Robin’s Egg Blue

I’m not very good at waiting. The need to know, the drive to gather information and have a plan, and get it executed is something I struggle with.

Cancer tries the patience of everyone and any delay or wait – be that around diagnosis or getting treatment started can feel endlessly excruciating. I find myself back in the waiting chair, where just months ago I thought I had cleanly escaped the threat of cancer for at least another year. Two months later I’m back at the crossroads of “what is this?” and “what will happen if it’s cancer?”

Having danced with cancer once you know that you are never free from the shadow of it hanging over your head. It hovers in the background of your life. The further you move away from it the easier it is to turn your thoughts away from the threat but you always know it’s like an old coat that no longer fits – it hangs at the back the closet ready for you when it decides it’s time to be brought back out.

Last Wednesday I began to feel unwell – shakes, chills, fever, headache – all the signs of a flu. Thursday morning, still feeling unwell, as I was getting dressed I noticed unusual redness on the breast where I’d had cancer just shy of 21 years ago. My immediate reaction was that the redness and swelling was infection, explaining the symptoms I’d been experiencing the last twelve hours or so. And then of course the brain goes to where it always does once you’ve worn that “small c” – could this be a return of the cancer?

Breast cancer has many faces, many types. They do not all present with a lump. Inflammatory Breast Cancer is one that does not hide like the others can with lumps you cannot see, might not be able to feel and many are only detected by mammogram or ultrasound. Inflammatory Breast Cancer announces itself, quickly, suddenly and aggressively. Whatever was happening with my body, it needed to be seen by a professional as soon as possible.

A 10 day course of antibiotic was begun on Thursday to rule out (or in) infection. But no stone left unturned, an ultrasound was decided upon (by my physician and myself) to see what was happening under the skin.

There has been improvement – the antibiotics seem to be doing what they are meant to – redness fading, swelling gone and yet that’s not a definitive answer because if this is infection – where has it come from and if something like an abscess it will need to be drained. An ultrasound yesterday showed some unexplained inflammation and now we move to the next stage, a repeat of the mammogram I had two months ago that showed nothing untoward. And I wait. Earliest appointment for that is the end of the month.

I won’t sugarcoat this and say I’m sanguine about it. There is still uncertainty and a mild level of fear due to the unknown. The what if. The what next. It is easy to get ahead of yourself when you want answers and a plan. But it gets you nowhere but stress, anxiety and headaches.

I learned so much about cancer when we first took to the dance floor. I learned about how to cope and to get through each day until the next step, the next test, the next diagnostic discovery. You write down dates and you hold them up as beacons to wellness, recovery and hope.

I live with hope, always. I find ways to keep busy. The day before my surgery to remove the lump in my breast (it was not inflammatory breast cancer, that one was hiding inside a duct) I decided I would paint my bedroom. I chose a shade of robin’s egg blue. A colour of hope and joy. I knew that when I was at home recovering I would want to gaze at something soft and serene. With thoughts of renewal and joy. Of hope and possibility. I spent the day exhausting myself completing that project not worrying about being tired because I knew I’d spend much of the next day sleeping during and after surgery. It was such a treat to recover in that room surrounded by a hopeful aura, and it went a long way to my emotional recovery as well.

I haven’t decided that anything needs painting at the moment, but I am keeping busy and occupied and doing whatever I can to be living “outside of my head” where nothing good can happen when you twist yourself in knots of worry and doubt.

I’ve done this dance before. It’s a tango with a partner that will step on your toes and bend you backwards in violent dips. It likes to lead. Should this infection turn out to be more serious and take me back to that dance floor?  I know the choreography and I’m further ahead this time than last. I know what this particular partner is like and will expect it’s moves. I know how to follow but more importantly, I’ve learned that I’m ready to lead.

Complacency Leaves No Room for Gratitude

I shared this on my Substack blog but wanted to share it here as well for those who do not follow me on Substack.


Life all too often carries us forward quickly, at a pace we often find hard to keep up with, but we do. It’s as if we switch into autopilot and the momentum to keep up propels us forward. That often comes with a cost. Stress, anxiety, burnout. The body reaches a point where it says “that’s enough thank you” and gives us signs and indications that it wants rest. It wants to take a breather and find that calmer, more balanced approach to life.

Being on that merry-go-round also brings with it the feeling of seeing the world in blur – we move so quickly that we can’t focus on the things around us. We forget to look, to really see. To pay attention to the people around us, the beauty around us and lighter moments that bring us joy or make us laugh.

Complacency has been taking up space in my life for a few months. I had some good news back in January and allowed myself to believe that life is in balance, that I am invincible and I began to take my health for granted. It’s easily done. Until I was brought up short on Wednesday night and Thursday morning. What I began to think of as something simple has the potential in fact to be something more serious. I’ve entered that waiting room of “what is this”; what might I be facing, what next steps might need to be taken and in general, getting way out over my skis in the realms of “what if”. The thing is, when you have faced serious illness or disease at any point in your life, you know the drill. Your logic says “this is simply x, y or z” but your “knowing I’ve seen the worst” brain at once goes to “what if”.

And I’ve been reminded this afternoon that negative “what if” is a waste of precious time. What if I paid attention to the fact that the sun came out after days of cloud cover? What if I remember the smile on the waitress’s face as we laughed about something on the menu? What if I chose the perfect colour pot for my fake fern? What if I laughed because even a fake fern deserves to look as good as possible? What if I chose the sunniest, brightest bouquet of fresh flowers to put on my desk? What if I remember that one hour overseas telephone conversation with my best friend where we laughed and finished each other’s sentences? What if I just took those moments to be grateful for what I have, what I see and what I feel?

Life is going to unfold the way it will. There are some situations that you might have a hand in creating. There are others that are out of your hands and in those, you find the strength and courage to face them head on. And while there might be a wait for knowing exactly what you’re dealing with, that time can be filled with beauty and laughter and a reminder to not take what you do have for granted.

Hello, My Name Is

Been thinking about playfulness and free time to just return to small joys. This morning, I was pondering improvisation over my coffee. I poured it into a mug that has “tea” printed on the front. It was the first one I grabbed and thought, why not. Made me feel a bit of a rebel to not stay stuck in the rut of routine.

I have periods and moments of that type of frivolous joy, doing things that on the surface seem silly or pointless and yet, underneath that seemingly odd behaviour lies the kinds of things that motivate me.

Many years ago, my mother and a few of her maternal cousins, sitting over a meal and no doubt a few glasses of wine, decided that it was long past time for a family reunion (likely because we’d never had one). These cousins from the Scottish side of the family were all many years older than my mother who was the baby of the family. Each cousin there that night was given the task of informing siblings, children and grandchildren about this momentous occasion. My mother was either given the job of coordinating the entire thing (because she was the youngest) or she volunteered. They even named it after the branches of the family that stood for the four Scottish sisters. That mouthful appeared at the top of the invitations that were printed.  

Family came from places afar – Alberta and Windsor - but most of us lived locally. I knew the senior generation having spent many years going with my mother to bridal showers, weddings, baby showers and funerals. My cousins from Windsor knew no one but our little family. They weren’t the only ones who were unfamiliar with their very large extended family.

To make things easier for all those attending my mother had us all fill out and wear those “Hello My Name Is” badges and we were also to wear another one that signified which of those 4 sisters we were related to.

I decided I’d have a little fun and on my “Hello” badge I printed the name of a well known tv actress.  My sister thought it was hilarious, so she followed suit. Our mother was less than impressed (not unusual) but she was far too busy overseeing all that needed to be done to spend much time worrying or chastising us about it. And then it started. I approached people who read my name tag and then did a double take and laughed. I then introduced myself properly and did this as many times as possible. When my mother saw the laughter and the ease with which people began to mingle and communicate (this before we got into the dancing and the Gay Gordons) she visibly relaxed, shook her head and later took me aside to ask “why?”

It was an ice breaker. Take a room filled with people, most of whom only spent family time with their immediate family or first cousins and watch them all stay together in small groups. No one wants to make that first move or call attention to themselves. Enter me. I don’t mind doing breaking the ice in sometimes subtle ways and in this case it helped to set the mood for the evening to come.

I was less than impressed with myself when at the end of the evening it was decided that the party had been such a success, we would do it again the following year – with me the one nominated to organize it. I improvised that too.

Grace

There is a split second when you know without a shadow of a doubt, that the glass or plate you’re trying to replace in the cupboard just isn’t going to make it. The brain has registered what the hand is unable to maneuver, as if it can see the play by play but you continue to try and make that connection, even as the fingers release and the object makes its downward spiral, fracturing into a mosaic on the floor at your feet.

The first reaction is to freeze so you don’t step in anything whether you have something on your feet or not. Or it might be to release a cascade of muttering and oaths about how you’re responsible for such a mess.  You might do both.  And then very gingerly you begin the task of picking up first those shards that are big enough so you can avoid the sharp edges, then find a broom and a dust pan to sweep up the remains.  A vacuum manages to get the tiniest bits that the eye can’t see and you might even give it a wipe with a wet cloth.

The other night as I was replacing a wine glass in the rack, I could feel it going. I surrendered and waited to hear that definitive crack as it landed in pieces. And then began the cleanup. But first there was a string of negative self-reproach about being careless, about needing to take more care, about being so clumsy and now look at this mess I had to clean up.

As I set about the process of cleaning up, at the point where I was using a wet cloth to wipe that area of the floor where I could see the smallest bits of glass had sprayed, I picked up one of those specs and it embedded itself under the skin on the pad of my finger. I didn’t notice it immediately, it was only later when I was using that finger and I could feel the deep pain of it. I couldn’t see the glass until I put my hand under a lamp and then began the process of working it out.

As I was plying the tweezers I paused for a moment and thought about all those negative accusations I’d spoken to myself and realized that those words, those thoughts had been embedded in my subconscious. All the times as a child that something broke – an accident that happened when I was helping to dry the dishes or I was putting something away but had miscalculated the space and distance and the words that would be uttered to me before being told to “stand still” or “go into the other room” -- I was careless. I was such a klutz. I needed to pay more attention. I had just wasted whatever the object was. Somewhere in the middle of that recitation of my shortcomings, I would be asked if I was hurt. The question was about whether or not I was physically hurt from the broken glass or plate. No one ever questioned or talked about wounds of a different kind.

Those negative, hurtful words we say to ourselves when something goes wrong, be it an accident or a decision that wasn’t in our best interest, they’ve come from someone else. They’ve been spoken to us as if they define us and are often absorbed and embedded where they live and breathe in our subconscious. Just as we use tweezers to remove an unseen spec of glass, we can also pluck those too often remembered negative words out from under our skin as well. We feel a sense of relief when we’ve removed a foreign object from our body. We can feel that same sense of relief when we remove negative self-talk from our minds that has taken up too much space and we’ve carried far too long.

We need to give ourselves grace.

A Fond Remembrance

At a time when I was just on the cusp of being able to get away with the pretense that I still believed a man in a red suit with a white beard was going to land a semi-herd of reindeer on the roof of our house, then slide down a non-existent chimney (we had a faux fireplace with “lumps” of amber glass standing in for the real thing) I had duly written my letter (and one for my younger sister) to the man, asking, because I had been so good, for a doll that was on the oh so popular list of “must have” toys that year.

When the doll was not under the tree on Christmas morning, I was to say the least disappointed. However, I was old enough to know that it was my parents who were responsible for whatever managed to find it’s way to our house with our names on the treasures. My mother, also disappointed at not being able to fulfill that wish, took me aside and quietly, so as not to spoil the magic for my sister, explained what had happened. As occurred in many households and still does to this day, by the time my father had been paid and my mother had saved enough money for the extras for Christmas, she was unable to find the doll at any store she checked. Sold old met her at every stop.  I had a number of other gifts to appreciate and enjoy that morning, and before long that doll was simply a memory.

About a month after Christmas, as we came in from groceries, my mother and our next-door neighbour Mrs. B., who was just going out, were standing on the porch discussing the holidays. My mother was lamenting the inability to find the one gift that I had set my heart on. As they were talking, we noticed one of the girls across the street playing on her lawn with that very doll. An arm had been torn off and as she made her way back indoors, she threw the doll in the snow, discarded and forgotten as if it was no longer of any interest. My instinct was to go over, pick it up and take it to her door. My mother said we would just let it be, but I could see that she was upset. The way of the world she explained. Sometimes people don’t appreciate what they have. I wanted the poor doll to be whole again.  My mother and our neighbour continued to speak in hushed tones, and I left them to it, eyeing that doll face down and cold in the snow.

A few days later my mother asked me if I would go next door as Mrs. B. had asked me to stop in. No idea why but I went in and sat in the living room while we chatted over cookies and hot chocolate about things that an 8-year-old might enjoy. And then this lovely woman handed me a box. Inside that box was “the doll”. She had been given one of these toys as a promotional gift through her office and as her only child at that time was a boy of two, she wanted me, with my mother’s permission, to have the doll.  I was speechless and then tearful and ever so grateful for her generosity and her kindness.  That family moved soon afterwards, and I only saw them once more as happens as circumstances change when we visited their new home a few blocks away.

I haven’t thought of this woman or that doll for years - until this morning when reading the newspaper, I came across her obituary. I learned that she had led a full life, with three children and grandchildren and time spent doing the many things that rounded out her life. I imagined her as a mother and grandmother and her giving nature and once more that eight year old girl said “thank you Mrs. B., I’ve never forgotten how you made me feel.”

Generosity is a gift for the giver and the person who receives, and the obligation I believe, once you have been the beneficiary, is to pay it forward. I wish I had been able to tell Mrs. B. how many times the gift of that doll and her generosity to me has been paid forward.

Maya Angelou said it best:

“I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

Pick A Seat

Awake through the middle of the night, my mind was flipping back and forth as I tried to reach a decision. It wasn’t a decision that needed to be made at that moment but my brain was telling me otherwise.  It came down to “you’re in or you’re out – choose” and of course I didn’t and I’m still wrestling with the decision. And then my brain, at whatever dark hour of the night it was, took me back to being about four years old and how even then I had difficulty making decisions. Wanting to make the “right” one and testing out all the options.

Every August from mid-month to Labour Day, the Canadian National Exhibition runs in Toronto. It was always a treat to spend a day down at “the Ex”. My sister and I would think about and plan for that day from the last day of school where, tucked in with the report card was a free admission ticket.  My mother packed us a lunch and after spending much of the morning wandering through the buildings she liked – Better Living and Horticulture specifically, she would buy a “cone” of Honeydew drink with 3 cups, and we’d find a shady spot to sit. My sister and I, impatient for going on the rides, could barely sit long enough to eat before we were begging to keep moving. We still had the Food Building to do but that came at the end of the day as we were heading back to catch the streetcar home.

The Food Building with all that food to sample (our wise mother feeding us before we went in to not be tempted to ask for everything we saw). Margaret’s Donuts were a favourite, and we would head home with boxes of Dubble Bubble gum and a bag of Neilson chocolate bars. Outside along the midway you’d find yourself asking for candy floss – that delicately spun sugar that came in either pink or blue and stuck to everything because once you tried it with your mouth, it was all over your face and if you had longer hair, it gummed itself in there too.  So, you’d switch to your fingers which as sticky as they became you wiped off on your special dress – because going to the Ex meant getting dressed up in those days. Maybe you had a bag of the Tiny Tom donuts – but here came a decision – did you want plain, icing sugar or cinnamon sugar coating.  Easier to have one or two of each.

We were allowed only so many rides and had to choose wisely as there were so many to choose from, but as a four year old, the year we went without my sister who was too young to attend I had my first real encounter with indecision.

There was a ride that, like a merry-go-round, had a few boats, a few cars, a motorcycle and a bus. I had my eye on the bus. I have no idea why – the mind of a four year old – but that was my goal – to get on that bus. And I did. The problem came when I had to decide which seat to take. I spent that entire ride sitting in every possible seat. I started as the driver. Then I sat on the left side, then switched to the right side and finally sat right at the back. It was like a game of musical chairs with me the only player. When I got off my mother shook her head and asked me what on earth I was doing and why I hadn’t just sat still and enjoyed the ride. I had no answer, but when she pointed out that I’d pretty much missed the joy of the ride I was crushed. Had my inability to pick a seat caused me to miss out on the fun?

The next summer, once again, without my sister, I wanted that ride and to sit in the bus, in one seat. To just enjoy the ride from whatever vantage point I’d chosen. And there I was this time starting at the back, moved from one side to the other and ended up in the driver’s seat. That year it was more about playing beat the clock – I was determined to spend some time in each seat before the ride ended. Once again, my mother just gave me a look of puzzlement. But that time I didn’t feel I’d been cheated because I went in knowing what I was going to do.

The year I was six, we did have my sister with us, but she was at that point not terribly interested in the rides. As I waited my turn to sit myself down on that bus, a boy got in there with me. I was so affronted and forced to sit in only one of the 3 seats remaining. He had taken the driver’s seat, so I sat on the side, looking dejectedly out at my mother as I passed by on the turning wheel.  He stayed in his seat the entire ride. Why not, he was driving.

I never rode that bus again. Not out of disappointment, I had outgrown the ride. Looking back now as the adult I am, I think it was less about not being able to decide about where to sit as it was about having too many choices and about perspective. I could be the driver who was in control or I could be a passenger seeing things from a different angle. If I was at the back of the bus, I could see all around me. If I chose a seat on the left or the right, I would be looking out a window that faced only one way.

Maybe that decision I was trying to make in the darkness of the early hours is about perspective as well. Not about what I might lose as much as what would I have to gain.

No Laughing Matter

I’ve been writing over the last two days using humour. Mostly laughing at myself and situations I’ve found myself in, the lighter moments and foibles of a life. That prompted someone to ask me how I can laugh, how I can find humour in life when the world is in a such a perilous state. How indeed.

I didn’t always know how to use humour and laughter as coping mechanisms. I learned that from going through hard, difficult experiences and realizing that there are things I can control and there are things that are out of my control. I learned to choose what I can control and let go of what I cannot.

I’ve had to give too many eulogies and in crafting the words I needed to say to express sorrow, to express empathy and to remember who the person was that I was honouring, as I’d start making notes of things I wanted to be sure to include, memories that I had shared with that person would rise to the surface. Memories where we laughed uncontrollably, where this unique individual found slap stick and pies in the face uproariously funny or the escapades another would get into with her driving made me realize that these stories made up as much of the personality as the good works they did or the way they made the best ham sandwich. Speaking the stories to those in attendance I could see them relax. Their respectful laughter at these tales, and nods of the heads showed me – we want to feel that release when we are stressed or in the depths of grief. As if we need permission to enjoy those lighter moments at a solemn occasion. Afterwards I’d be met by fellow mourners who told me about funny moments they had shared with the deceased.

The biggest realization arrived for me when I was undergoing two years of treatment for cancer. The entire situation was out of my control. My body had done something I couldn’t see or prepare for. From the moment I had the mammogram that shook my world, I was placed on a conveyor belt of appointments, tests, biopsies, surgeries, chemotherapy, radiation and a “wonder drug” that I give thanks for every day. I put my life in the hands of experienced, educated professionals. I had to trust that they knew exactly what they were doing for me, the hamster on their wheel. But I was not passive. I asked copious questions, I watched and listened and learned. I put my faith in everything I could not see be that angels, or spirits or guides or whatever creator might be watching out over me.

And then, while all of this was taking place, I remembered to get on with living my life. I had two children to walk through all of this and adhering to a schedule that we’d been keeping to before our world tilted was the most important thing that I could do - for them and for myself. I saw them off to school and drove them to their extra-curricular activities. I fed us all, and even when the food tasted of nothing to me – I still made the foods they loved. We took trips, mostly for sports tournaments but we made sure to vacation. My children were old enough to understand the situation and the risks, but they also knew that we could get into arguments, settle a dispute, be held accountable for homework or a missed deadline, and find funny films to watch.

I bought all of us those fake glasses with bushy eyebrows and big noses. On the tough days, and there were some very deeply dark days, we’d throw those on, put on funny voices and the boys would each take a turn wearing my wig. They looked adorable. And they’d be on the floor in hysterics. Laughter releases endorphins – a natural mood elevator. It didn’t make the worry, the sadness or the stress disappear. It gave us all some moments of respite from the unknown that stretched before us.

I made this comment yesterday. We are like sponges. We read, we hear and we absorb the news that happens around us, whether that’s in the media, on social media or from a conversation with a relative or friend who is going through a difficult time in their life. If we have empathy, we absorb it even more deeply. But we reach a saturation point where not one more drop of hard news, of caring, concern or worry can be taken on board. And that’s when the release is important. The ability to find something humorous to laugh about. It’s like wringing out the sponge so that it has the capacity to absorb once more.

Nothing about what is happening in the world right now is funny. It’s sad, dangerous, frightening, enraging and unpredictable. I am in no position to make any change to the outcomes, and I have no control over what has happened or might happen next. I can speak out and empathize.  And I can find ways to alleviate the stress, allowing me to keep my hope and optimism intact.

Daily life carries on even in the most difficult times. Finding balance by being outside in nature, exercising, being creative, and yes, even laughing – any or all of those activities is imperative to weathering any storm.

card given to my son on his last birthday

Intentional Roadblocks

I don’t love visiting the doctor for any reason but follow up appointments are usually just one more thing on the things to do list. And needs must. I’d rather have something checked out rather than sit and worry myself over all the dire diagnoses I’ve scrolled through on the internet.

Last Monday was a “follow up” on my blood pressure and a renewal of the prescription I don’t enjoy taking – but I’m grateful for it, nevertheless. That visit is never something I’m keen to do but my prior blood pressure test was pretty good - a marked improvement so I had especially high hopes as I set off to see my appointment.

Thinking I had plenty of time to make the drive, arrive early and sit quietly before I met “the pump”, I was soon disabused of that notion. Forgetting what midday traffic is like heading into the city I was met with slow traffic as 2 lanes of traffic were narrowed to one (there are 3 lanes but the right lane is designated for buses and bicycles) due to snow melting machines on the road, cleaning up from the recent heavy snowfall we’d endured. Once past that, I thought it would be smooth sailing but not to be. I managed to somehow hit every red light. What started as a slow seethe soon turned to red hot rage as I cursed every traffic light while the car came to a stop. From mild oaths to full profanity, I could feel my blood pressure rising. With every brake, I’d look at the clock on the radio and start a mantra of “I’m going to be late” and sure enough by the time I arrived at the building it was 5 minutes past my appointment.

When I entered the building there was one receptionist instead of the usual three and that one was on the telephone. There was another woman waiting in front of me and one who came in behind me who did me no favours as standing almost on top of me in the crowded space, she kept saying loudly, “I have an appointment and I’m late. Why am I waiting here?” By this point I didn’t need a blood pressure cuff to tell me that reading was going to be off the charts.

Once upstairs at the office, the receptionist there said to me “we’ve been waiting” – yes, I know and said she’d take me straight to the consulting room. Great. I barely had time to take my coat off before the doctor walked in and hooked me up. No chance to catch my breath, no moment to locate something other than a poster for how to cover your mouth if you cough or sneeze to focus on to help me find some moment of Zen – just straight to the let’s cut off the circulation in your arm.

When the doctor sat down and showed me that my blood pressure was elevated – colour me surprised – I asked if the stress I’d been feeling for the last 30 minutes might have contributed to that she replied “well there’s only one way we’ll know that.”  No, she didn’t offer to take it again, she suggested I invest in a home blood pressure machine and see what the readings are for a few weeks and then she’d see me again.

Hypertension has played a starring role on both sides of my family so genetics would indicate that I might be a candidate for that myself.  Knowing this, I thought it might be a good idea to get one just to know where I stand with this issue. Dutifully purchased, the thing has sat on my desk for a week. I look at it and think tomorrow will be a good day to start. Also, the next day and the one after that.  Obviously, I am not really keen to find out what numbers might await me.

I’ve argued with this thing for days. I’ve had a hard time getting the cuff on correctly. How hard is it to wrap something around your arm? Apparently, I need an advanced degree. I give up so easily when it isn’t on “just right” and tell myself the struggle will only affect the reading. I was complaining about this to my oldest friend who has also used one (and told me not to be discouraged because it will never give me the same reading twice - helpful). She assured me that “once you’ve beaten that thing into submission, you’ll see how easy it is.”  I did manage to get it on one afternoon and as the cuff began to close around my upper arm I felt rather pleased with myself until the reading showed my blood pressure at 250 and then began to flash “error” – I should hope so!

I watched videos on how to do this. It looks so easy and I thought a child could probably do this. And off I’d go. To no avail. I knew it was me setting up roadblocks. I have no real desire to do this and any excuse will do. It snowed the other day – that will put my blood pressure up. I have to shovel – that’s definitely not going to help. This particular day ends in a “y”. Any excuse.

Finally, I decided to ask for help. I called a friend who I know has used one of these. He also told me it was a waste of time, although in his case, his doctor said he had high blood pressure and the readings he took at home showed that was not the case. Off I went today to see him, cuff in hand. He agreed it was a bit complicated (so kind of him) – different than the one he had but as I stood there, he wrapped it around my arm to the right tension, and I slowly slipped it off – just as it was. It’s sitting here now, on the desk, beside the machine. Waiting for me tomorrow morning. Wonder what excuse I’ll come up with then? This machine and I are not going to be friends. Passing acquaintances is fine with me.

Moral of this story. Just because you think you should be able to do something, even something simple, doesn’t always mean you can. Asking for help isn’t a sign of weakness, it’s a sign that you can save yourself a great deal of time and stress by meeting the problem head on. Recognizing that you are creating intentional roadblocks is half the battle.

Who’s There

On a recent clear out of old board games my children had outgrown that were missing pieces I came across a box I hadn’t seen in years. The box was broken at all the corners and as I lifted it, the pieces inside fell to the floor. I stepped back in surprise because what had landed at my feet was a planchet and its accompanying Ouija board. I’d had this since I was a teenager and hadn’t realized that I’d been holding on to it all these years. Not sure why that was but I’m pretty sure I was worried that tossing it in the trash would bring bad luck on my head. Still hesitant to toss the thing upon it’s discovery, it ended up in a box of things being taken to a charity shop. For someone else to deal with.

That board had seen quite a bit of use when I was about the age of fourteen, but it wasn’t the last time I’d spend an evening with the spirit world. I recall a hockey tournament one snowy Saturday night in downtown Ottawa. Three mothers bored while their sons were meant to be watching a movie as a group (more than likely playing mini sticks instead of paying attention to the movie), sitting in a hotel room, with some Smirnoff Ice and one of the mothers bringing out a Ouija board that she’d brought along, asking if we’d like to have a go.

What could be the harm? A little innocent fun that did in fact produce a lot of serious focus on ridiculous questions. It seems we’d gone from being fourteen year olds asking what boy might have a secret crush on one of us, to one woman who kept asking about whether or not the team would win the tournament. Riveting. Trying not to laugh while keeping two fingers each on that small planchet as if the spirits were clamoring to tell us the score of a children’s sporting event. Slow to start but soon getting into gear, as the planchet would move, spelling who knew what, I was given the pad of paper & pen provided by the hotel to write down whatever letters were spelled out. None of it made sense and at one point I suggested (tongue in cheek) that we ask what language this particular spirit was speaking because it wasn’t English. One answer was very unpleasant and one of the mothers told the spirit that she was sorry, but we didn’t wish to speak to him or her. I laughed more than the others and was admonished that if I wasn’t going to be serious it would never work (honestly, that team, that year I could have told them we were not winning any tournament). These two mothers were hard core Ouija users. That’s not to say that I don’t believe it’s possible or that spirits exist – I am open to the fact that just about anything is possible. But I can’t see 3 women, drinking Smirnoff at the Delta Hotel on a Saturday night as the best location and conduits for contacting the spirits of those who have moved on. We didn’t get the answers to the tournament’s conclusion, and our team didn’t even make the semifinals. Maybe I should have been a little more committed.

The first time I opened this box to what might lay beyond my knowledge was on my 14th birthday. It was a gift that I had asked for and while my mother was skeptical, she did buy one. I was having a sleepover party on the Friday night of my birthday week – 3 girls from my grade 9 class were coming over, and we discussed our plans in depth for days before classes began.

As we settled in with junk food and eager fingers we started. A couple of rocky beginnings of too much chatter and shifting for better positions on the cushions on the floor, the planchet began to move. And out of nowhere the window in the rec room began to bang. Repeatedly. Screaming ensued, feet went clattering up the stairs to the kitchen, nearly knocking over my little sister who had been eavesdropping at the top of the stairs, to my mother wondering what on earth was going on down in that basement. Breathlessly we told her that spirits were knocking on the window. My mother, more sensible than 4 young teenage girls, stepped outside to find two boys from our class standing by the lawn, laughing hysterically.  And the four of us in our pajamas standing on the front porch yelling at them for frightening us half to death.

Seems that what we thought were private chats about our Friday night sleepover became the plan of the boy I had a crush on and his best friend to do what boys of fourteen do best.

All of this reminds me that we often feel we are unseen or unheard. We don’t always know who is listening or watching over our shoulder because they are more interested in us than we realize. That boy and his friend had never said a word that they even acknowledged the four of us in any way other than sharing the same classroom space. But who knows – maybe there was more to that Ouija board than I could ever have imagined.

Only the Best

I wrote this today and shared it on my Substack account and want to share it here as well.

When you find yourself in the place where you are needing to reestablish your presence and find the people who are going to make up your circle there is an opportunity presented where you can be “the old you”, the one who is starting to learn what you are becoming passionate about, or the person you have grown to become.  Those opportunities present themselves more often than we are aware.

On a bitterly cold January day, just like the one I’m experiencing today, I’m reliving a memory of walking into a new school in what at the time was a small town, heading into a grade 4 classroom where I knew one person. A young girl, the same age as me, who lived two doors down on my new street had knocked at our door the day after we moved in. Introducing herself she announced to me as the bold nine-year-old she was, that she was going to be my new best friend. I found her confidence in that statement welcoming and hopeful, although I hadn’t specifically decided that I needed a new best friend. I had left 2 best friends behind in the big city and still hadn’t fully come to terms with this transplant into a new life. As the teacher introduced herself to me, and then introduced me my new classmates, my “new best friend” insisted that I sit beside her, and the teacher was more than happy to accommodate.

The two best friends I had left behind were constantly at odds with one another about which one of them was truly and honestly my best friend (as young children will do) and on too many occasions would then turn to me to settle the argument and tell them who ranked number one in my life. I never answered the question and would walk away to let them know I had no intention of choosing one over the other. I liked them both, equally though one was much less demanding of my time and attention. In truth I was pleased that I was no longer in that dynamic of trying to keep everyone happy because once we were apart, I realized I was never happy with either of them. They were friendships made due to proximity of living within the space of houses between us and our age. Moving offered me the chance to hopefully find friends who were more like me.

As the weeks went by, I met two other girls in that classroom. One lived further down the street from me and the other over the creek that ran behind our two houses. These two girls were as different from the ones I’d left in the city as could be, never demanded to know which of them I liked more, opened doors to new adventures, the discovery of music I’d come to love and the chance to explore the beauty of the outdoors. The girl who announced she was my “new best friend” slowly became just the girl who lived two doors down. We were nothing alike and I soon learned it was simply a replay of the girl I’d been in the city, just transplanted to a different location.

Sadly, the girl from further down the street moved to another city herself within months of our meeting and while we kept in touch with letters, as happens when you are nine, turning ten our time and attention were taken up with new people, new experiences. The friend I crossed that creek with by stepping on large stones and trunks of fallen trees (the girl I had been in the city would have been terrified to do anything risky like that), she and I kept our friendship even after I moved back to the big city and she moved to another province. It lasted until we were in our teens and then life took over once again as our futures began to unfold.

I learned from that one-year experience that there was something more to me. Something deeper and more willing to embrace new adventures and new beliefs. Moving back to the city, back to those friends I’d left behind – that changed as well. In the year I was gone they went their separate ways, making different friends and while I felt left out, I could eventually see that it was natural progression. They each found a tribe that was more suited to their personalities. I didn’t miss their friendship and while we were friendly towards one another, I found new friends through school and outside activities. I became a bit more of an introvert, making discoveries about life and about myself and understanding that there are friendships that aren’t meant to last forever. That as we change and grow, so too do the people we spend our time with.

Those childhood friendships are excellent learning opportunities for discovering what we like, what we want to experience with other people, what we believe in, what we stand for, what we bring to a relationship and what we are willing to sacrifice for peace and harmony.

And here I am today, in a situation of looking at my life – where I am with old friends, making new friends, finding people who are like-minded and acknowledging that there is no need to have “a best friend” – every friend in my life is the best. The best of who they are, the best of who I am and the best that we are when together. I can thank Patti and Jennie, those nine year old girls, for that lesson.

You Carry It Well

Scrolling through my Instagram feed the other day I came across a quote that stopped me short and made me sit back with a sigh.

“Because I carry it well doesn’t mean it’s not heavy.”

The person who posted it on their account gave no citation so I’m unable to credit the source though I could have said this myself.

Like many people I’ve carried some very heavy loads in my life, and I’ve been told too often that I make it look so easy. I take that as a compliment of sorts because I’ve never been one to call attention to myself. I do what I do because it’s what I’m called to do. I try and set an example for others, starting first and foremost with my children. Bad things happen, challenges appear and stepping up and facing them is the way forward. Yes, you can roll over and admit defeat and say “I’ll not try again” but that’s never felt comfortable for me. I haven’t the patience to just say “I’m done” or “I quit” because within hours I’m back up and ready to get things moving. Much of the time it’s because other people have been depending on me.

And as that quote says, just because it looks easy, that doesn’t mean it’s not a heavy load to carry.

One year in my role as manager, I had arranged a fundraising dance for my son’s hockey team to take place in early February. The date had been set, tickets sold and people expected the event to go forward. Then unexpectedly my sister died a week before the event. As her only living relative it fell to me to make all the necessary arrangements. There was nothing I could do about the timing – life happens when it does – but I knew I could manage it. Because people were relying on me for both a funeral and a fundraiser.

The fundraiser took place a few days after the funeral and, although I was grieving, I attended the event to make sure everything was in place. I didn’t stay long, just long enough to thank people for being there, to leave things in someone else’s capable hands and I went home where I belonged, to be with my grief, in private.

Weeks afterward at a game, a parent on the team made the comment to me that he didn’t know how I could have gone to that fundraiser. I made it all look so easy he said, and he himself would never have done that. He would have been too upset, too immersed in grief to think about something as frivolous as a dance. He as much as then told me I must be a very cold person to have been able to do that.

That gave me pause. That someone would see me as cold or unfeeling because I honoured a commitment to not let other people down. I explained to this man and the other parents who were listening to our conversation that what might look easy was in fact a very difficult, very heavy load for me to balance. Explaining that my grief ran deeper than I allowed them to see, which is why I had been present for only a short time. If what I had done looked easy that meant that I had accomplished what I set out to do – to give them all the evening, they expected without anyone feeling uncomfortable on my behalf. I left that conversation wondering if it had been worth the time and effort.

People see what they want to see, through their own lens. How often do we judge others without knowing facts? How often do we stop and think about what might be happening beneath the surface? How often do we simply allow ourselves to accept things at face value? How often does a smiling face mask sorrow? How often does the person who makes jokes in public cry in private? How often do we carry on for the benefit of others and not share the weight of the burden? Because other people make it look so easy.

Beautiful Destinations

Spent part of the afternoon sorting through art supplies, tidying that space and my eye landed on my old art journals. I picked one up and it opened to this page. I looked at it for a good few minutes, smiled and was reminded that we find the things we need at the time we need them the most. Or words to that effect.

I have no recollection of what was going through my mind the day I did this page. Old magazine pages, that block of words, torn at the edges (I have a penchant for doing that rather than using scissors - I prefer that worn at the edges look in my art), some paint smeared with my fingers rather than a brush. When I’m creating, I will often use my hands - I like the feel of the paint, I like feeling connected to the page. Sometimes I use an old credit card or a key card from a hotel room. I like the strong edge on the plastic. But I digress. This is not about my artistic preferences and practices. Something about those words must have been a message I needed at that moment in 2020, the early months of the Covid pandemic.

Where I am at this stage in my life is nothing at all like the pandemic we struggled to get through, though it changed us all in one way or another. These moments are about change and needing to rebuild after an abrupt ending. I can hardly compare being shut out of a social media site with being quarantined to our homes, being parted from loved ones, and living in fear of what would happen if we became ill with this raging out of control virus. But we did have to start over once it was believed safe to resume living our lives as we had done before the world was turned on its head. Then again - did we really return to life as it was or did we began to create a new way of living because of the new knowledge we had gained - knowing that our world can stop in its tracks.

I’ve had a week to come to terms with that abrupt ending last Monday morning. I’ve had a week of making decisions - do I just stay away from social media, or do I continue to find a different path going forward? If I go forward, what does that look like, and what choices would I make this time that I didn’t before?

Like a child who has built a tower out of building blocks, stepping back to see what has been created after careful application and taking the time to reach the level of happiness at what those two small hands had built, who then sees another child walk by and knock it all down - simply because that child could, there I sat on Monday, looking at the block tower I had spent time building over months, strewn across the floor at my feet.

I’ve picked up the blocks and I’m rebuilding something new. They are the same blocks so some of it will look like it did at “the old place” but there’s a different feel to this new space. I see some familiar faces there, many are new to me. It has a different feel and I’m still trying to find my voice. I still have that, my voice. “They” didn’t knock that out of me. I’m just a little quieter for the time being. I’ve also found somewhere else to spread my wings, and as I stumble and bumble my way along, trying to figure things out in that location, that feels right too. A new challenge. Perhaps I was becoming too set in my ways at “the old place” and needed something bigger for my voice, for the words I want to share. I had outgrown it and needed the push (shove off a cliff) they gave me. I could be grateful and I’m almost at that stage - being able to say “thanks for doing me such a tremendous favour.”

I’ve left that difficult road in the rearview mirror and looking ahead through the windshield I’m seeing beautiful destinations that I’m eager to explore. Endings really do offer fresh beginnings. If you’re prepared to look for them.

Food Avoidance

This isn’t about eating disorders, which is a very serious subject that I have no experience with. This is about avoiding eating certain food because it brings up negative associations or bad memories.

This past Saturday I ordered a hamburger in a restaurant. Doesn’t sound like a big deal. But it was for me. It has been decades since I did that but on Saturday, I knew I was ready and made the choice happily and eagerly. I’ve eaten plenty of hamburgers in my life. The usual fast food, grab it in a hurry, too tired to cook, too lazy to come up with a menu and on many occasions, upon leaving the rink after a child’s hockey game when there had been no time for a meal beforehand, just a bagel with cheese and hope there’s enough energy to get the kid through the game. But to sit at a table in a restaurant, look through a menu and say “oh I’ll have the hamburger please" that was just a no go zone for me.

When my parents separated and ultimately divorced when I was 15, it became the “routine” that every weekend belonged to my father. Correction, it wasn’t every weekend. It was every Saturday for a one hour lunch. The most he seemed able to spare. And it was the only contact we had - one hour on Saturday. Not court mandated - his choice. He would come to pick us up, my sister and me, and drive a very short distance to a local restaurant. Nothing fancy mind you, just the local little diner. The first time we enjoyed this momentous occasion, my sister and I were both apprehensive and a little nervous. Life had been contentious prior to the separation, and I had been somewhat of a catalyst for that. Another story, another time perhaps. Our father was a strict man and there was never any room for flexibility or that bit of freedom. When we looked over that menu, he immediately decided he’d have a hamburger. The next words were “how about the two of you, does that sound good?” and we both nodded our heads and said “sure, that would be great.” Our usual reflex response to his decisions. And the die was cast. Because every Saturday at noon after that it was hamburgers and fries with a coke for lunch. A squeaked out “well maybe I’ll have …” was cut short with, “but you love the hamburgers here” which were flat, tasteless, greasy and difficult to choke down. No one enjoyed that. But it was easier to just say “right” and cede the ground I’d tried to cover.

Those lunches lasted for just over 2 years when I had finally had enough and stopped not just the inane lunches where we were expected to describe our entire week in 30 minutes each but I ended the relationship with my father for a multitude of reasons.

From that point forward, the thought of ordering a hamburger never entered my head. Looking at that section on a menu would make me avert my eyes to another section and choose anything but. The image of that greasy spoon, the stilted conversation, the uncomfortable atmosphere has lived at the back of my mind for far too long.

I’ve changed in many ways over the last year. I’ve done the work of forgiving and purging old memories and old hurts. I’m no longer that young teenager forced to be in places I’d rather not be, forced to stand up for myself - and my sister - who never felt able to use her voice. So, this past Saturday I made the conscious decision to have a hamburger. I took the fries instead of a salad - I do eat fries but will usually choose a different side. But no Coke. Sorry that product has not passed my lips since I was 17. It was my father’s beverage of choice for his rye and general consumption.

And that hamburger? I relished every delicious bite. It was the taste of rebellion and freedom and me, taking back my life, making my own decision, not one made for me.

Entry Denied

On a day when I had been considering making a change to my routine, the decision was made for me. Some choices we make, others seem to be made for us. How we deal with that I really believe is the key.

When my threads account was suspended once again late last night I went through the usual motions and put it down to just one more glitch in the system and a reaction of “oh here we go again.” Until an hour later when I was informed that my account had been disabled due to “my” disregard of their “integrity policy”. Excuse me? Question my integrity or not respecting someone else’s and that’s it as far as I’m concerned. Another glitch in their system? Maybe. I’ve been hearing plenty of tales from threads, facebook and instagram about issues that make no sense. I don’t care about glitches. Or whatever their reason was for disabling the account (there was no clear reason provided) - with I might add - no possibility of pleading my case. When it’s done. It’s done. And so am I.

I’ve said this before - I have had much worse, much more serious issues thrown in my path and I’ve found my way around those obstacles. Life is filled with them - pot holes, boulders, sheets of ice. This issue is just a pebble stuck in my shoe. One that I can toss out, replace the shoe and keep moving.

Was I upset? Of course. I was shocked and in disbelief. Thinking about all the accounts on that platform that are more than questionable and yet mine, with my life motto of “do no harm” is singled out and excluded. No one likes to be rejected or have a door slammed shut in their face. No one wants to feel “less” or be told “private club, keep out.” However. I’m also not the person who is going to sit around feeling sorry for myself. Someone asked me if I was going to try and get the account back. Nope. I don’t grovel. I don’t accept crumbs or useless apologies, and my self-worth says “honey, you can do better.”

And that’s what I’ve done. I’ll have more presence on other platforms. There’s Bluesky and there’s Substack. And I have larger plans that with luck and commitment I’ll see come to fruition. I’m choosing to see my “ejection” from a platform I had been having reservations about anyway, as a gift and a message from above - time to move on.

What I will miss is the people. I came to know so many lovely, wonderful people. We shared laughter and ideas. We encouraged one another. And I have no way of letting any of them know why I’ve gone. Some may figure it out from past issues. It’s like being fired, ushered out by HR and not having a chance to say goodbye to people you’ve spent time with. That makes me sad.

A walk this morning - a very cold walk through the park near Lake Ontario not only filled my lungs with bracing air, it settled my mind and helped me to put things into perspective. Life is filled with disappointments and heartache. It’s filled with challenges and set backs. It’s also filled with opportunities. It’s less about one door closing and another opening than it is knocking on more doors, banging on windows and looking for the cracks were light shines through and you see that maybe the room you were in was the wrong room. That it was too small and not the one you needed to be in. So you keep looking until you find the one that feels like home.

Ticket to Ride

Another year to ride this rollercoaster of life. A mammogram that has come back all clear, Ned (no evidence of disease) is my ticket to stay on that ride for at least another year. Anything can happen outside of a cancer diagnosis of course – there is always the possibility of the car going off the rails or hitting a snag. A loop that might not loop and a rail that comes loose, stopping the car until it can be repaired. All great analogies and you get the point.

There is a sense of freedom and elation when you get that news. Because the possibility always exists that the next one or the one after that might have a different outcome. And it comes with the reminder that the ticket does have an expiry date because in order to ride for another year, you’ve got to have that mammogram. You can of course choose not to have it, to trust to the fates, but I need that reassurance. My breast cancer arrived without warning. It was tiny crystals, like bits of salt, all clustered together.  Couldn’t be felt by hand, but a mammogram picked them out clearly and distinctly.

I used to suffer with survivors’ guilt. A woman in my circle and I were diagnosed with breast cancer almost the same week. Our pathologies were different. Hers was 1cm - less invasive, less aggressive and easily removed. If treatment was suggested, she did not have either chemotherapy or radiation and she had no hormone treatment after the surgery. Mine on the other hand was 2cms - a bit larger, good margins were taken during the lumpectomy, but I had one lymph node affected which required a second surgery for the lymph nodes to be removed and because mine was more aggressive I had chemotherapy, radiation and a year of Herceptin because the tumour was Her2+. I made it to the first 5-year milestone. The woman I knew did not. Her cancer spread and she lived just less than 5 years post diagnosis.

I’ve often wondered why I keep getting the ticket to ride that she did not. Our tumours were in different places in our bodies – mine on the side of breast, hers higher up closer to the collar bone and did that make a difference? Was it that we had different surgeons? Did she unbeknown to me refuse treatment when offered? I have no answers to those questions other than the wheel of life spins in a way that we do not have the ability to see.

This year I feel a particularly strong urge to make things happen. I say that every year, but this one feels different. In the early years of this part of my life journey having had breast cancer, I needed to be focused on others – on my children, on my obligations, on just getting from one point to another. I didn’t have the luxury or the time to enjoy the ride. I got on one of those rollercoaster cars towards the middle and held on for dear life – sometimes with eyes open, sometimes with eyes closed when it seemed the drop was going to be too quick, to steep.

Now, finally, almost 21 years on, I’m choosing the front car, belted in for safety, but my eyes are open wide, my arms are up in the air and I’ll be squealing and laughing with each loop, each climb up that track and feel the rush of joy and excitement with each plunge down.  This year that ticket promises the opportunity for a wild ride. I can feel it.

Clearing Space

As the boxes were pulled out of storage for all of the holiday decorations to be put back into tissue paper, and into their cubbyholes for the return to where they are held for 11 months of the year, this year I decided it was time to do a cull and a clearing out before everything was repacked and held out of sight.

We accumulate things over time. I looked in those boxes when I was getting ready to decorate the house and trim the tree this year and wondered where it had all come from. Years worth of seeing something at a craft fair that I knew would make a lovely addition to the décor. A gift of another Santa from a friend who knew how much I love my Santa collection. Wreaths that seem to have multiplied on their own like rabbits in the darkness. Ornaments that Santa had left in my children’s stockings so that when they had homes of their own, they would have childhood memories (note – they have told me that they do not want these baubles – yet. They will remain in storage until the day when one or both of them say “remember that ornament we bought when we were vacationing in…” and I have boxes with those treasures labelled with each of their names for when that day arrives). Then there are the handmade creations the boys made in elementary school. Those are for them as well. So, before the holiday season had even officially begun the decision to divest myself of so much of this was made.

I’m clearing space for more than that though. Looking at these items from the past I realized that it’s time to leave more of the past behind in order to move forward into the new year with all the new ideas I have and plans I’ve been making. These are things and thoughts that have held me back and weighed me down.

The past can hold you in its grip like a vice. It has for me. I have been the family historian, the keeper of the memorabilia, the photographs, the ephemera, the antiques and the memories. I took on this role voluntarily when there was still extended family to ask questions of, to listen to their stories, to keep a record of who we were and who we became. I have boxes of photographs of extended family that have no direct connection to me or my children. I have journals and letters and WWI and WWII mementoes. I need to do a cull there as well which is harder to do than it is with “things” that hold no sentimental value. How do you throw away photographs? How do you throw away someone’s journal? A journal that is pertinent to the family member who penned it but to no one else. How do you decide what is worth keeping and what can be let go of? That requires a razor like approach which is surprisingly easier than I thought it would be. I am looking at things critically, not sentimentally.

I had planned to write an extensive family history to leave for my children. I spent years researching and compiling the information. I solved mysteries and I discovered secrets that those involved never expected would be uncovered. I have put together the chronological history of where we began to where people have traveled. And I realized over the last few days that what I have is enough. I have concluded that I don’t need to write a history that will take even more time and I understand now why I have procrastinated so long over getting that project done. I can narrow things down to short stories that matter to keep alive the memories of people who were dear to me. And a tree chart that explains names, places and dates is sufficient. I know my sons will be just as happy with that.

I’m putting down the heavy burden that I had placed on my own shoulders to make room for other projects that have begun to claim space in my life. I can already feel my shoulders dropping and a feeling of excitement at what I am making space for coming in.

In thinking back on why I wanted to take on the responsibility of being the holder of the flame, I can see I was doing it for others. For those I have loved who are gone and whose memories I have cherished. A way of keeping them alive. I know now that they are alive and cherished in my memories and in my heart. I’ll make sure there are enough photographs and important information about those I was closest to for my children who have their own memories of those they have loved and will at some point need to make room themselves for new people, and the many new memories they are already creating.

Do You Dare?

With the first day of the new year upon us, the question is, what are you going to do with the year ahead?

The same old, same old?

Or will you dare to dream, dare to turn a dream into a reality? Or perhaps realize a new dream, a different dream?

I think of this quote:

“We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us.”

~ E.M. Forster

Blank Canvas

These days between the 25th of December and the 1st of January are a pause. There is a stillness and a silence to them where time feels suspended. The waiting period as one year ends before the new one begins.

I don’t make resolutions or promises to myself that I might or might not be able to keep. I’ve never done that. I don’t choose a word that will carry me through. I tried that once or twice and at some point, completely forgot what the word was. A word has meaning and maybe the word was to be mindful and have intention. But if I couldn’t remember the word, it obviously had no meaning and I’d lost the intention.

In these few remaining days of 2025, I am looking forward to painting on a new canvas – this is how I look at the start of another year around the sun.

There is a desire to clean out what no longer serves me. Things that have worn out their welcome and cannot be taken into the new year. Like going through the box of paints and taking out the ones that have dried out. The old ones that are covered in dust – the ones I’ve held on to thinking I might need them. I’m choosing a new palette, new colours whether they be water paints or oil paints. The colours that are guiding me into the new chapter of what comes next. I might need to buy new paints to complete the vision.

I’m not really talking about painting and art, though there may well be some of that in the coming months. It’s endings and beginnings. What we choose to leave behind and what we pack to take forward with us.

It’s the blank canvas that we are all presented with every year. Of what we hope to achieve, where we hope to be, the person we want to reflect both inwardly and outwardly.

It’s a conscious choice of hopes, dreams, wishes and desires. And the effort we put into what we hope to carry out. That canvas awaits us all.

Send the Cards

It was early in December this year, as I pulled out boxes of holiday greeting cards, surprised to find half boxes, and unopened boxes.  I’m reminded that the days of sending 40 or 50 cards to family and friends are long gone, just as many of those people are gone from this world. There are also those who no longer want the expense of mailing cards (over $3 in Canada for an international stamp does make you stop and think) and that makes me sad – it has become a lost art. I honour the wishes of those who have opted out and no longer send a card to those people, but I do write and send to family and friends I don’t see on a regular basis. I’ve always seen sending holiday wishes as a way of ending the year by saying “You are in my thoughts, and I hope life has been kind to you.” What arrives in my mailbox now is a trickle compared to what it once was.

I’ve never been in the practice of saving greeting cards with the exception of the few I’ve saved for my sons that were given to them by grandparents and their aunt. One day I hope when they inherit these treasure boxes that I’ve created for them they’ll have moments of happy memories when they see the things I’ve thought they might appreciate.

When I’m into January and putting all the holiday décor back into boxes for storage I collect the holiday cards, read them one more time and then they go into the recycling bin. However, there was one year that I kept a particular card that I simply couldn’t part with. I set it aside.

Many years ago, when we were all in the first flush of being adults, one of our friends, having earned his Engineering degree, purchased his dream car - a black Corvette which he eventually drove to Ohio as he began his career with a major chemical company. A “life of the party” guy, J, was missed at the usual gatherings but he kept in touch as often as possible. On one trip home he said he was finding it a bit lonely down there and asked me to compile a list of the books he should read that he probably hadn’t – and please list 50. So much laughter, so many glasses of wine, as we tried to decide which 50 books needed to be on that list. One of the last questions he asked me on that trip as he was heading out the door, was “what is mead, anyway?” – I recall the question, but not why he asked.

One December a few years later, I can’t recall how many now as time has a way of blurring, a Christmas card arrived. The image on the front was not the usual funny type that J would choose to send.  This one was very Victorian, very nostalgic with an image of a group of children. They might have been siblings, but I like to think it was a group of friends, working to build a snowman.

A week after that card arrived a phone call came from someone in our group – incoherent and sobbing that he’d been phoned by someone else in our circle – J was in hospital having suffered what might have been a stroke or a ruptured brain aneurysm. We went on a wait and watch only to be told a day later that J had died.

J’s funeral was held here at home on a very cold, snowy day just before Christmas. The men in the circle were his pallbearers; the women wept for a life gone much too soon. Afterwards and many drinks in as we toasted his life, we thought about how much living J had done in that short life. And how so many of the things he said to us, or did for us, had left a lasting impact.

That January, I kept the card he’d sent and found a suitable frame. I put it away with all the other holiday décor. It is the first item I take out of the storage bins every year and find a pride of place for it to remember not just his life but all that he meant to so many people. I have it on my desk right now as I’m writing this.

The choice of that card was intentional, even if J didn’t know it at the time. Or maybe he did. Maybe he had a sense that time was short and he needed to leave a message for us all.

This is the reason I continue to send a Christmas card to everyone in my life who still holds so much space in my heart. We never know when it might be the last “you are in my thoughts and I love you.”

Tao for Tuesday

There are days, often it’s a Tuesday for me, where things just do not go as planned. Distractions, being a bit too relaxed after having navigated the first full day of the week, or focusing elsewhere, the focus not to be found right in front of my face.

This is especially true at busy times of the year, and December is probably the busiest month for the majority of us with social obligations, shopping to do, gifts to wrap and meals to plan.

There are people who find December the hardest month of the year to get through. Those who are grieving family members or friends whose absence is most keenly felt during the holidays.  We may be missing those who are unable to be present due to other circumstances and our commitment to our day-to-day activities take a backseat.

What I can offer is this. There will be days when you burn the toast. You might even burn two slices as you try and repeat the process. That means it’s time for Plan B. Leave the toast. Choose something else that requires less attention and less energy. Something that is easier to cope with that allows you to simply be present.  Being present is very often enough.

There is no secret remedy for getting through hard days and difficult moments other than to acknowledge them. With grace. And gentle moments of love.