Letting Love In

Welcome

I've been thinking a lot lately about love.

A few months ago, a friend and I were talking about love, the romantic kind in this instance.  After enduring what I think is my fair share of heartbreak, I explained that I wasn't sure I wanted to take a chance on love again.  I wasn't sure if my little heart could take it.  I was afraid.  

I listed all the reasons why I should hang up my hat and take myself out of the relationship running.  The pain was too much.  The risks were too great.  For me, the risks include plummeting into a depression that I can't climb back out of and I reasoned that, particularly with two little girls who need me, it would be foolish for me to take that risk again.  How could I let someone in who might hurt me?  How could I let someone in who might threaten this good life I've worked so hard to build? 

"But that is a part of love," my friend argued.  "And love is worth it." 

"No," I replied.  "It's too hard." 

And I began to shut down.  I began to close up shop, packing away my hopes for a future with someone by my side, pushing away thoughts of romance and companionship and stuffing down any longing for affection and connection, hoping it would all go away.  I have to protect myself, I thought.  I have to close the borders.

But lately I've been reconsidering this policy.

I've been thinking a lot about my life's experience with love so far, with love of all kinds, and I've realized that I have been surrounded and engulfed and tripping over love - the love of family and friends and boyfriends and neighbours and people who smile as we pass each other on the street.  I've seen love in the eyes of my daughters and felt love in a handshake with a stranger and heard love in the voices of a choir singing love to all the hearts in the room.  Love is in the garbage bin blowing down the street that is retrieved by a neighbour.  Love is in the gluten-sugar-dairy-free dessert my friend went out of her way to make so I wouldn't be left out.  Love is in the joke made by the grocery store clerk as she packs my groceries.  I have let all of this love in and I have been rewarded beyond measure.

But what about the pain that I'm so afraid of?  The pain is there and it has hurt like hell and it has shaken the ground.  But the buildings still stand.  And I've been asking myself: Would I take away all that love to avoid that pain?  Would I take away those months, those years, of happiness so as not to endure the pain that marked its end?

No.  No, of course not.  Not in a million years.

This has been a tough few weeks for a lot of people.  The crisis in Syria and the plight of the refugees who are fleeing their homes.  The suicide bombings and attacks by ISIS in France, Iraq, Saudi Arabia and Lebanon, just to scratch the surface.  More fear and pain than it is possible to comprehend. Closer to home, good friends lost their 11 year old son this week, a beautiful boy and an unimaginable goodbye that should never happen.  It seems to me that lately there has been altogether far too much sadness and heartbreak to go around.  But then, there has also been love.  Communities pulling together to be there for each other.  Strangers offering homes and clothing and warm welcome.  Friends offering condolences and support and warm thoughts.  Would I, as a parent, take away my time with my child if I knew I would have to say goodbye?  Should we miss out on the chance for more love and kindness and beauty in this amazing country of ours on the slim chance that some ugliness might slip through the cracks?

No.  No, of course not. 

With love comes pain.  But with pain comes love.

So I'm choosing to let love in.  Not without caution.  Not without some security checks.  But the borders are now open and love is now welcome.  And as for the risks?  I'm trusting that I can handle them, as I have before.  The buildings still stand.  I'm trusting that we as a country can handle them too, as we have before.  The buildings still stand, built on immigrant shoulders, held up by immigrant hands.

Let's let love in.  Let's let love flood in. 

Because love is worth it.

The Larks, Still Bravely Singing, Fly

Sometimes life places one thing in bold contrast to another, a juxtaposition that imprints meaning on the parts that they may not have had alone.

On September 11th, 2001, as the World Trade Center fell, I was volunteering in the paediatric oncology clinic at my local hospital.  With no TVs and radios, before the days of internet in our pockets, reports filtered down to us in the basement waiting room in pieces.  The towers had fallen.  Something had happened at the Pentagon.  Lives had been lost.   

Lives had been lost.  I looked around me.  Parents weary and worried.  Children with shining scalps and ports implanted in their skin, waiting for chemo that would make them sick to maybe make them better, waiting on test results and medical charts that would chart their future.  But children smiling, as children do.  Fourteen years later and I still can't put into words how it felt to view the events of 9/11 from the sidelines of that basement battleground, although I think we're all still at a loss for words about that day, no matter where we stood.

This morning, on Remembrance Day, I sat in my counsellor's office and was stopped mid-sentence, words of my worries cut short, by an announcement on the hospital PA system noting that it was time for a moment of silence and reflection.  We paused and sat in the quiet, together but alone with our thoughts.  And after the minute had passed, our conversation resumed.  It felt weird.  There are people out there now, literally right now, fighting wars and risking their lives for me and so that others less fortunate than me can feel safe.  Just to feel safe.  And I was sitting there talking about problems that suddenly seemed so petty and small compared to what they are facing and what others have faced before them.  

I reminded myself that my problems are not petty.  I know full well that you can't logic your way out of depression and I know that these small problems can snowball and take me down.  And have done.  I decided to extend myself a bit of kindness.  But still.  Perspective is good, and that moment of silence and the moments that followed moved me, as the sacrifices of those soldiers stood in stark contrast to my own battle.  It made me want to fight harder to get out of my head and outside of those hospital walls and into the world where so many opportunities are waiting for me, for all of us, because of their sacrifices. 

Sometimes life places one thing in bold contrast to another.  Loss of life in noise up high and the fight for it in the quiet below.  The personal battles of the mind and the battles fought by our soldiers on another kind of shaky ground.  War.  And peace.  One imprinting meaning on the other.

This was not the post I planned for today, but this is the post I felt I needed to write because that was not what they planned for their lives, but it was the fight they needed to fight.  And this is still that world and there are still those who spend their lives fighting for ours.  Fighting so I can sit in my counsellor's office and get her help with my sometimes comparatively benign worries.  Fighting so those kids in the oncology clinic can have access to what they need to fight their own fight, so that they can grow up in a safe world.  Fighting so my own child can sit peacefully in a classroom with sun shining on her face making a Remembrance Day craft while not really knowing what war is all about.  

So we set aside our plans for just one day, a pitifully meagre offering but an offering nonetheless, to remember those who have fought, who continue to fight, for us to have plans at all.

(Title from "In Flanders Fields" by John McCrae)

No Less than the Trees and the Stars

Working on it.

One afternoon a year or two ago, while wandering my local thrift store, I came across a large, 11x14 frame with white matting.  It was nothing terribly special but it was in great condition, and only a few bucks, and I thought it could be put to good use in my bedroom.  I knew just the wall.

I didn't, however, have anything to put in it.  And so, I proceeded to spend countless hours (yep, hours) scouring through photos and looking at art prints on Etsy, searching for just the right piece.  I wanted something inspiring to wake up to every morning. 

The frame sat in my closet, gathering dust, for several months.  I could have just thrown something in there, bought something suitably pretty, but nothing felt quite right and I wanted to hold out.  Picky?  Yes.  But sometimes it pays off. 

I was back in the same thrift store one day, casually perusing the aisles, when I spotted another frame, this one gold-hued and tacky.  This one had a poem inside, and as soon as I read it, I knew it was exactly what I had been looking for.  I bought the frame, brought it home, removed the poem and discovered, as I had hoped, that it fit perfectly in the empty black one.  (I donated the tacky one back to the thrift store...someone will love it!)

The poem is called Desiderata, Latin for "desired things", and was written by American writer Max Ehrmann in 1927.  (According to Wikipedia, it is often falsely believed to have been written in 1692, as it was included in a compilation of devotional materials at St. Paul's Church in Baltimore in 1956, and marked with the church's foundation date.  Indeed, at the bottom of my copy, it says "Found in Old St. Paul's Church, Baltimore. Dated 1692."  I have discreetly hidden that part under the matboard.)  While the poem was new to me, it seems that it has actually become quite well-known in recent years.  For good reason.  Here are Max Ehrmann's beautiful and inspiring words: 

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons.

Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons; they are vexatious to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.

Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here.

And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be.

And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

Success!

What more needs to be said.   

This scavenged poem now holds a place of honour on my bedroom wall.  Admittedly, there are days when it is just part of the landscape, when "the noise and the haste" get in the way of me taking the time to enjoy it, just as it gets in the way of seeing other joy and beauty around me.  But I find that when I do stop to take the time to read it again, the effect is powerful, and different parts speak to me at different times.  This week, for example, the line "enjoy your achievements as well as your plans" is particularly meaningful; as my to-do list keeps getting longer and my eyes are drawn to the handful of unchecked boxes, I am trying to give myself credit for the tasks I do complete, both big and small. 

Whether new to you as well or an old favourite, I hope you too can take something from Desiderata this week.  In fact, if you feel like sharing in the comments below, I'd love to hear what line speaks most to you at this moment.  And I hope you will remember that "you are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars."  Lovely.

People vs. Things

A Milly for the new millennium.

One afternoon a few weeks ago, I spotted my five-year-old walking around the house with a pair of scissors in her hand.  If you live with small people, you will understand the fear this cast into my heart.  I asked her what she was up to and she mumbled something that sounded plausible and harmless.  I eyed her suspiciously, directing her to return the scissors to their home, pronto.

Cut to half an hour later.  I'm in her bedroom and spy, with my little eye, strands of brown yarn toppling out of the small garbage bin in the corner.  I make a move to investigate, the knowledge of what I'm seeing starting to sink in.  I've realized why that yarn looks so familiar, and begin to hunt around for its original owner.  I find her hidden under a pile of her stuffed friends.

My daughter had taken the liberty of giving one of her sister's dolls a hair cut.  Not just any doll, though.  The doll that had been mine as a child.  My beloved Milly.  One of the only souvenirs of my childhood.

I sat there in shock, a host of emotions coursing through me.  I felt tears well up.  I felt anger rise.  And then, I realized that this was a moment designed for me to practice what I preach.

I am not a fan of stuff.  Clutter makes me anxious and I don't really do well with receiving gifts, truth be told (there are lots of reasons for this, but I won't delve into my personal psychology today).  Lately, I've been on a mission to let go of things and live a simpler life focused on the people I love and our experiences together.  I am very inspired by the movement toward minimalism, and in the last few years I have donated and sold countless things, trading the physical and mental space they require for more serenity.  Along the way, I've been trying to espouse these values to my daughters.  We are by no means toy-less around here, but we talk a lot about how quality is better than quantity, how experiences and relationships are more important than things, and how, while it's lovely to have things we enjoy, at the end of the day, happiness isn't store-bought.

This lesson gets a thorough re-telling any time something breaks around here.  When a toy breaks, I express my sympathy for the disappointment my girls feel, but I emphasize that that is what toys do, they break, that things are things and what is most important is that we have not broken.  I think I even said something once about how when a balloon pops, it is fulfilling its destiny (note to self: children's book idea). 

That was all well and good.  Until it was my thing that broke.

So there I sat, with a shorn and forlorn Milly in my lap, and it was then I realized that the sadness my daughters feel when a toy breaks is not for the loss of the thing at all: what they are really mourning is the loss of the experience.  They were having so much fun, and now that fun is over, and even if the toy is still functional, they are grieving the loss of the experience 'just that way', with everything in place as it was when the fun began.  Change is hard.  Whoa Nelly, do I know about that.  For my part, I think the loss of Milly's hair, the loss of her being just the way she has been for 30+ years, called up the hurt I feel about the loss of my childhood, touched a place of long-dormant pain about the loss of the experience of being with my family at that time, during the happier times anyway.

I called my daughter to me.  She knew that the jig was up.  With a calm that I rather impressed myself with, I explained to her that what she had done was wrong, that Milly meant a lot to her sister and me, and that it hurt our feelings that she cut Milly's hair without permission.  While a thing is just a thing, it is still wrong and disrespectful to cause harm to someone else's property, and I wanted to be sure that she understood that and apologized.  I suspected that her curiosity about what it would be like to cut a doll's hair had gotten the better of her, which she confirmed, and so we discussed how she could explore that in appropriate ways.  And then apologies were uttered and we hugged it out, and moved on with our day. 

What I didn't admit to my daughter is that mixed up with the sadness and anger that bubbled up in me was a feeling of awe: Milly actually kind of rocks a mohawk.  Okay, I'll say it, she looks amazing.  I wish I could pull off that look.

I suppose change can be good.

Next Steps

Finding a few moments of beauty and joy in a parking lot, waiting for a mechanic to repair my car and hand me a hefty bill. Which says it all, really.

As many of you know, I left my job four months ago in order to recharge, spend more time with my daughters, and figure out a new way forward.  The decision was not an easy or hasty one - it took me a good year to get my ducks in a row and get up the gumption to take the leap - but it was absolutely the right one.  The past three years have been the most challenging of my life, and I knew that if I didn't stop and prioritize my health, my family and myself, there would be dire consequences for all three.

When I left my job, my thinking was this: I'd take two months (May and June), while my kids were still in school, to rest and think and have some time to myself, and then spend the following two months (July and August) enjoying quality time with my girls.  And then...well, I wasn't sure what would come next.

Those four months played out more or less as planned.  While the spring was not as productive as I had initially imagined it would be, at least in terms of coming to any grand epiphanies about my life and putting new plans into action, it served as a much-needed restart.  Around that time, I was speaking to one of my best friends about my frustration that I was not further along in figuring out my life.  She responded by reminding me that a machine, when it is restarted, needs some time to fully shut down before it can start back up again, and she urged me to be patient with myself.  I decided, then, to ignore the grand to-do list I had written and just let go.  I wrote without quota.  I read voraciously.  I worked out and nourished my body.  I haunted coffee shops and caught up with friends.  I relaxed, truly relaxed, for the first time in years.

By the time the kids were out of school, I was ready to be there for them in a way I hadn't been able to be for a long time.  While not every moment was picture perfect by any stretch, my time with my kids this summer was as wonderful as I had hoped it would be.  We went to the beach and explored the city, made living room nests and watched movies, took countless trips to the library and belted out Taylor Swift tunes on car rides, slurped slushies and sidewalk-chalked the driveway.  But most importantly, I held them in my arms and kissed their freckles, eavesdropped on their early morning sister conversations before they climbed into my bed with their poking elbows and soft cheeks and giggles and complaints, listened for "just a few more minutes" and smoothed the curls out of their sleepy eyes as they shared with me their amazing 5-year-old and 7-year-old thoughts and dreams.  For the first time in a long time, I felt I had a few more minutes to give, although I was really the one who received.

The one big adventure my daughters asked for this summer (aside from taking the city bus, which was also a hit) was to go to Canada's Wonderland.  And so, on one of the hottest days of the summer and a Sunday no less, we ventured there.  And had The Best Day.  It was only later that I realized that I hadn't even flinched at the idea of taking the girls there all by myself and dealing with the crowds and the heat and the line-ups and tired little legs, a situation which, in the past, would have been far too daunting for me to even contemplate.  It hadn't occurred to me not to do it and it hadn't occurred to me to be nervous that I couldn't handle it.  I was relaxed and expected to have fun, and so we did.  This realization highlighted for me what this time has given me: it has allowed me the chance to restore my faith in myself and my ability to not only handle any challenge that comes at me but to create a happy life and joyful moments despite those challenges, whether they be the oppressive heat or obnoxious crowds or negativity or what others think or heartbreaks or disappointments.  It has allowed me to move a few steps closer to becoming the parent, and the person, I want to be.

But now, it is September, and the kids are back at school.  So now what?  A part of me has been dreading September and the questions that were waiting for me here, the main one being how I can support my family and build the life I want through a career that allows me to use my talents and do something of value.  I've spent the last few months and several sleepless nights wrestling with these questions, trying ideas on for size, researching options and hitting roadblocks, tuning into my intuition and turning away from anything my gut tells me is the wrong path for me.  I still wish to pursue a writing career; in addition to my writing here, I have finished the first draft of my children's book and it will (WILL!) be sent out to publishers by the end of this month.  And then, I'll be starting on the next, and my writing will continue to be a priority.  I have big plans for this website, and several book ideas queued up anxiously awaiting my attention.  But, as much as I would love to ignore this fact and live my creative life, there are bills to pay.  Publication is, in large part, out of my control and frankly, no one ever went into writing for the money.  Luckily, I have more to give than words alone and I'm making some progress toward fine-tuning my understanding of what those skills and talents are and figuring out a (compensated) place to put them to use.

To that end, this fall will be about testing my hypotheses and beginning to put toes in the water to give some ideas a trial run, amongst other relevant metaphors.  In addition to continuing with my writing and keeping my kids and my health front and center, I will be taking a few courses to further my education and I'm pursuing some volunteer opportunities that will help me to reconnect with my community and gain some experience in fields that I think would allow me to do important work I care about.  I'm also working with an employment counsellor and applying to positions that I think might be a good fit, both for what I'm looking for and what I can offer.  And I'm staying patient, and continuing to have faith in myself.  I have the luxury of having more time to sort things out, but I'm not taking that luxury for granted and I'm aware of the possibility that my best-laid plans may not work out as hoped.  I'm okay with that.  I think that optimism and realism can live hand in hand.

So we'll see.  That's my answer right now to all inquiries about what I'm going to do now.  We'll see.  I'm as curious as anyone.  I have these next steps in place but I have no idea where the staircase leads.  Do any of us?  What I do know is that I couldn't have done all of this and made it this far without the tremendous love and friendship around me, and I want to take this moment to thank you for continuing to read my words here and for offering me your own words of support and advice. 

I don't know what the future holds.  I don't know what I'll be doing and what my life will be like another four months from now.  But I'm more excited about that than scared because I know I can make molehills out of any mountains I may come across on my path, and I know these steps are just a small part of the journey.

You Can

You can make a funny face lunch. Or you can hot dog it for the third time that week. You get what you get and you don't get upset.

Parenting is hard work.  This isn't news, really, and I'm not about to say that nobody ever told me that it would be this hard.  Sure they did.  People say it all the time and I'm just adding my voice to the choir.  What I don't think is said enough is that we are, for the most part, doing a damn good job.  This is true no matter what kind of parent you are but I want to say this in particular to the single parents like me who, I know from experience, take self-criticism to a whole new level.

All parents doubt their ability to parent, worry that they have screwed their kids up by making the slightest "wrong" move, and can point to a dozen small but potentially scarring mistakes on any given day.  For many single parents, these doubts are underscored and amplified by the perception of one major fundamental failure: your failure to give your children an intact family, a happy childhood in one home.  There are all sorts of truths that can be applied to soothe and counterbalance this feeling, the primary one being that the kids are better off this way.  But no matter how true that is, no matter how much evidence you can compile to prove it, that one big thing that you were not capable of doing casts a large shadow over even the most amazing of triumphs.

I try to cast the light on what I'm capable of, to notice those triumphs and give myself credit for the things that I get right.  To get out from under that shadow. But it's hard. It's so much easier for us all to see our mistakes, real or perceived.  For that reason, I think it's important that we pay attention to and acknowledge our successes, no matter how small. 

In case you need the reminder, here are just a few examples of what you are capable of.  Although these are directed to single parents in particular, many of these apply across the board, and we all could do with applauding our victories and going a little easier on ourselves.

High fives for all the many things you can do:

• You can clean vomit off the carpet with one hand while rubbing your child's back with the other.
  

• You can calm down the kid who is convinced she sees tiny ghosts in her room, settle her back to sleep, then return to your own bed, alone.
  

• You can shovel the entire driveway while comforting the child who is crying because the snow is cold.
  

• You can broker a peace agreement between pint-size dictators while showering.
  

• You can find the bear at 2 a.m. and fix the covers at 3 a.m. and deal with the jammies that "feel weird" at 4 a.m.
  

• You can take your kids to a busy amusement park on one of the hottest days of the summer, by yourself, and not lose them or your sanity.
  

• You can read a bedtime story with silly voices and aching bones.
  

• You can put your daughter's hair in pigtails while you pee.
  

• You can give your kids a fun Christmas even if there's not much under the tree.
  

• You can weather the heartbreak of your child screaming that she doesn't want to live with you anymore.
  

• You can work all day, get dinner on the table, and help your kids with their homework before tucking them into bed and doing your own homework.
  

• You can dance your kids around the kitchen to make them laugh when all your legs really want to do is run away.

You know what else you can do?

• You can drink wine for dinner.
  

• You can serve pie for breakfast.
  

• You can eat the secret chocolate bar that you didn't tell your kids about, while watching Netflix in your bed.
  

• You can date. You can have sex. You can do those two things exclusively of each other, if you'd like.
  

• You can buy something for yourself.

• You can insist that it is bedtime in Ponyland because if you have to play My Little Pony one more minute you are going to lose your freaking mind.
  

• You can hide the Playdoh. You can just hide it and pretend you have no idea where it is simply because you don't want to deal with cleaning it up or even explaining about how you don't want to clean it up.
  

• You can LOSE YOUR SHIT. You can yell once in awhile and say the wrong thing and you can apologize.

• You can cry. A lot. You can cry in front of your kids. You can let them comfort you.
  

• You can forgive yourself.
  

• You can ask for help.
  

• You can show your kids what it is to be strong. You can show your kids what it is to be vulnerable. You can show them how to rise up and own their mistakes and their victories and their lives.

And another thing?  You can make your own list of your triumphs and update it regularly, even slap it up on the finger-printed fridge that you can totally just not clean any time soon.  You can toot your own horn and feel proud of yourself.  You can redefine "intact" and "family" and what it means to have a happy childhood.

You can do so much more than you think you can do and you can also do so much less than you think you have to, and everything will be okay.  You can count on it.