Winter of Discontent

After a week like we’ve had on the Right Coast, many grumble about their precise lat. and long. coordinates here on good ol’ Mother Earth.  Those with the financial means and good sense make plans to change their coordinates, temporarily, to a more hospitable climate than that of the Hinterland.  They’ll migrate to a destination with palm trees, white sands, crystal clear waters and fruity drinks with colourful umbrellas offered unlimitedly poolside.  They’ll bathe in the heat and vitamin D of the great glowing orb in the sky, wear flip flops, slather SPF 60 everywhere and their troubles will melt away in the serenity of warm breezes and rhythm of the waves gently caressing the shoreline.  

Yeah, I hate them too.

It’s crazy how much our weather fluctuates in the winter.  Blizzard conditions, rain, freezing rain, plus temperatures, sun, fog.  And that’s just a typical Tuesday.  Nova Scotia is a veritable cornucopia of ‘seasonal diversity’.  It’s due to our neighbour, the Great North Atlantic and what’s plaguing our dear Mother Earth.  'Seasonal diversity’ is a fancy way of saying “Climate Change”; another polite way of saying ‘Global Warming’.  It makes people feel more comfortable about what’s truly happening to our environment.  Go immediately and watch “Inconvenient Truth” or Google the ‘Gaia Hypothesis’ if you don’t believe me.  Cataclysmic weather systems make the top story on local, national and international newscasts daily.  The facts don’t lie.  

But we’ve learned to adapt.  Hearty are the people of the Right Coast, especially those who live the whole winter here without a respite on southern shores.  But really, who’s the wiser of the two?  Those who take a break from the conditions or those who tough it out until spring finally arrives?  Hard to say really.  Perhaps it's wiser to recognize your limits and tolerance for unpleasantries than slogging through, wishing for a brighter day to come.  

Personal change is the same way.  There are times in our lives that life is like spring; full of new life, regeneration, hope, energy.  Other times are like winter; stark, dark and cold.  After all, winter can be pretty damn bleak.  But here’s an interesting observation that I’ve made recently;  these personal seasons may be within our control, unlike the inevitability of weather.   

Back in November, I hit a personal ‘winter’.  I found myself in a mental mind-set that wasn’t productive, enthusiastic or optimistic.  This mind-set was NOT me; I’ve never subscribed to self-pity nor have I ever defined myself as a victim caught in my own life.  Rationally, I knew I had created a wonderful life that I should have been celebrating and appreciating, but instead, I felt just plain sad; helpless to my circumstances.  So I employed my well-known highly unsuccessful strategy to situations like this; seek BIG irrational ineffective change.  

The plan ‘de jour’ was my orientation; my lat. and long. needed changing, I was convinced the mere change of coordinates would certainly make me feel better.  For a whole half hour, I searched the internet trying to find a remarkable over-paid job on the other side of Mother Earth: Qatar, United Arab Emirates, Katmandu, anywhere but here.  It didn’t take very long to realize it wasn’t the change I required, or really, wanted.  It didn’t help that I needed to google all the destinations where I was apparently going to up-root Girly Girl Manor and relocate it into this fantastic new life.  Obviously, I found myself back at square one, with the exception that I was now frustrated, though more geographically educated.  My friend, (‘Triple T’) and I have this great mantra that we throw at each other in times like this;  ‘You can’t force the universe.’ So I resigned myself to the fact that I was going to embrace my winter season; I would have to pursue my ‘great life changing plan’ in the spring.   So with a heavy sigh, I shut down my computer, closed up GGM and hibernated for the night.  

Sleep is such a magical thing, perspective being the fabulous by-product.  That morning, the day seemed a little brighter, the temperature rose a few degrees and promise of sunnier days peaked around the corner.  The winter bite didn’t seem so harsh;  in fact, the snowflakes started to look pretty falling and collecting in a sparkly blanket in the yard.  Perhaps, this winter would have it’s moments of beauty and peace.

I had no idea spring would come so quickly.  I wish I could state precisely what transpired which brought me from there to here.  I don’t really know;  perhaps it was because I embraced the my circumstances; or that I was truthful with myself or that I realized that my determination wasn't based in fixing something broken, but rather recognizing my capability to adapt to inevitable change.  

One of my very favourite Buddhist Proverbs promises; “When the student is ready, the teacher appears” to which I’m thankful.  I wouldn’t want to travel too far from my current co-ordinates to enjoy this new season.

Un-Phased

It was a very busy weekend at the Manor.  For unknown and suspicious reasons, The Monkey has been extraordinarily well behaved.  I mean really well behaved.  In fact, the behaviour has been so good it’s caused me to start talking to myself.  I’ve started muttering rhetorical questions aloud when she agrees to do what’s asked of her;  ‘What is she up to?‘  ‘What does she want?‘  ‘Has she broken something and I just haven’t found it yet?‘ ‘She knows Christmas is over, right?’  I'm convinced it's a plot against my sanity.  

There is a group of mothers who would say;  “Oh! Hee Hee. You’re so silly.  Just enjoy it while it lasts.” These mother’s would also subscribe to the ‘Phase’ philosophy of childrearing, where every torturous and sinister behaviour kids develop is ‘Just a Phase’ they grow out of.  They’ve obviously never met a diabolical mastermind like ‘The Monkey’ whose cunning knows no limits.  I also believe these moms are heavily medicated.

The weekend of Monkey goodness had indeed been earned. That’s right; we’re currently learning about ‘value’ here at the Manor.  We’ll be moving to astrophysics next.  Wow. How does one teach the lesson of value?  I decided to start with actual currency, as it provides built in cheats (if you can read the microscopic numbers on the coins) and is irrefutable.   Therefore I can evoke the very intelligent 'because that's the way it is' argument if she debates.  So, The Monkey gathered up the ‘spend’ portion of her money and off to the mall we went, to kid Mecca;  The Dollar Store.  

I loathe the Dollar Store almost as much as despise WalMart.  I can feel my shoulders creep up to my earlobes as I cross the threshold of either store.  I immediately get angry.  I counter it by moving quickly through the store, which gets me lost, which in turn, makes me more angry. It's a vicious cycle.  But, the Dollar Store was the Monkey’s choice, AND since I’m a such a good mother, I venture to where the aroma of polypropylene and polystyrene off-gassing is just part of the ambiance so my daughter could learn the value money (ignore the irony and just focus on the actual lesson).  

Once her treasures are carefully selected, we head to the cash.  The Monkey is told her purchase comes to $4.37.  She is responsible for counting out the amount and giving it to the cashier.  Another charm of the Dollar Store is their extraordinary ability to consistently hire the surliest and most unprofessional staff.  The cashier sighed, strummed her fingers and snapped her gum as my sweet, innocent, doe-eyed 6 year old reached her wee little hand into her flower shaped change purse for the correct change (confirming each amount) and dutifully placing it on the counter until all four dollars and thirty-seven cents were snatched up in a huff by the Employee of the Month. I silently fired her three times during this evolution.

The Monkey happily trotted home with her treasure.  But the question was, ‘Did she learn the value of money on our trip?’ Maybe a little bit, but I suspect that lesson will take many repeat occurrences before the true value of money starts to dawn on her.  I hope she learns it around the same time as she gets a job and wants things that cost more that $4.37.  But I’ll keep plugging away at it and hopefully, through persistence, she’ll get it.  

Another fun Monkey adventure this weekend was bundling up, acting all Canadian and going for a good old fashioned outdoor skate; at our high tech, well groomed man-made state-of-the-art Oval.  I was apprehensive.  The Monkey is like her mom and not necessarily fond of things that she can’t immediately do exceptionally well.  Last year’s skating lessons ended with several dramatic episodes involving failing and crying on the ice and all visions I had of me and my offspring enjoying a winter pastime together were dashed.  I love to skate and I wanted so badly for us to enjoy the sport together.  So I was quite excited when The Monkey listed ‘skating‘ as one of her New Year’s Resolutions.  (She also listed ‘write a book‘ and ‘act‘ - I say no more).  So off to the Oval we went.   

We arrived and began with my family’s time honoured tradition of ‘peppering’ your skates.  That’s right, you put black ground pepper in your skates.  It’s ingenious.  It keeps your feet warm while you skate.  Does it work?  Hell no.  Do your kids say things like:  “I think the pepper’s working, my feet aren’t cold”.  Uh huh. It’s yours.  A gift from me to you.  Lap One:  Cautiously skating, slowly, clinging to mom.  Lap Two: Let go of mom, skating on our own.  Lap Three:  Laughing and skating faster.  And on we went, for an hour and half in minus 14 degree weather, until limbs were numb, cheeks were red and noses running.  And, my favourite part, smiles from ear to ear.  We celebrated with a new Girly Girl Manor tradition of lattes, hot chocolates and cinnamon buns.  

Now if you ask The Monkey her favourite part about the weekend, you won’t hear tell about money and trips to Plastic-heaven.  However, she will tell you every single little detail she loved about skating at the Oval with her mom.  

So this whole value lesson;  I’ll keep plugging away at it and with persistence, I might actually get it.  

Introducing: The Yeahbut

Every once and awhile, GGM gets treated to a special event; a real live chef comes to the Manor and cooks.  The kitchen tingles with anticipation; you can find all the necessary cooking and measuring utensils, pot lids come out of hiding from the back of cupboards and the fur-kids hover around the corner poised to snatch anything that drops to the floor.  Apparently the chef’s ‘ooopies!’ are more tastier than the 'slop' I normally prepare. 

The chef used to visit GGM and perform his kitcheny magic more often, but since his defection to Onterrible, sadly, the visits are less frequent, yet still highly anticipated.  Ironically, since gaining the ‘official’ title of chef, the protocol of preparing dinner has changed dramatically.  In the good ol’ days, he would invade my kitchen and refuse help.  I’d throw the ingredients on the counter, pour the wine and sit back in delight and watch the flurry of dicing, chopping, stirring and searing take place without lifting a finger. Every woman’s fantasy; a hot, straight, single guy cooking in their kitchen.    

But now the chef has decided to share his wisdom; which means I have to DO something besides observe and sip wine.  He thinks it’s educational because he throws fancy french words at me desperately trying to explain to me what a ‘mirepoix’ is and why it is so crucial the teeny tiny carrot, celery and onion cubes are precisely the same size.  I do a lot of head nodding, and ‘um hmming’ because I’m no fool;  I know that if I don’t look totally committed to perfecting the carrot cut that this yummy food goodness may cease and in his next visit the menu may consist of ‘mac et fromage’.   Florescent food is not good.

As usual, the meal is fabulous.  The chef can do anything; even reveal a bag of green puy lentls and turn it into a lip smacking delicacy.  Equally anticipated is our rich conversation which happens throughout the preparation, hovering and digestion of the meal. As always, we dig into several meaty topics, usually all at once and with our mouths full.  We’ve shared everything over the course of our friendship; all our adventures and misadventures, heart-throbs and heart breaks, successes and failures.  We know each other very well and as such we call each other’s bull shit, pose thought provoking questions, challenge decisions, encourage, advise and offer a different perspective on situations that otherwise leave unanswered questions or worse yet, lead to disastrous results. Tonight was no different.  I was schooled on some recent decisions as fervently as I was cutting those damn microscopic veggie cubies.  

Up to this point, this journey of mine has been challenging, yet exhilarating and quite rewarding.  But Phase II of January, focusing on The Temple, has proven to be more difficult than anticipated.  Regrettably, I’ve been visited by my old nemesis; The Yeahbut.’  The Yeahbut is a beguiling and seductive creature.  It exists to convince me do things I know I shouldn’t do, such as cast caution to the wind, abandon a plan, stray from my path and in some extreme cases, betray my heart and myself.  

Scientifically speaking, The Yeahbut is a parasite that gains strength from its host.  Its existence begins small and insignificant and gets more powerful with each victory it obtains.  Allow me to demonstrate; Me: ‘I am going to get up early tomorrow morning.’  Yeahbut: ‘You were up late last night so just take another 20 minutes to rest, you need it. Me: “I should go and work out.” Yeahbut: ‘You’ve been going all day, work out tomorrow.’ Me: “I’m not going to have a second glass of wine.” Yeahbut: ‘There’s only a small bit left in the bottle, it’ll go to waste’.  Me: “I’m going to meditate for a bit”. Yeahbut:  ‘You should get those dishes done first.‘  Me: “I’m not going to buy that.” Yeahbut: ‘You’ve been so disciplined, you deserve it’.  Me: “I’m going to listen to my head this time. I am not going to engage.” Yeahbut: ‘You know you want to, so do it.’

So with the Yeahbut living a little too large at GGM this past week, my path has become clouded, muddied, difficult to see.  I’ve lost some of the clarity of my direction and as The Yeahbut gains strength, my momentum slows down.  But, I’m still on the path damn it.  Admittedly, it feels like one leg is dangling precariously over the cliff, but dangling is better than jumping off with both feet and this time, I don’t quite feel like quitting.  

So I’m preparing The Yeahbut antidote.  It is a highly sophisticated concoction and although I’m not quite versed in the precise french preparation of it, here’s the rough ingredients: one part forgiveness, two parts courage, a handful of discipline, a pinch of stubbornness, a dollop of encouragement and finally a generous heaping of love; as much as is laying around the Manor.  I’m going to add in some of those microscopic veggie cubies, just for taste.  

21 Grams

In November, I decided to try a little experiment on myself.  The timing of this particular decision came after a busy and ‘festive‘ monkey-less weekend whereby I happily hopped from one social event to another, the whole blessed weekend long.  Driving home that Sunday afternoon; my liver slumped over in the passenger’s seat, exhausted, bloated and evidently colossally pissed at me, I realized that just maybe it was time to re-adjust my lifestyle.   

For the record, I’m a pretty health-conscious person.  I would say I’m educated on the topic of health, meaning I know enough to be dangerous and moderately irritating when answering even the simplest of health related questions.  I eat well, take enough vitamins to choke a dog, drink lots of water, exercise (more sporadically than regularly as of late),  always take the stairs over the elevator, I don’t drin....pfffftbahahhahaha! yeah, okay....obviously there was room for improvement.  I already knew I didn’t get enough sleep and rest is certainly a foreign concept at GGM.  After all, what does one get accomplished when one rests anyway?  However, stress had been taking it’s toll on me and after many months of pushing my limits without granting some downtime to regenerate, I was starting to feel the effects. Therefore, the time had come to enforce some ‘clean livin’.

It is customary for me to launch into something ill prepared and overly enthusiastic.  Nothing can ever be half way or half assed in my opinion, you gotta go all the way, regardless of how ridiculously unachievable the end goal may be.  That is why I’ve become a glorious quitter of things.  For whatever reason, maybe the wine marinating my grey matter or perhaps being the wise and omnipotent age of 40 but I decided (smartly) to only do this for a limited time.  I settled for 2 weeks. That meant all the little things that I attempted intermittently over the past year would be enforced and/or avoided for 14 days.  No sugar, no alcohol, no carbs, only whole foods.  I allowed caffeine to stay simply because homicide was an unwanted side effect of this experiment while maintained employment was required.  I imposed a strict bedtime of 10:30, yoga, running, weights and meditation.  Oh! And I would think only pure thoughts...my liver decided to move back into the house for a trial period.  

I immediately wanted to celebrate my decision with a glass of wine.  

By day three, I had a dull headache and a ringing in my ears that wouldn’t leave. Yoga was challenging with ‘Good Dog’ assuming it was playtime every time I went into downward dog.  The monkey moaned for me to ‘please make something that tastes like food a kid would eat.’ I persevered.  Friends ridiculed my decision asking ‘why did I want to live to 110 if I would be this boring?’  I got left off of at least one fabulous dinner party guest list.  My liver applauded my efforts.  And since I was so wise, and healthy and so damn bored, I decided to make a serious attempt at meditation. 

A counsellor told me a few years ago that I needed meditate, that it would be important for me to re-gain balance and centredness.  While agreed in principle, I didn’t exactly know how to go about doing this.  So, I thought about being balanced and centred while I did other things, liked cleaning or listening to my iPod, or having a glass of wine.  Apparently that is not correct meditation protocol.  My counsellor then advised me to sit still in a room, with NO music or cleaning or wine;  just close my eyes and think of nothing.  I asked for how long.  She sighed and told me 30 minutes.  I negotiated her down to 15.  So that’s what I did.  I went home and that night, set the kitchen timer for 15 minutes and FORCED myself to think about NOTHING.  Apparently forcing yourself to think of nothing is like trying to force yourself to stop laughing in church or getting a 6 year old go to sleep Christmas Eve.  Mental note:  Forcing Meditation is an oxymoron.

But I was determined during my ‘clean livin’ experiment that I was going to make a serious run at meditation and by that, I needed my brain to buy in, so I kept telling myself ‘hey there Big Giant Head, no pressure on the meditation thing, kay?  Just give ‘er a go, see how it turns out.  Whatev! Peace’.  It worked. I had actually created a pure ‘vacant space’ in my day and it was glorious. I tried it again and again. It was seductive and addictive.  I wanted more vacant space.

As the two weeks of my clean livin’ experiment came to an end, I noticed a profound shift take place in me.  Yes, health-wise I felt better, clothes fit better, mentally I was certainly more alert and calmer and sure, my liver reclaimed its rightful home in my body, but yet there was an intangible essence in the air. I didn’t know what it was.

That two week period was essentially the prequel for this journey.  Those modest and short-lived meditation sessions set something in motion inside me that’s been stirring restlessly ever since.  Although I can’t put my finger on it, I’ve noticed previous ‘less than positive’ habits and behaviours just don’t fit as comfortably as they once did.  I’m developing a greater intolerance to negativity.  I actually listen when my gut tries to tell me something.  I’m learning to protect my heart.  I take more notice of my surroundings. I feel more here.

Dr. Duncan MacDougall concluded in his 1907 research that an average soul weighs approximately 21 grams.  I plan on gaining more than just the average.  After all, I don’t do anything half assed.

Ashes to Ashes

Last week, my very dear friends returned home from a two and half week trip to Onterrible.  They made the journey to be with loved ones as a family member lay in palliative care and eventually passed away.  I knew the trip had been difficult, but as is sometimes the case with long battles with illness, by the end there is a feeling of relief and peace felt by those left to grieve.   It sounded as though my friends were holding up well under the sad circumstances.  Happy to be home, they invited me up Friday for one of our traditional visits; wine, food, conversation, wine, fur-kids, music, fire, wine.  This is a regular occurrence at ‘The Lane’. 

The Lane is my second home.  The residents of GGM are always welcome (save the newts, they don’t travel so well).  It’s a place of perpetual activity with people constantly coming and going.  Something is always on deck; home renos, lists (my favourite!), brewing of beer, dinner parties, trampolines, video games, pool parties - you name it.  It’s a veritable bee hive of activity 24/7.  Opinions are offered freely, smart ass jokes at the ready and an ear to listen to whatever dilemma, issue or pressing problem someone brings to the door.  Advice, help and a cold beer are consistently offered to anyone who crosses the threshold at The Lane.

With almost three weeks apart, I knew we all had a lot of catching up to do and I was excited to sit in front of the fire, comfies on, a hefty glass of wine in hand and hearty conversation to dig into.  Selfishly, I thought secretly to myself: “I’ll have some ‘blog-worthy’ material to draw on for sure”.  Trust me, no topic of conversation is ever off limits.   

I wasn’t prepared for the evening’s topic: Death.  Or more specifically, dying. Recent events had a profound affect on my friend, more than I had anticipated.  Although the loss was certainly felt, it was the final stages of death haunting my friend.  With a standing DNR, it was a difficult vigil to watch as someone’s body physically loses life’s fight, their last moments. Witnessing the end resonated with my friend and an honest and frank discussion about their inevitable final moments was required.  It’s crucial that family knows and respects these last wishes and since I was practically family, it was important for me to know theirs, so I listened.  As carefully and intently as I could.  

That was Friday night, followed by a busy and interesting weekend with a variety of events, conversations, observations and musings.  Anytime I thought about my next blog, my mind rewound back to Friday night’s conversation, relentlessly.  ‘But I don’t want to write about dying’, I kept telling my brain, ‘No.  Too raw. Too personal. Too damn depressing.  Tube socks. I can write a witty entry on my new tube socks, they’re so cool, good potential there.  Or, OR...I can write about Phase II of January...OR hey!  What about the fur-kids?  I’ve got reams of material there; cute, funny, upbeat? The words didn’t come. Even scrubbing and cleaning didn’t conjure them. Rewind...Dying. Write It.’ 

A friend, whose opinion I highly respect, imparted four valuable words recently:  “Don’t Cheat The Blog.” - Shit.

I realized I wasn’t resisting writing about dying, I was uncomfortable thinking about dying.  I’ve had to face that dark thought several times in the last 7 years and in short, I don’t like it.  It’s a dark, lonely, scary place that offers no hope, no control and no answers.  I only allow myself a few minutes to face those fears every so often; then, I bundle them up in a tight little ball and shove them in the mental space I relegate for emotions that I believe serve no useful purpose; jealousy, spite and self-pity.  

Now, that might sound as though I have a huge avoidance issue, but in truth, I believe I have a healthy perspective on death and dying.  I believe there’s more value in reflecting on our mortality rather than dwelling on our death.  For me, my philosophy is simple:  We’re all mortal, we are all eventually going to die. Yes it’s true and yes, it sucks.  I have another dear friend who believes this too; however, her words are more profound than mine. However, being forced to face my own mortality gave me the kick in the ass I needed to seek a happier, healthier, more fulfilling, meaningful, honest life.  It continuously helps me keep perspective on the truly important things in life, to focus on my journey, not necessarily the destination.  The little moments matter and time is only moving in one direction.  Cherish this. Enjoy it.  Prolong these moments for as long as you can.

So there brain, the words have been written and an unsuspecting layer of my psyche has been exposed.  It’s now safe to say this leg of my journey has taken on a momentum of its own. Here we go: Phase II; the Temple.  I will just have to try to keep up and find the courage to write what wants to be written.  I do hope I’m compelled to write about tube socks soon; because they really are so damn cool.  

What's in a Name?

January is the month I’ve determined from my Big Scary List should be the beginning of things, a genesis, dedicated to getting the Manor and the Temple in order.  Empowered from the purge extravaganza at the Manor a few weeks back, I maintained good momentum with applying the ‘orderly and shiny’ philosophy to other parts of my life.  I organized my email accounts (a painful and extremely complicated process which forced me into my dressing room to let out a primal scream of frustration), I launched the blog (Ta Da!) and I tackled another scary adult truth, focusing on my financial future.  

I think it’s natural after the holidays, when your MasterCard and Visa are curled up in a fetal position panting and trying to draw one last breath, for most of us to re-evaluate our finances for the year to come.  But for me, it was more of a ‘naked truth’ moment where I had an ideal in my head about what my future should look like and I wanted to be sure I was on track to achieve it.

I have come to accept, quite comfortably now, that there is but one of me to take care of the Manor’s inhabitants’ future.  Reluctantly, I’ve let go of the fantasy that George Clooney would sweep into GGM and say:  “Just grab your toothbrush sweetheart’, we’ll buy you all new stuff. Come, let’s go to the Villa”.  (sigh). With that dream dashed on the rocks, serious short, middle and long range planning was required and it was time to tweak the plan.  I love it when the fear of the unknown is actually worse than reality.  Mercifully, I was pleasantly surprised.  At some point I had been grown up enough to listen to really smart people about my future and found myself in good financial shape.  I just had to ‘stick to the plan’.  And now I have a really cool app to help me with that.  Apparently, finance can be fun....

I could feel the Qi starting to seep into the Manor and even a little into the Temple.  Purge? Check.  Blog?  Check.  Emails...(shudder)...Check. Financial Future? Checkity check check.  But before I launched into Phase II, the Temple, there was one more task to be ticked off the list; my name.

I have a long name, or rather names.  I have a first, middle and two last names.  Three I’ve had for 40 years and one I’ve had for 10.  More precisely, the second last name I’ve had twice as long as entire length of my marriage.  I kept it after the divorce for the monkey’s sake, it was just easier for us to sport the same name.  Then, it was complacency (after all, I had emails set up with that name, and business cards and all my ‘stuff‘).  Finally, I had to admit that it was just pure laziness why I had kept it.  After all, who wants to spend an afternoon at Access NS to pay to have it removed?  But it was time. It had to go.

I decided to look at this as a great opportunity to reinvent myself; did I want a brand new last name?  Ooooo....I could change it entirely, have a really cool last name, like Clooney or Palin (he he) or Mayer....OR I could go to just one name, like Cher or Madonna or Elmo. THAT could be cool too. (Okay, Elmo wouldn’t be cool, but I’m making a point).   After all, I wasn’t the same person I was 10 years ago and I certainly wasn’t a Mrs. anymore.  So who am I?  Wow.  I wasn’t nearly ready to be asking or answering that question so soon on my journey.  What I did know is that we put a lot of emphasis on defining who we are by our names, our professions, or our titles.  Those labels don’t always provide clarity and more often restrict us or tie us to limits.  I knew I was seeking Qi; space.  Space to recreate, energy to be.

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet."

Romeo and Juliet (II, ii, 1-2)

So, I’m going back to my Genesis, my birth name.  I’m convinced I'll be much more gratified by how I make myself and others feel than any name I carry.  I am, after all, just me.

Meditation

It’s a bone fide Nor’easter here in Halifax.  Our first real storm of the winter season.  If you’re a resident of the East Coasts, you are already aware of ‘snow storm protocol’.  It begins with required media coverage 36 hours in advance of all real, potential or imagined storms.  It is the top story of every news outlet. That way, hour by hour, reporters can increase the level of panic and whip us all into a frenzy of panic.  For those of us required to work for a living, they consistently warn of us of our impending doom; school closures, wind speeds, road conditions, accidents that have occurred and generally all potential dangers that will befall us if we DARE to brave the elements to do something as ridiculous as drive to work.  

If you’re a native Haligonian, you know most times these weather reports apply primarily to outside Metro and nary a flake has even fallen within city limits during the morning drive-time.  However, that doesn’t stop us from feeling like “Super-Employee! Who braves the elements and spits in the eye of danger to arrive triumphantly at work”.  The first thing to do upon arrival to work (after announcing yourself and proclaiming “it’s gonna be something else driving home today!’) is to login to the Environment Canada storm tracker.  After all, ‘we gotta keep on eye on this one’.  All morning coffee conversation revolves around THE STORM.  By the time the first snow flake falls (there’s always a self-assigned lookout and their job is to tell everyone - “it’s starting!”) we’ve become seasoned meteorologists.  The size of the flake tells us everything we need to know: Big flake, little snow.  Little flake, big snow.  From that we can then calculate the percentage of accumulation, duration of the storm, windspeed, direction and the hourly status of all road conditions.   

With schools and businesses rapidly closing, we dawn our toques, boots and car scrapers and wish each other safe travels for the slow moving, white knuckled trek home.  Not knowing how long the storm will last (4, 5, 6 hours?) I stop for supplies; a bottle of Merlot and Cab/Sauv.  I do a quick benefit analysis in my head and determine the line up is too long for milk and bread.  Popcorn for breakfast will make me feel like I’m really roughin’ it.

A strange and wonderful thing happens once you do arrive home safely;  you remember how exciting it is to have a snow-day.  With the monkey safely at her dad’s for the evening and I have a night to myself.  I am going to get all wrapped up in my comfies and watch the storm rage outside GGM.  As I prepare for a ‘cold winter’s night’ (the merlot first, definitely), the power goes out.  

This is the first power outage I’ve experienced at GGM.  The Manor becomes immediately silent, a rare occurrence.  I note the contrast to the regular after work/school mayhem of dogs and the monkey running in circles, barking and giggling, dinner cooking, music playing, phone ringing, Blackberry tinkling, FB popping.  I stand in the darkness of the kitchen and just drank it in.  Stillness. 

The Manor has such a warmth; it possess a soulfulness you can almost touch.  I like to believe all the love and energy has poured out from its inhabitants and permeated the walls.  I’ve often been tempted to research the history of GGM, one that I know would be filled with pain and sadness.  But tonight I’m much more inclined to let the past go; to think our presence here and now is writing a happier, untroubled chapter.  In case it isn’t painfully obvious, The Manor is a huge source of pride and comfort for me; it is a haven, a home, a reminder of a new start and a ever present reminder of what can happen when you put your mind to something ever so slightly beyond your reach. There is not a day that goes by that I’m not grateful for all that it represents and just how far along my journey I’ve come.  

As I write, wedged between two snoring (and slightly stinky) fur-kids on the way-to-small couch, paying reverence and embracing the stillness, the furnace lurches and springs to back to life.  Lights power on and clocks and phones demand immediate reset.  The Manor has completed its meditation.  

Namaste GGM.  Namaste.

 

Rules of Engagement

Tantrums are a blessed event.  They are cathartic, powerful, engaging, and really, an excellent cardio workout.  They help you get in touch with some strong inner emotions. Sure, those emotions may spontaneously explode and spill out all over the floor and any poor bystander within a 10 km radius of said tantrum but, hey! they are, in short, a fine piece of live theatre.  

If you don’t believe me, I highly recommend you swing by Girly Girl Manor’s frequent production of ‘The Monkey’s Melting Down’, starring the resident thespian herself.  She puts on a good show.  Really throws herself into her work.  The really fun thing is, you’re never quite sure when the show’s about to start.  Oh there’s subtle hints the performance is about to begin, when you hear a saucy ‘no’ thrown here or there, normally followed by arm folding, and the tell tale appearance of a melodramatic pout; a lip so pronounced you could easily store $5 in change.  By far, my personal favourite is the spaghetti leg dance.

Escalating into the second act, the tempo quickens.  There is dramatic foot stomping, yelling and the occasional throwing of clothing, books and even a cherished stuffed animal, depending on the actresses particular muse for the evening.  On some nights, the resident thespian kicks it up a notch and engages the audience by throwing out a  ‘You’re mean’ or ‘I don’t like you’.  Although audience participation is apparently encouraged, it’s not always wise to upstage the actress while she’s in character.  

There is never an intermission.

The final act usually involves a quick exit off stage, puddles of tears and finally, when the audience cannot endure one more dramatic event to unfold, the actress pauses; and breaks into a heartfelt soliloquy so sweet, it brings the audience to their feet, tears to their eyes, cheering; ‘Encore! Encore!’  It. Is. Good. Stuff.

When we grow up, tantrums aren’t quite as entertaining. In fact, they are highly discouraged.  If you don’t believe me, I would suggest you walk into work tomorrow, fling yourself to the floor, kicking and screaming in your boss’s office yelling; “I want a raise!  I deeeeessserrrvvve it! Why won’t you give meeeeeee more moonnnneyyyyy!”  (make sure to throw in the spaghetti leg dance for good measure).  

Sadly, it is true.  As adults, we are socialized to; ‘take the high-road’, not to ‘stoop’ to someone else’s level, to ‘fight fair’, to be MATURE.  But sometimes, events in our lives make us just want to throw a tantrum.  For some, the triggering event may happen while driving; say, behind someone going 40 in a 60, signaling left, NO! right, NO! Ooopsie! left again.  For others, it occurs witnessing socks carelessly discarded in the middle of the living room floor.  These events are usually not intended to provoke a tantrum; they are merely the bi-product of another’s blissful ignorance. 

Now, intentional provocation and injustice?  That’s what sets me over the edge and let me tell you, I’ve got good reason to throw one whopper of a tantrum ~ a doozie.  I’ve been bamboozled, ignored and lied to.  I’ve been provoked, poked and antagonized.  I’ve been the recipient of a veritable cornucopia of school-yard type behaviour and let me tell ya, the culprit is far from school aged.  

What have I done in response?  I, have obeyed ALL the grown up rules.  I have been logical, mature, fought fair and taken the high road(s).  I, became ZEN. I’ve taken all of these experiences and grown wiser and stronger.  Not to brag, but even Master Yoda would praise my resistance to the Dark Side.  ‘hmmm. Wise you’ve become. Powerful with the ‘Force’ you are.’

That was then.  

During the latest engagement I secretly proclaimed; ‘screw the highroad.  I just want to have a big, elaborate, dramatic, snot flying, feet stomping hands flailing, end up in a big-sweaty-puddle-on-the-floor tantrum.  I. WANT. ONE.’

Therefore, I hereby proclaim  a new grown up rule. IF you’ve been the bigger person and; IF you’ve taken the high road and IF you’ve shared nicely with others AND played by ALL the rules, you get to have one glorious tantrum.  I hereby give you permission to completely unwrap; go ahead, knock yourself out.  Here, throw this; you’ll feel fantastic.   

January: Get the Manor and Temple in Order: Okay, Manor First

I’m not one for resolutions, or rather, keeping them. I’m far too big of a fan of quitting. I quit smoking, a job (or two), diets, saving plans and even a marriage.  I am so very good at quitting.  The saying: “The road to hell is paved with good intentions”, is a personal mantra.  Don’t get me wrong, I am fine upstanding citizen who pays her bills, gets her teeth cleaned religiously every 6 months and I even file my taxes on time.  Though, I may be confusing my slight OCD with actual follow through....

But, sometimes your soul stirs in a way that you can’t ignore.  It’s kinda like that moment when you favourite pair of ‘hot jeans’ turns into your ‘someday’ skinny jeans.  Change is required.  If you’re like me, it’s the question of ‘where to start?’ once you’ve sorely neglected all the things you were supposed to be taking care of. 

For me a great starting place for any large project is and always has been cleaning.  I love cleaning.  It’s therapeutic. I get lost in the dusting, sorting, sweeping, sanitizing, fluffing/folding goodness of it all.  I get a huge sense of satisfaction seeing everything all sparkly and orderly.  I live with a small tornado who is also a collector of ‘fine things’, so this evolution always takes place while she is with her dad.  Her absence allows for the greatest effect of order and sparkly and a moderate amount of sustainability.  While I conduct my cleaning frenzy, I drink coffee.  I play my music too loud.  I wear a different hat for each floor I clean.  I sing (terribly). I break into spontaneous dance.  It. Is. An. Event.  

This past cleaning extravaganza had new purpose.  As part of my new-found inspiration, I planned on upping the ante:  Purge yer shit. I, was ‘gonna lay some Feng Shui on GGM’.  Feng Shui, the Chinese philosophy or ‘ancient Chinese system of aesthetics believed to use the laws of both Heaven (astronomy) and Earth (geography) to help one improve life by receiving positive qi’. Now, I didn’t know if I would improve my ‘qi’, of if I’d even locate it.  But I was determined; after all, I was a purging, cleaning, sorting machine and it was time to let go of things that served no purpose, expired, made me look fat or old or just plain had their day in the sun and needed to go.  I started where most of us start and quite frankly fear; the closet.  

I am fortunate at GGM, I have a ‘dressing room’ - a bonde fide walk in closet, with a window and everything.  It’s a haven; it houses my clothes, my beloved shoes, Santa presents (seasonly only), and where I hide for my time outs. Oh a walk in closet is a fine place;  until you have to purge it.  Now my dressing room isn’t in bad shape.  I’m not a hoarder of things usually, unless of course I’ve justified their continued residence.  So I did have a few things that desperately needed to go:  1.  The beautiful Anne Klein suit whose pant waist ended tragically directly underneath my boobs, 2. The lime green brushed wool suit jacket (in my defense, it was on sale) and 3. Two pairs of shoes that my grandmother would have found too frumpy.  And finally, 4. The box of wedding pictures that I had in my closet.  

Make no mistake, I have absolutely no regrets ending my marriage.  I think I placed this box of memorabilia there in my closet because it’s steeped with value. It’s a box of pictures that reminded me of the values I hold dear; commitment, trust, partnership, family, love.  As I flipped through the pictures, I stared at the young girl looking back at me; uncertain, confused, lost, trying her best to follow through on her ‘resolutions’.  After a few moments of nostalgia, I gently put the lid on the box of pictures and added them to pile destined for the basement.  As I did, I could feel the space being created there in my dressing room, a lightness; qi. I was hooked.  

That positive energy followed me from room to room;  tossing, sorting, recycling, donating...I was a purging machine. 

Then I hit the monkey’s room.

Momentum was lost.  Hope, abandoned.  As with many machines, it was time to shut down operations, close shop,  pour a glass of wine and quit for the night.  

I’d resume the search for ‘sparkly and orderly’ in the morning.  

From small beginnings, come great things ~ Proverb

I have become aptly inspired.  But that's nothing new.  I get inspired about 8 times a day, after listening to 'the monkey' in the morning, hearing meaningful lyrics in a song, watching a runner clock miles as they pass me on the street.  My inspiration is usually interrupted by the other 37 thoughts crammed in my head: "Crap, I'm running late, again.  Did I get all the prep done for that meeting?  What the hell am I going to make for dinner?  Did I unplug the flat-iron? Shit, did I put my underwear on backwards, again? And 'poof'  inspirational thought? Gone.  It's what is affectionately referred to as the 'SQUIRREL' - syndrome.  But that's me, frequently inspired, momentarily.

For many of us, change only comes from discomfort and necessity and as I uncomfortably hit the apparent required age of 40, I felt myself reflecting on my last 39 years and what I had learned, accomplished and had left to do.  So, naturally, I opened a bottle of wine, pillaged the monkey's markers and wrote out a big, scary list of 'what I want to do now that I'm 40'. 20, yes 20 items found their way to paper, in bright, cheerful colours.  Although solving world peace and curing cancer did not make the cut, equally lofty idealistic musings did.  I love lists.  They make me happy.  So since I was happy, I rolled up that beautiful list and put it away.

Ironically, nothing changed, which was quite a shock.  After all, I MADE A LIST.  It was colourful!  It was neatly printed!  It was put away for safe keeping!  Apparently, I was going to actually have to DO something with that list.

Which is why I'm here; to DO something with my list.  Inspired by reading 'Eat, Pray, Love', 'The Happiness Project' and daily evidence that truth is by far stranger than fiction, particularly at Girly Girl Manor, I am embarking on a quest in 2011 to tackle my big scary list.

I invite you to join me.  Who knows.  I may aptly inspire you, momentarily.