All the wisdom this week points to burdens.
Don't collect them.
Don't go looking for them.
Don't even give them the time of day.
Enough will accumulate without your help and attention.
Deal with those swiftly and without grudge.
Get back to joy as soon as you are able.
Be vigilant in this regard.
Your over all wellness depends upon it.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
In Praise of Optimism
I'm all for it - radical, raging, relentless, optimism!
It's the new fashion in my closet.
I recommend its easy flow and attractive colors
Go ahead; try it on.
It's the new fashion in my closet.
I recommend its easy flow and attractive colors
Go ahead; try it on.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
After the Millwood Party
Dance, dance, dance. Sing with gusto.
Drink in the night sky and laugh at yourself.
Look people in the eye and hear what they are saying.
They want to be known, as do you.
Exchange ideas, share compassion.
Do these things because you can.
You are still alive, so while you can, experience your life.
You have nothing to lose.
Drink in the night sky and laugh at yourself.
Look people in the eye and hear what they are saying.
They want to be known, as do you.
Exchange ideas, share compassion.
Do these things because you can.
You are still alive, so while you can, experience your life.
You have nothing to lose.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Where have I been?
So much has happened since my last entry.
I have found writing a challenge in the face of life and death.
The passing of three beautiful children to whom I was distantly
but lovingly connected.
It has given so much pause.
I have not been in mourning exactly, but in suspension,
as I negotiate the waters of perplexity.
I, am
They, are
We together, express it all.
"Dead" or "alive", we are all that is and all that is, is us.
I have found writing a challenge in the face of life and death.
The passing of three beautiful children to whom I was distantly
but lovingly connected.
It has given so much pause.
I have not been in mourning exactly, but in suspension,
as I negotiate the waters of perplexity.
I, am
They, are
We together, express it all.
"Dead" or "alive", we are all that is and all that is, is us.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
A Shoulder and a Trounsin’
I wrote this almost two months ago, coincidentally on the day after my friends lost their children in a fire. At the time of finishing these thoughts I was moments away from learning of the tragedy. I have only felt like posting it as of today.
July 24,2009: Woke early this morning and let some memories flow.
Yesterday, I had a big day of work planned. I had decided to teach myself how to use my wonderful hand held recording device to record demos. I was looking forward to the task which I expected would be challenging and I was proud of myself for taking it on. Just as I had settled into my room, with the instruction booklet in my hand, Eliza came bouncing in with a big morning smile and slightly sleepy eyes, flopped down on my bed and declared. “I want to hang out with you today. I don’t want to spend the whole day under the head phones at the computer”.
I have to say I was sort of taken aback. Don’t get me wrong, I was thrilled. I don’t know many teenagers who would make such a request of their mothers and I don’t know many mothers who would have the time to spontaneously honor such a request. But there we were, two unusual specimens, her staring at me, me staring at her, curious about how this would change my day.
After much deliberation and showers and breakfast, it was decided that we should spend the day reading Harry Potter, or rather Eliza and Hannah (who had appeared somewhere in the mix) would read the first Harry Potter book to me as I had never read any of the series before. They were both wildly enthusiastic and despite my fear that I would not be able to match their joy, we forged ahead.
As it turns out I was immediately hooked and we spent several hours reading, interrupted only thrice by a quick dash to Tim Horton’s for Ice Caps (an atypical dose of caffeine for me which did, in the end, help me to stay awake through several more chapters), a slightly longer jaunt to pick up Jamie from work and a three hour hiatus in which Hannah went to work at a street festival in The Beaches and the rest of us watched the one hundredth episode of “So You Think You Can Dance”
The final read took place just before bed and although my eyelids were heavy I couldn’t help smiling as I fell asleep, reflecting on Hannah’s comment as she left my room, “ I’d rather read all day with you guys than go on the computer."
When I woke up this morning still slightly lost in the previous days imaginative world I began to think about parenting and what makes a good parent. I realized that I had been able, because of my present circumstances, to have great parenting moment yesterday. I was able to pay attention to what I was hearing my children say and I was able to go with the wonderful flow of changing my plans to spend time with them. As my sleepy thoughts flowed into one another, I began to think of my own parents who had raised twice as many children as I have and who still managed to provide so many “good parent” memories for me.
When I was a girl, we went to church every Sunday and by the time I was eight years old, I was expected, along with others my age and older, to stay in the sanctuary for the whole service and not go down to Sunday school with the younger children. This was a challenge for me. My mom and dad both sang in the choir and therefore sat perched in the loft at the front of the church behind the pulpit, my sister was still young enough to go out to Sunday School after the children’s story and my older brothers wouldn’t have been caught dead sitting next to me. Some weeks I sat with my friend Karen but often I sat "alone" between some kindly adults.
I am sort of a restless creature by nature and Sunday morning church services did little to remedy that trait. I was always bored, and even, I daresay, a little cynical about some of the things I was hearing from the "powers that were". Once in a while, if we felt like we could get away with it, Karen and I would play hang-man on the church bulletin but often I would just squirm in my seat thinking about lunch and trying not to let my stomach growl during the pastoral prayer.
I did love to sing however and one song was always my favourite; the closing hymn, followed by the benediction. During this hymn my little heart would start to pound as I counted the minutes to freedom. I was so excited about getting out of that building and heading home for lunch with my family. I would sing at the top of my lungs and watch the choir do the same. My mom would often catch my eye and smile.
As the song ended and we stood still for the benediction I could barely contain myself and the moment the minister had spoken his final word, I would wriggle past the other people in the pew, head straight to the front of the church and wait at the foot of the stairs leading up to the choir loft as the members draped in vibrant robes, filed passed me one by one. I‘d stand in impatient anticipation of meeting my mom and when she appeared, it was always the same; she’d reach out her winged arm, wrap me up the in the maroon colored fabric and say, “Hello sweetie pie” or “Hiya darling. Then, then stuck together at the hip, we would follow the woman in front of us out the door into the back hall and squeeze our way down the narrow, winding staircase which led to the choir room, chatting all the way about about this and that. I remember loving the feeling that other people were noticing our closeness.
On very rare occasions, if there was a visiting musical group or if my my mom had, for some reason, missed choir practice the Thursday night prior, she would sit with me in the congregation during the Sunday service. I loved sitting beside her and knowing that she was grown up and strong and that she would always be there for me. And during those long, boring sermons I would lay my head down on my mom’ shoulder and feel as safe and as loved as anyone could feel. She would reach over to my lap and tap my hand and even then I knew that I had been given a gift that not every child had, a mother who loved me and didn’t mind me needing her affection.
Our family life was busy and full in those years and moments went by in at a furious pace but those connections I had with my mom on Sunday mornings were a kind of reassurance that I mattered to her and therefore, I mattered.
My dad and I had our special connections as well. I was often the one who'd stay awake late while the others slept on long late night car rides traveling here or there. I would hang my head over the front seat and talk quietly to my dad or just watch the road with him in silence. When I was really young and learning to talk on the phone he would sometimes call from work. If was the one to answer he would always say, "Is that my sweet voice on the telephone?"
As I got older I was the only one of the kids who loved getting up early, so I would often have dad all to my self over a toast and tea breakfast. We were the same kind of person in some ways. We both liked a good idea and as I started to wrestle with the big questions of life , he was never concerned. He always had a way of making me feel like he knew I would figure things out. His liberal views allowed me to wander around some unconventional topics and he even got excited about sharing things he'd learned in his ever expanding quest for knowledge.But the thing I recalled this morning as I reflected on "good" parenting, was an activity that I shared with my dad and my siblings. I have no idea when it started, it was just always apart of my life and it was called a "trounsin'."
Many evenings, after dinner, from the time I was a toddler till I was about eight or nine I suppose, my dad would lie down on the living room floor and the four of us would scamper around him in a circle, squealing away and pretending that we did not want to be caught. Of course we did want to be caught and we were and when we were, we were “trounced”.
Now a trounsin' was a combination of tickling,wrestling, flips, and of course airplane rides on my dad’s feet. He would lift his legs off the floor bend his knees, grab our hands, push his feet into our tummies and lift us into the air. It was such a blast, especially falling to the ground in a heap of laughter. Sometimes we’d face away from him and he would use his feet like a chair to lift us off the ground by our bottoms. There we were suspended in air, feigning terror, as our arms and legs dangled, and never wanting it to end. Inevitably one of the other kids pushed us off or we'd lose our balance and down we'd go. Still other times my dad would grab us playfully drape our tummies over his bent shins and pump his legs up and down and we'd giggle uncontrollably till we were finally released.
The whole thing was a free for all of crazy energy. I suppose it started when my brothers were little, in order to give my mom time to wash the dishes in peace or something ( I seem to remember her being suspiciously absent during the trouncing hour) but it ended up being an event we looked forward to as often as my dad was willing.
He probably didn’t know what it meant to me to have that time with him. I don’t know about my siblings but I felt so loved and special. As far as I knew nobody else in the world was getting a trounsin’, and even if that wasn't true I know that my dad and his willingness to play with us after a long day of working, was a rare thing and a wonderful gift. I also know that his way of being silly with us helped us feel OK with being kids and being silly ourselves.
I have been blessed with “good” parents. They are good people, good role models and both of them showed me how to be good and decent too. The smallest of moments in the big picture of life create lasting impressions. Liza and Hannah are awake now and I am looking forward to another day of Harry Potter. Maybe someday this will be a good memory for them.
July 24,2009: Woke early this morning and let some memories flow.
Yesterday, I had a big day of work planned. I had decided to teach myself how to use my wonderful hand held recording device to record demos. I was looking forward to the task which I expected would be challenging and I was proud of myself for taking it on. Just as I had settled into my room, with the instruction booklet in my hand, Eliza came bouncing in with a big morning smile and slightly sleepy eyes, flopped down on my bed and declared. “I want to hang out with you today. I don’t want to spend the whole day under the head phones at the computer”.
I have to say I was sort of taken aback. Don’t get me wrong, I was thrilled. I don’t know many teenagers who would make such a request of their mothers and I don’t know many mothers who would have the time to spontaneously honor such a request. But there we were, two unusual specimens, her staring at me, me staring at her, curious about how this would change my day.
After much deliberation and showers and breakfast, it was decided that we should spend the day reading Harry Potter, or rather Eliza and Hannah (who had appeared somewhere in the mix) would read the first Harry Potter book to me as I had never read any of the series before. They were both wildly enthusiastic and despite my fear that I would not be able to match their joy, we forged ahead.
As it turns out I was immediately hooked and we spent several hours reading, interrupted only thrice by a quick dash to Tim Horton’s for Ice Caps (an atypical dose of caffeine for me which did, in the end, help me to stay awake through several more chapters), a slightly longer jaunt to pick up Jamie from work and a three hour hiatus in which Hannah went to work at a street festival in The Beaches and the rest of us watched the one hundredth episode of “So You Think You Can Dance”
The final read took place just before bed and although my eyelids were heavy I couldn’t help smiling as I fell asleep, reflecting on Hannah’s comment as she left my room, “ I’d rather read all day with you guys than go on the computer."
When I woke up this morning still slightly lost in the previous days imaginative world I began to think about parenting and what makes a good parent. I realized that I had been able, because of my present circumstances, to have great parenting moment yesterday. I was able to pay attention to what I was hearing my children say and I was able to go with the wonderful flow of changing my plans to spend time with them. As my sleepy thoughts flowed into one another, I began to think of my own parents who had raised twice as many children as I have and who still managed to provide so many “good parent” memories for me.
When I was a girl, we went to church every Sunday and by the time I was eight years old, I was expected, along with others my age and older, to stay in the sanctuary for the whole service and not go down to Sunday school with the younger children. This was a challenge for me. My mom and dad both sang in the choir and therefore sat perched in the loft at the front of the church behind the pulpit, my sister was still young enough to go out to Sunday School after the children’s story and my older brothers wouldn’t have been caught dead sitting next to me. Some weeks I sat with my friend Karen but often I sat "alone" between some kindly adults.
I am sort of a restless creature by nature and Sunday morning church services did little to remedy that trait. I was always bored, and even, I daresay, a little cynical about some of the things I was hearing from the "powers that were". Once in a while, if we felt like we could get away with it, Karen and I would play hang-man on the church bulletin but often I would just squirm in my seat thinking about lunch and trying not to let my stomach growl during the pastoral prayer.
I did love to sing however and one song was always my favourite; the closing hymn, followed by the benediction. During this hymn my little heart would start to pound as I counted the minutes to freedom. I was so excited about getting out of that building and heading home for lunch with my family. I would sing at the top of my lungs and watch the choir do the same. My mom would often catch my eye and smile.
As the song ended and we stood still for the benediction I could barely contain myself and the moment the minister had spoken his final word, I would wriggle past the other people in the pew, head straight to the front of the church and wait at the foot of the stairs leading up to the choir loft as the members draped in vibrant robes, filed passed me one by one. I‘d stand in impatient anticipation of meeting my mom and when she appeared, it was always the same; she’d reach out her winged arm, wrap me up the in the maroon colored fabric and say, “Hello sweetie pie” or “Hiya darling. Then, then stuck together at the hip, we would follow the woman in front of us out the door into the back hall and squeeze our way down the narrow, winding staircase which led to the choir room, chatting all the way about about this and that. I remember loving the feeling that other people were noticing our closeness.
On very rare occasions, if there was a visiting musical group or if my my mom had, for some reason, missed choir practice the Thursday night prior, she would sit with me in the congregation during the Sunday service. I loved sitting beside her and knowing that she was grown up and strong and that she would always be there for me. And during those long, boring sermons I would lay my head down on my mom’ shoulder and feel as safe and as loved as anyone could feel. She would reach over to my lap and tap my hand and even then I knew that I had been given a gift that not every child had, a mother who loved me and didn’t mind me needing her affection.
Our family life was busy and full in those years and moments went by in at a furious pace but those connections I had with my mom on Sunday mornings were a kind of reassurance that I mattered to her and therefore, I mattered.
My dad and I had our special connections as well. I was often the one who'd stay awake late while the others slept on long late night car rides traveling here or there. I would hang my head over the front seat and talk quietly to my dad or just watch the road with him in silence. When I was really young and learning to talk on the phone he would sometimes call from work. If was the one to answer he would always say, "Is that my sweet voice on the telephone?"
As I got older I was the only one of the kids who loved getting up early, so I would often have dad all to my self over a toast and tea breakfast. We were the same kind of person in some ways. We both liked a good idea and as I started to wrestle with the big questions of life , he was never concerned. He always had a way of making me feel like he knew I would figure things out. His liberal views allowed me to wander around some unconventional topics and he even got excited about sharing things he'd learned in his ever expanding quest for knowledge.But the thing I recalled this morning as I reflected on "good" parenting, was an activity that I shared with my dad and my siblings. I have no idea when it started, it was just always apart of my life and it was called a "trounsin'."
Many evenings, after dinner, from the time I was a toddler till I was about eight or nine I suppose, my dad would lie down on the living room floor and the four of us would scamper around him in a circle, squealing away and pretending that we did not want to be caught. Of course we did want to be caught and we were and when we were, we were “trounced”.
Now a trounsin' was a combination of tickling,wrestling, flips, and of course airplane rides on my dad’s feet. He would lift his legs off the floor bend his knees, grab our hands, push his feet into our tummies and lift us into the air. It was such a blast, especially falling to the ground in a heap of laughter. Sometimes we’d face away from him and he would use his feet like a chair to lift us off the ground by our bottoms. There we were suspended in air, feigning terror, as our arms and legs dangled, and never wanting it to end. Inevitably one of the other kids pushed us off or we'd lose our balance and down we'd go. Still other times my dad would grab us playfully drape our tummies over his bent shins and pump his legs up and down and we'd giggle uncontrollably till we were finally released.
The whole thing was a free for all of crazy energy. I suppose it started when my brothers were little, in order to give my mom time to wash the dishes in peace or something ( I seem to remember her being suspiciously absent during the trouncing hour) but it ended up being an event we looked forward to as often as my dad was willing.
He probably didn’t know what it meant to me to have that time with him. I don’t know about my siblings but I felt so loved and special. As far as I knew nobody else in the world was getting a trounsin’, and even if that wasn't true I know that my dad and his willingness to play with us after a long day of working, was a rare thing and a wonderful gift. I also know that his way of being silly with us helped us feel OK with being kids and being silly ourselves.
I have been blessed with “good” parents. They are good people, good role models and both of them showed me how to be good and decent too. The smallest of moments in the big picture of life create lasting impressions. Liza and Hannah are awake now and I am looking forward to another day of Harry Potter. Maybe someday this will be a good memory for them.
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