath. 

"No, baby."   I assured her that we are safe, hoping this would be a self-fulfilling prophecy.

A few words before the school bus came.  A few insufficient words, but the conversation has begun.  It will continue, as long as it has to.  Which I hope is not long.  I hope that soon there is no need for conversations like this one.

These white candles come in packages that say they are for emergency use. They’re meant for times when the unexpected happens and the lights go out. This time we’ve come to now, this qualifies. This is an emergency. The lights have gone out and we must now sound the alarms and set things right, and shine the light.

“Can we keep it?”  My children know by now that their mother’s default position is to recycle, donate and otherwise get rid of anything not chained down around here.  

Yes, we will keep the vigil candle.  But only as a memento, I hope.  I hope that we never face this kind of emergency again.  I hope this candle gathers dust.  

I hope that one day my grandchildren pull this bizarre contraption - this antique, this relic - out of a box of their grandmother's strange keepsakes and ask, confused:

 “What is this?”

*****

Please view Anderson Cooper's tribute to the 49 beautiful people we lost too soon.  I will list their names here, but as he says, "They are more than a list of names. They are people who loved and who were loved."

Stanley Almodovar III, 23 years old

Amanda Alvear, 25 years old

Oscar A Aracena-Montero, 26 years old

Rodolfo Ayala-Ayala, 33 years old

Antonio Davon Brown, 29 years old

Darryl Roman Burt II, 29 years old

Angel L. Candelario-Padro, 28 years old

Juan Chevez-Martinez, 25 years old

Luis Daniel Conde, 39 years old

Cory James Connell, 21 years old

Tevin Eugene Crosby, 25 years old

Deonka Deidra Drayton, 32 years old

Simon Adrian Carrillo Fernandez, 31 years old

Leroy Valentin Fernandez, 25 years old

Mercedez Marisol Flores, 26 years old

Peter O. Gonzalez-Cruz, 22 years old

Juan Ramon Guerrero, 22 years old

Paul Terrell Henry, 41 years old

Frank Hernandez, 27 years old

Miguel Angel Honorato, 30 years old

Javier Jorge-Reyes, 40 years old

Jason Benjamin Josaphat, 19 years old

Eddie Jamoldroy Justice, 30 years old

Anthony Luis Laureanodisla, 25 years old

Christopher Andrew Leinonen, 32 years old

Alejandro Barrios Martinez, 21 years old

Brenda Lee Marquez McCool, 49 years old

Gilberto Ramon Silva Menendez, 25 years old

Kimberly Morris, 37 years old

Akyra Monet Murray, 18 years old

Luis Omar Ocasio-Capo, 20 years old

Geraldo A. Ortiz-Jimenez, 25 years old

Eric Ivan Ortiz-Rivera, 36 years old

Joel Rayon Paniagua, 32 years old

Jean Carlos Mendez Perez, 35 years old

Enrique L. Rios, Jr., 25 years old

Jean C. Nives Rodriguez, 27 years old

Xavier Emmanuel Serrano Rosado, 35 years old

Christopher Joseph Sanfeliz, 24 years old

Yilmary Rodriguez Solivan, 24 years old

Edward Sotomayor Jr., 34 years old

Shane Evan Tomlinson, 33 years old

Martin Benitez Torres, 33 years old

Jonathan Antonio Camuy Vega, 24 years old

Juan P. Rivera Velazquez, 37 years old

Luis S. Vielma, 22 years old

Franky Jimmy Dejesus Velazquez, 50 years old

Luis Daniel Wilson-Leon, 37 years old

Jerald Arthur Wright, 31 years old

(Source: City of Orlando website)