I've sat down to the keyboard repeatedly in the past few weeks, full of intention to write another post.
I've stood back up repeatedly, consistently. For some reason I have been stymied (blocked, as it were) - the words just will not come.
This is the point at which I have heaved a big sigh and started hitting the "delete" button. Then turned off the machine.
I have pondered (I ponder really well). I have given my "self" a good talking to.
My "self" responded by telling me to piss off - she's a plain-speaking broad. Then she told me to get back to work - there's a lot to do, and it isn't going to get done by itself.
Therein lies the rub, I think.
I have a really full plate (like most people). All the time. I don't expect that fact to change anytime soon.
The plate, surprisingly, has become a bit of a heaping mess. The usual, with a heap of new concerns, a sprinkle of plot twists, and a large scoop of uncertainties to top it off.
That scoop, which I would love to say is the cherry on top of my personal meal, has been threatening to be the fish bone you don't see that gets caught in your throat and makes you choke (nothing quite like mixing those metaphors).
I have learned, after many years of being, that in order to be happy with the meal placed before me I have to look at each thing on the plate as a gift. That's a bit of a stretch with some things (asparaguts, for example - I just can't embrace that stuff, no matter how I try), so for the rare thing that shows up on my plate that makes my face screw up I do try to remind myself that I CAN deal with things that I don't specially care for and that, since it's on the menu, I have to choose how to manage it.
This new scoop of uncertainties has put me off my meal. I have stared at it for too long, and now it's all I can see on the plate - it has skewed my perception to the point that I haven't been taking the time to look at all of the good stuff that is sitting right there in plain view.
Ah-ha!!
So today I am going to look at everything on the plate, and savour a bite of each dish. I will keep my mind open to the possibility that I might find some glorious new flavour combination that will excite my tastebuds and surprise me. Perhaps even the possibility of something amazing to look forward to, rather than staring at that one scoop and dreading the what-ifs that are attached to it.
I'll even take one small bite of the asparaguts - it's there, so I must eat it. There has to be some redeeming quality to it, and I'll never find out what it is if I don't give it a try.
Friday, 29 August 2014
Wednesday, 13 August 2014
Remember your place.....
Just like the rest of the world, I was shocked and saddened to hear of the news of Robin Williams' passing earlier this week.
He was an entertainment icon - he's been in our living rooms and in our theaters for decades. The consummate funny-man - he made us laugh, and consider, and gave us the means to escape our own realities for a short while, over and over. There was rarely a sound bite that didn't include some small amount of his special brand of humour.
But.
We did not know him, and I think that is a really important thing for all of us to keep in mind.
We knew his public persona. We fell in love with his characters. We nodded our heads in recognition (between laughs) at his insightful stand-up quips. We related to his self-professed struggles.
I'm sure that we caught a glimpse of the real Robin from time to time. In every artist's work there is a glimpse of the artist. Or at least, a glimpse of that part that the artist chooses to share with us.
Those small slivers, though, do not give us any kind of a real picture of the man. I think that we do ourselves, and our entertainers, a huge disservice by assuming that we ever really know anything about them.
The entertainment industry is just that - it is a business, a machine, that creates a product for the public to buy, and use, for its entertainment. No more than that. The people who choose to practice their art publicly are doing that only - they are showing us their art, or at least the stuff that the machine deems fit for public consumption (and we certainly do eat it up).
But.
We don't know them. We can't know them. We are not in THEIR living rooms. We are not in THEIR circle. We do not belong there. That is not our place. We are not their intimates. Frankly, outside of the art they choose to share with us, the persona they publicly present, they are none of our damn business.
Somehow we've lost the ability to see the line that separates the performance from the person doing the performing. We've bought into an industry that makes us think that we know them. "Enquiring minds want to know." Inquiring minds have no business knowing, bottom line.
In a kinder, more reasonable society, we would have never known the "how" of Mr. Williams' passing. His impressive body of work would not have been reduced by speculation and opinion, ad nauseum, of his state of mind, or his health (or lack thereof). More details are surely going to make their way into the public domain - more the pity. We have no more right to be in the man's home now than we did when he was still living.
I am grateful to Robin Williams for his work - his ability to make me laugh, and cry, and ponder. I am thankful that I am able to appreciate his art, his wit, his schtick. He gave us, the public, so much during his life.
The least we can do at this time is honour his contributions by backing off and allowing his circle to say goodbye to him privately.
The rest of us? We can pop in a movie, or watch an episode, and appreciate the part of Robin Williams that was meant for us.
He was an entertainment icon - he's been in our living rooms and in our theaters for decades. The consummate funny-man - he made us laugh, and consider, and gave us the means to escape our own realities for a short while, over and over. There was rarely a sound bite that didn't include some small amount of his special brand of humour.
But.
We did not know him, and I think that is a really important thing for all of us to keep in mind.
We knew his public persona. We fell in love with his characters. We nodded our heads in recognition (between laughs) at his insightful stand-up quips. We related to his self-professed struggles.
I'm sure that we caught a glimpse of the real Robin from time to time. In every artist's work there is a glimpse of the artist. Or at least, a glimpse of that part that the artist chooses to share with us.
Those small slivers, though, do not give us any kind of a real picture of the man. I think that we do ourselves, and our entertainers, a huge disservice by assuming that we ever really know anything about them.
The entertainment industry is just that - it is a business, a machine, that creates a product for the public to buy, and use, for its entertainment. No more than that. The people who choose to practice their art publicly are doing that only - they are showing us their art, or at least the stuff that the machine deems fit for public consumption (and we certainly do eat it up).
But.
We don't know them. We can't know them. We are not in THEIR living rooms. We are not in THEIR circle. We do not belong there. That is not our place. We are not their intimates. Frankly, outside of the art they choose to share with us, the persona they publicly present, they are none of our damn business.
Somehow we've lost the ability to see the line that separates the performance from the person doing the performing. We've bought into an industry that makes us think that we know them. "Enquiring minds want to know." Inquiring minds have no business knowing, bottom line.
In a kinder, more reasonable society, we would have never known the "how" of Mr. Williams' passing. His impressive body of work would not have been reduced by speculation and opinion, ad nauseum, of his state of mind, or his health (or lack thereof). More details are surely going to make their way into the public domain - more the pity. We have no more right to be in the man's home now than we did when he was still living.
I am grateful to Robin Williams for his work - his ability to make me laugh, and cry, and ponder. I am thankful that I am able to appreciate his art, his wit, his schtick. He gave us, the public, so much during his life.
The least we can do at this time is honour his contributions by backing off and allowing his circle to say goodbye to him privately.
The rest of us? We can pop in a movie, or watch an episode, and appreciate the part of Robin Williams that was meant for us.
Thursday, 7 August 2014
The Scarf
This year I have rediscovered the joys of yarn.
Yes, that might sound a little strange to anyone who has never knit/woven/crocheted/stitched.
No, I do not care if anyone thinks it's strange.
My yarn time is all about me. From September to December my evenings are chock-a-block full with cross-stitching and pin-quilting ornaments that I sell, but the rest of the year has, until now, not included any creative pursuits.
I began by knitting, which I have done in the past. The re-learning curve was fairly gentle, and I remembered fairly quickly what was what. Before much time had passed I was cranking out cotton dishcloths like a machine (I really enjoy practical, usable things). Soon enough this morphed into a shawl for a dear friend whom I wanted to hug desperately, but was too far away to allow me to physically touch. I was hooked!
What I honestly wanted to do, though, was crochet. I had been trying to learn, on and off, since I was about six, and had been stymied every time. My mom (who was a south-paw) tried innumerable times to teach me, but I was never able to translate her smooth, practiced left-handedness into anything that made sense to my tangled (right-handed) fingers.
So I bought a little book. It had very simple instructions that were well-suited to my pre-existing level of crochet-angst (a person builds up some pretty skookum walls when they've tried, and failed, to do something for 40 years). Nice, clear pictures featuring primary colours. Perfect.
I studied that book relentlessly for days, and convinced myself that this crochet thing might well be doable. I got out a crochet hook and some light-coloured yarn (the easier to see the stitches, as instructed by the book), and started playing a little bit.
And, hot damn!!! I COULD do it! I was doing it. When I got myself stuck ("crochet" is an entirely different language - read a simple pattern and you'll see what I mean) I walked over to the handy-dandy puter and went on YouTube and found a tutorial for the finer points (sweet blessed technology).
I crocheted for weeks, playing with the yarn, combining different stitches. I got to know what worked (a chain between two stitches leaves a hole ON PURPOSE!) and what didn't (too much tension creates WAY too much tension, man - tear that shit apart and start again).
It was almost zen-like. AND I could be interrupted (because that is my life) and not have to count back 30 stitches and try to figure out where I left off. Big bonus!
Then a friend pointed out a knitted scarf that she loved. I told her I could make it for her. She was happy.
I bought the pattern and found some yarn for a test-run (as I had never used a pattern designed by that designer, and I wanted to be sure it turned out the way it looked before I went to work on my friend's).
It was hell. Hell! I tell you! The pattern was not overly difficult - the bulk of it was 19 stitches and four repeating rows. That. I. could. NOT. seem. to. grasp.
For a couple of weeks I worked on that !@##$& scarf, every evening.
My neck muscles were in knots. I would sit down in the evenings, pick up my needles and sigh. Knit, tear out. Knit, tear out. There was nothing relaxing about this at all.
This is where I tell you that I stuck with it, plowed through, and finished the scarf.
Or not.
What I actually did? I quit the scarf. I made a decision on the side of self-preservation and sent my friend a message on Facebook (she lives at the other end of the province) and told her that I hated the scarf, and I would not be delivering on this one.
Her response? "Okay. Don't fret!"
I have the best friends.
So the next day I went and picked out some butter-soft yarn. Dark red, which she loves (and which suits her). That evening, I picked up the crochet hook and simply started.
It isn't what she had wanted, and I do hope that she likes it. It's a design that was never intended for the purpose I am using it for.
It is beautiful. More importantly, I hope that when she wraps it around herself she gets a sense of the pleasure making it has given me. The ease and joy of creating something practical, yet pretty, from a place of peace and tranquility, as opposed to stress and struggle.
I don't like to quit anything. I reallllly don't like letting my friends down.
I really like my yarn time. Zen won out. It feels awesome.
Yes, that might sound a little strange to anyone who has never knit/woven/crocheted/stitched.
No, I do not care if anyone thinks it's strange.
My yarn time is all about me. From September to December my evenings are chock-a-block full with cross-stitching and pin-quilting ornaments that I sell, but the rest of the year has, until now, not included any creative pursuits.
I began by knitting, which I have done in the past. The re-learning curve was fairly gentle, and I remembered fairly quickly what was what. Before much time had passed I was cranking out cotton dishcloths like a machine (I really enjoy practical, usable things). Soon enough this morphed into a shawl for a dear friend whom I wanted to hug desperately, but was too far away to allow me to physically touch. I was hooked!
What I honestly wanted to do, though, was crochet. I had been trying to learn, on and off, since I was about six, and had been stymied every time. My mom (who was a south-paw) tried innumerable times to teach me, but I was never able to translate her smooth, practiced left-handedness into anything that made sense to my tangled (right-handed) fingers.
So I bought a little book. It had very simple instructions that were well-suited to my pre-existing level of crochet-angst (a person builds up some pretty skookum walls when they've tried, and failed, to do something for 40 years). Nice, clear pictures featuring primary colours. Perfect.
I studied that book relentlessly for days, and convinced myself that this crochet thing might well be doable. I got out a crochet hook and some light-coloured yarn (the easier to see the stitches, as instructed by the book), and started playing a little bit.
And, hot damn!!! I COULD do it! I was doing it. When I got myself stuck ("crochet" is an entirely different language - read a simple pattern and you'll see what I mean) I walked over to the handy-dandy puter and went on YouTube and found a tutorial for the finer points (sweet blessed technology).
I crocheted for weeks, playing with the yarn, combining different stitches. I got to know what worked (a chain between two stitches leaves a hole ON PURPOSE!) and what didn't (too much tension creates WAY too much tension, man - tear that shit apart and start again).
It was almost zen-like. AND I could be interrupted (because that is my life) and not have to count back 30 stitches and try to figure out where I left off. Big bonus!
Then a friend pointed out a knitted scarf that she loved. I told her I could make it for her. She was happy.
I bought the pattern and found some yarn for a test-run (as I had never used a pattern designed by that designer, and I wanted to be sure it turned out the way it looked before I went to work on my friend's).
It was hell. Hell! I tell you! The pattern was not overly difficult - the bulk of it was 19 stitches and four repeating rows. That. I. could. NOT. seem. to. grasp.
For a couple of weeks I worked on that !@##$& scarf, every evening.
My neck muscles were in knots. I would sit down in the evenings, pick up my needles and sigh. Knit, tear out. Knit, tear out. There was nothing relaxing about this at all.
This is where I tell you that I stuck with it, plowed through, and finished the scarf.
Or not.
What I actually did? I quit the scarf. I made a decision on the side of self-preservation and sent my friend a message on Facebook (she lives at the other end of the province) and told her that I hated the scarf, and I would not be delivering on this one.
Her response? "Okay. Don't fret!"
I have the best friends.
So the next day I went and picked out some butter-soft yarn. Dark red, which she loves (and which suits her). That evening, I picked up the crochet hook and simply started.
It isn't what she had wanted, and I do hope that she likes it. It's a design that was never intended for the purpose I am using it for.
It is beautiful. More importantly, I hope that when she wraps it around herself she gets a sense of the pleasure making it has given me. The ease and joy of creating something practical, yet pretty, from a place of peace and tranquility, as opposed to stress and struggle.
I don't like to quit anything. I reallllly don't like letting my friends down.
I really like my yarn time. Zen won out. It feels awesome.
Wednesday, 30 July 2014
The Power of Perspective
Perspective. Point of view. Outlook. Angle. Attitude. Position. Frame of reference. Interpretation.
Whatever you call it, it is the most powerful tool available to you for the practice of relentless gratitude.
Whatever you call it, it is the most powerful tool available to you for the practice of relentless gratitude.
Sunday, 27 July 2014
A Helping Hand
Yesterday was my last day at work before a much-needed two week break. I had spent a lot of time over the week wrapping up loose ends so I could mentally leave the job and enjoy the time off.
The last task on my to-do list was a visit to our local mega-home improvement retailer. I needed to buy paint. Large quantities in big, heavy buckets. At 4:00. On a hot, sunny Saturday afternoon.
Yeah......
Saturday, 26 July 2014
4:04 AM
A few years ago, during a time of extreme, extended personal stress, my internal clock broke.
It still keeps time, but it also has a mind of it's own. It insists, consistently, that I wake up at stupid o'clock in the morning. Every morning.
Sunday, 20 July 2014
Roses and Rain
********** If you are in a relationship, of any kind, where you are being physically or emotionally abused, please do NOT read this post. You are in a dangerous place, and I strongly urge you to get out, now. *************
I keep seeing "words of wisdom" that advise that, in order to get what you want in this life, you should ditch what you don't want. Again and again.
I'll admit that, on the surface, this is a seductive concept.
I keep seeing "words of wisdom" that advise that, in order to get what you want in this life, you should ditch what you don't want. Again and again.
I'll admit that, on the surface, this is a seductive concept.
Wednesday, 16 July 2014
Blackberries
This morning I took a short stroll around the 'hood, partially to get my head in the game after coming out the other side of a crushing three-day headache, but mostly to pop across the street to pick up some cigarettes (I know, I know....)
I live in an industrial park. Along a major trucking route. Across the street from a heavy equipment yard. Exhaust, dust and noise are an integral part of my life. It's not perfect, but it is where I am at this point in my life.
I live in an industrial park. Along a major trucking route. Across the street from a heavy equipment yard. Exhaust, dust and noise are an integral part of my life. It's not perfect, but it is where I am at this point in my life.
Tuesday, 15 July 2014
We're All Just Walking Each Other Home
Ram Dass said it.
Hold the door.
Let the person with only a couple things in their cart go first.
Smile.
Saturday, 12 July 2014
Thursday, 10 July 2014
These Are a Few of My Favorite Things....
Big, warm hugs from people I love.
That first glorious sip of coffee at 5 AM.
Sunrise.....and sunset.
That first glorious sip of coffee at 5 AM.
Sunrise.....and sunset.
Tuesday, 8 July 2014
Feel all the Feels
The past few days I have been miserable. Feeling miserable, behaving miserably to the people around me (in spite of being abundantly aware of my miserable self).
Pissy. Short tempered. Impatient.
Not a whole lot of fun for anyone in my world, me included.
So, like anyone, I've been trying to figure out WHY my mood is so effing gross.
Pissy. Short tempered. Impatient.
Not a whole lot of fun for anyone in my world, me included.
So, like anyone, I've been trying to figure out WHY my mood is so effing gross.
Saturday, 5 July 2014
Look It in the Eye
Some days you just have to look it in the eye.
Acknowledge it for what it is.
Absorb the 'new' reality.
Let the air rush out of your lungs while the fist of fate is buried deeply in your gut.
Let the tears flow.
Feel the ground literally shift under your feet.
Allow yourself to feel however it is that you feel.
Wednesday, 2 July 2014
Momma Needs a New Pair of Shoes
Gratitude check: overdue catch-up chats with people who matter; a day to embrace my inner sloth; black-eyed susans making a surprise appearance after two years off.
I am a truly dull shoe person. Although I have lots to choose from, I tend to wear only one (maybe two) pair(s) on a regular basis.
I am a truly dull shoe person. Although I have lots to choose from, I tend to wear only one (maybe two) pair(s) on a regular basis.
Tuesday, 1 July 2014
Oh Canada!
Gratitude check:
Timmy's coffee when I'm oot and aboot;
Water I can drink right out of the tap, soil I can coax food out of, and clean air to breathe;
Quality education and healthcare, free for the asking;
Rain forest, boreal forest, coast, plains, tundra and mountains (all without leaving your borders);
Equality, diversity, and the evolving mindset of acknowledgement, apology and improvement.
No place is perfect, my country included.
Timmy's coffee when I'm oot and aboot;
Water I can drink right out of the tap, soil I can coax food out of, and clean air to breathe;
Quality education and healthcare, free for the asking;
Rain forest, boreal forest, coast, plains, tundra and mountains (all without leaving your borders);
Equality, diversity, and the evolving mindset of acknowledgement, apology and improvement.
No place is perfect, my country included.
Sunday, 29 June 2014
Smile, Dammit!
Gratitude check: that first glorious sip of coffee; sweet doggy knee kisses; time to fill with whatever I choose.
I am a small-town kinda gal.
I thrive in an environment where faces and places are familiar.
I am a small-town kinda gal.
I thrive in an environment where faces and places are familiar.
Saturday, 28 June 2014
Flex. Repeat.
Feeling grateful is not "natural" for me.
I'm a worrier. If there was an award for building theoretical worst-case scenarios out of every damn snag that presents itself in this life, I would have a brag-wall full of gold medals.
I'm a worrier. If there was an award for building theoretical worst-case scenarios out of every damn snag that presents itself in this life, I would have a brag-wall full of gold medals.
Thursday, 26 June 2014
Hi There!
Gratitude check: sunny, quiet mornings that allow me to get my poop in a group before facing the day; moments of calm in the midst of mini-chaos; eagles playing in the up-drafts over the ridge.
That, folks, is a typical example of my gratitude check.
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