The Cure

Sunday morning.  Slept in and woke up amazed that it was so late (8:30am….).  But like a spin of the kaleidoscope, my thoughts quickly turned from snuggling in a warm bed to wondering what is the measure of my faith?  Yeah, I know, that’s a leap, isn’t it…… It’s the Sunday-morning-thing, where I’m now like a fish out of water, feeling I should be in one place, but finding myself in another, afraid of judgements (from others) and loathing (from myself).    This brave, new territory is unfamiliar, I’m unsure of how to express my spirituality anymore.  I’ve reached that crossroads that so many face, and yet I always felt it would never be my own experience.  I always thought I’d travel the safe road of organized religion til the day I died.   Despite having been preyed upon (as opposed to prayed upon, ha!) as a kid, and despite being officially excluded from certain rituals and sacraments because of my remarried state (thankfully no one human person has ever made me feel excluded from the Church, except the Church itself), I found lots of comfort and healing, doing all the things I did to express myself spiritually, Catholically (that’s my new word).

And then I didn’t.  No comfort, no healing.   Only sorrow and sadness and bewilderment. 

And it’s the sorrow and sadness, and especially the bewilderment, that trickle and flow inside me, like a thawing creek bed with melting snow and ice, revealing the cold, hard rocks underneath.   These cold rocks and pebbles that are smoothed by the passage of time and water.  Maybe the sorrow/sadness/bewilderment works the same way on my soul, smoothing, shaping, pushing along.  

(Spring Creekbed by Jake Wells, 2006)

The questions bubble to the surface and break:   Where do I go from here?  How do I find me a new set of spiritual chops?  Better ones than I had?  I have this craving inside to be close to Him again, and yet I don’t know how.   This makes me cry.  I question all of my attempts at prayer, I start off with gratitude and praise for His gifts and then quietly mumble my apologies for my smallness, my doubts and my unwillingness to reconcile what I know of Him with what I’ve come to despise about the Church.   In my heart, I know He’s bigger than the Church.  In my heart, I know that He knows that I try to let His love shine through my actions, even if I’m not an “active participant”.  And I know that He knows I fail at this, and sometimes I fail miserably. 

I can separate church and state, I can separate church and God.  It’s finding Him after I’ve separated Him from church that seems elusive.   I lack understanding of His word, and I wish for more discipline and desire to read and meditate what He tells me in those pages.   I take Him for granted, because I know He’s there in all the kindnesses and love that I give and receive, but I’m so slow to realize it.   

But He is patient.  And for that, I sob in my bed on a Sunday morning, certain that a rekindling in my soul is imminent, but not knowing how to build an S.O.S. that is worthy, that my journey into this darkness is unknowable to myself, having now lost a compass.   The crying doesn’t last long, just long enough for me to sense that it’s more than just a boo-hoo-hoo kind of thing.  Maybe it’s an expression of my faith, of my soul.  Maybe my tears are a balm.   Maybe they’re a cure.

” Do you know a cure for me?  Why yes, he said. I know a cure for everything:  salt water.  Salt water?, I asked him.  Yes, he said, in one way or another:  sweat, tears or the salt sea. “                                                                                                       (Isak Dinesen, “The Deluge at Norderney”, from Seven Gothic Tales, 1934)

Love,

Chantal xoxoxo

Wolf Cub, Do Your Best

He stood in the centre of his pack, promising to do his best.  Straight as an arrow he stood, shy,  his cheeks a little flushed when he unexpectedly had to say why he wanted to be a cub (“Because I love the Scouts and I want to have experience”). 

My son made his Wolf Cub Promise last night, to do his best, to love and serve God, and to do a good turn for someone everyday.  For three weeks, we’ve been talking and practising, going over the motto, the law, the maxims, the left-handed handshake, the hand sign.  As we drove to the school gymnasium, he was nervous, worried he would forget what he had learned in front of his pack. 

I reminded him that his grandfather, my dad, was a Scout Leader for decades, and one who was much loved and respected by the youth he guided and by the other leaders that he worked alongside.  I told P that his grandfather was smiling down on him right now, and that P should remember this when he was making his promise:  that my father was also a very shy man who overcame it to serve others all of his life, a Scout through and through. 

P’s father attended the little ceremony as well, and we took lots of pictures.  When P received his neckerchief and his badges, as well as his Good Deed coin, he was beaming, and so were we.  As the Cubs sang out their song of praise and guidance, my thoughts went to my father, wishing he could be here to know my boy, to witness this little moment in a school gym, just as he had attended countless ceremonies like this in his day for boys who have grown into men, men who hold special memories of my father as their Scout leader.  

When we arrived home, P showed his treasures to Mr. C., and we looked at the pictures from the ceremony.   I took P aside and presented him with a gift on this special day:  12 years ago, the Scouts held a Jamboree, and presented my father with a special plaque, honouring him for his dedication and hard work throughout his life for the Scout movement.  Translated, it reads:   For you, Victor.  You are always ready to help the Scouts without expecting any reward.  Baden Powell would be proud of you as we all are.  The District thanks you.

When P unwrapped the plaque, I explained what it was, how my father had been so proud to receive it that summer day, how he would have wanted P to have it, and how I was now passing it on to him.  The look of sincere joy on my son’s face said it all.  He had been asking to see my father’s mementoes from his scouting days for some time, and I kept putting it off.  I’m glad I waited until this moment.  I know P did not expect me to actually GIVE him something of my father’s, so that made it all the sweeter.

The plaque now rests in P’s room, on a shelf he cleared especially for his Cub Scout things.    This warms my heart to no end, to be reminded of my father through my son’s experiences as a Wolf Cub.  As I told P after giving him the plaque:  You are a generous boy, and you have an open heart, full of love for others,  always ready to do your best.  Just like your grandfather. 

P thinks being in Cub Scouts is the best thing, and he thanks me often for signing him up, even though he was extremely shy.   After last night, though, I think sometimes it’s a gift I gave myself, to see and feel my father again. 

Dad, your grandson’s tenderpads have toughened up…..he’s ready to follow his pack on their adventures.  You would be proud of him……

Love,

Chantal xoxoxo

Honey, I Think There’s A Teardrop On My Letter

“He can come Friday night if he doesn’t cry for you on Saturday night.  And he can’t be following me around, clinging to me 24/7.   It’s up to him.   And if  he starts coming here every other Friday night, too, we’ll have to revisit the financial arrangement.”

I hung up the receiver, swallowed the lump in my throat, and turned to the pile of  letters on my desk.  They needed my signature, gotta mail them out, they’re dated today.  Don’t cry.   Pick  up the pen and sign your letters, if not, they’ll be stale-dated and you know what that means…..you’ll have to re-do them.   Don’t cry.  Drink some tea; it’s hard to cry when you drink something. 

Ok, deep breath and don’t don’t don’t think about how your heart is breaking for your little guy.   Don’t think about how you are still regretting separating from the children’s father nearly five years ago now,  because of the hurt and pain that the divorce has caused.   Don’t think of how callous and selfish Father of Children sounded when he firmly stated that P can come one extra night if he meets his criteria (no crying, and he has to keep himself busy).  Don’t think of how you can’t imagine yourself ever saying: “Nope, I don’t want P to stay with us if he cries because he misses you.”  or “Here, take your daughter, she’s driving me crazy and I can’t live with her anymore.”  You know you’ve thought those things, everybody does, but you’d never say it, and you certainly wouldn’t follow through on it.   Don’t think about how you would much rather put up with some crying at night then seeing your boy only 4 days a month.  Don’t think about how selfish YOU sound, worrying about your kids’ hearts and feelings when so many children have it WAY harder than yours do.  More guilt.   Don’t think of  how much P is missing out on his life with his father, with his little baby brother whom he adores.  Don’t think of how P is at the age when he wants to be his Dad’s shadow,        10 years old is when your Dad is The Superhero Of The World, isn’t it?   Don’t think of how P is slowly being alienated.  Don’t think of how this never would be happening  if you hadn’t left that marriage  in the first place, so this is your fault again.   Don’t think of the guilt you feel about the divorce, don’t think about the guilt, don’t think about guilt, don’t think…..don’t think.   

Too late.

I set the pen down, put my elbows on my desk and hold my head in my hands.  Defeat and sadness wash over me.  I don’t even realize I have tears rolling down until I hear one teardrop hit the letter, Mr. Client 28476’s letter.   Shoot….that kind of snaps me out of it, and I quickly soak it up with a tissue, blow my nose and hope to heck nobody walks by my desk with a cheery good morning.   Surely, the person who sits on the other side of me will wonder what the heck all the sniffling’s about.

I look at Mr. Client 28476’s letter and the teardrop has dried up, no wrinkly spot.  Good.  Phew.  I sign it, and think about Mr. Client 28476 receiving this letter with my now-invisible teardrop.   He’ll never know that the letter-writer was having a melt-down while she signed it.   He’ll never know that in the margin of his official-looking letter, there’s the trace of sodium chloride and water, a tiny unproductive pool of sadness and sorrow.  

Can someone pass the hugs and the chocolate, now?

Ok, I’m at work, you can’t hail a hug like you hail a taxi.   But I get the next best thing….Mr. C calls before I go for lunch, and I fill him in on my depressing  morning conversation with P & G’s father.  In his reliable, comforting way, my husband manages to lift my spirits and renew my confidence in myself, without bringing down the father of my children.   Sitting at my desk, listening to his words through the receiver, I can feel his arms around me, his hands smoothing my hair back, kissing my tears away; the chocolate is melting in my mouth.    My afternoon is much better, and a phone call from P, fresh and so hyped up  from his first day at soccer camp, is all I need to restore my faith in my ability to keep doing the right thing by my family, despite the guilt. 

I realize this might not be a big deal compared to what you may be going through, and because I know this,  I really try to keep things in perspective.  Sometimes though, telling yourself  it’s no big deal is the same as repression, which leads to depression, which is anger turned inward.   Know that I’m offering up my struggles for you, so that you can have hugs & chocolate, too, when you need them.  

Love,

Chantal xoxoxoxo

Growing Pains

My son has a simple concussion.  So said the emergency room doctor.  P was sitting on a bench in the gym at school, bent over to tie his skates, getting ready to enjoy the outdoor rink with his classmates, when the kid sitting across from him managed to whack him on the bridge of his nose with his skate blade, which was covered with a skateguard THANK GOD.   I don’t know how one’s foot can accidentally come up suddenly and so hard that it nearly knocked P unconscious, but it did….especially when the foot in question is attached to the body of a child known to be more than a handful.    I guess it’s not that hard to imagine  a class of 10-year-olds fidgeting around, anxious to get out on the rink, one can easily picture a kid sitting there, dangling his legs, waiting for the teacher’s all-clear to go outside, trying hard to be patient, then….WHACK! 

P said he fell forward, then couldn’t remember what happened or what people were saying.     The secretary called me at work, explained what happened, that his nose was very purple and he was in pain.  On the way there, I mentally prepared myself to what I might see (she hadn’t mentioned blood, so that was good), and I set my face in an expression of tender motherly concern, with my mouth glued in the form of a gentle, it’s-gonna-be-alright smile.  If the injury was horrible, I didn’t want P to be shocked by my shock.  

But it wasn’t as bad as I was expecting……his nose seemed somewhat swollen, but apparently the swelling had gone down quite a bit thanks to an ice-pack.  He was sleepy, though, and dizzy, and had blurry vision….time to head to the hospital.   In the end, the doctor declared him neurologically-sound, and that the concussion symptoms should clear up within the week. 

P’s injury today brought back the time when my daughter G choked on a rubber toy a few years ago….that was an ambulance ride we won’t soon forget.  http://crrz07.wordpress.com/2007/08/01/deja-vu/ .    

I’m afraid I really didn’t have any direction that I wanted to take by writing this post, nor do I have any particular message or life-lesson.   No rhyme or reason.   I just needed to write this out.  It’s been a very emotional  walk in the Parenting Park lately, one that is testing my motherhood mettle.  My daughter G has been feeling the consequences  of making bad choices, which means that I’m the one making her feel those consequences.  Tomorrow morning, her father & I meet with her teacher to discuss G’s behaviour at school (it’s a little jarring to hear several teachers tell you that G is not the girl they know her to be).  I’ve decided not to give a detailed account of what’s been happening in the past six weeks, because I don’t think I would feel too good if my mother blogged about my behaviour to the whole world.    Let’s just say that  pre-teens are a whole different animal.  

I can’t be sure that I’m ready though.   I’ve gone through some heavy thinking lately, as opposed to heavy drinking, to which heavy thinking about family life can sometimes lead to; thankfully not in my case (but I’ve thought about it!).  Anyhow, back to my heavy thinking about being a parent…..so I cycle around & around the block of guilt, spinning my wheels….I return to the fountain of regret and soak long enough to watch my toes turn into wrinkly raisins…. I run through the forest of anger (at myself, at God, and ultimately back at myself)……Then, tired & spent,  I sulk in the What-Did-I-Do-To-Deserve-This sandbox.  

Our children really are like gifts…..when you open a gift, you have no idea what’s in it.  What if it’s something you don’t really like?  We don’t select our kids like we select a pair of shoes or a box of chocolates.   We accept our children graciously, through Grace, with Grace, because of Grace…..and we do our best to love them through all of the joys, pains, triumphs and disappointments.   

Because for them, we are also like a gift……children can’t choose their parents any more than parents can choose their children.   With Grace, we can help our children grow into the gifts that they are.  And hope that we become the parents that they need. 

 

Love,

Chantal xoxoxoxo

Dear Little Blog

I’m sorry.  I’ve been neglecting you.  I HAVE been thinking about you, but that doesn’t quite cut it, does it?  So what if I’m thinking of you?  Thoughts are not the same as giving attention, nurturing, loving, caring.  So what if I have a gazillion thoughts and ideas in my head, a myriad of things I want to fill you up with, dear little Blog?  They mean nothing if I can’t find the wherewithal to even come into your house with my special pass key.   I sometimes feel so neglectful of you, that I can’t even face the screen that asks for my user name and password.  What if you spurn me, what if you pout and don’t ever want to open yourself up to me again?  What if I let this go so long that I can’t find the passion that I felt initially?  Or the courage to even come and say hello?

It’s kind of been like a crisis, trying to regain my momentum and write again.  Never mind the momentum…it’s balance that I’m seeking.   Equilibrium.  I know where the answer lies…..I know I just have to let it be and it will come.  That the more I look to be balanced, the more it eludes me. 

http://fc69.deviantart.com/fs32/f/2008/231/7/4/Rotational_Equilibrium_by_xentek.jpg

In my defence, I do want to let you know, dear little Blog, that I have had reasons for not visiting you, let alone spending a few hours with you where you gladly take in my musings.  You know my family life has changed a little now,  my husband is by my side, my son is now living with us full time while my daughter continues alternating between our home and her father’s home.  There are MANY things that require one’s attention when one becomes a blended family, and although every night my husband and I remark that despite the struggles we feel that things are going much better than we expected, there are still alot of emotions and personalities to consider. 

And at work, lots of changes there, too, that need some getting used to.    And my faith, I sometimes struggle, sometimes not….And I’m not sleeping so good.  And I need to exercise more but don’t feel like it because I’m not sleeping so good.  And I’d like to not be so darn sensitive and cry at the drop of a hat.   And children need their mother, even when they act like they don’t, even when they cause you worries and tender moments, sometimes back-to-back.    I seem to be whining, dear little Blog, as if I’m finding excuses and justifications to ignore you, but I’m not.  I have everything to be thankful for, and  so much to write about, but these things that form the core of my life are all-consuming at the moment. 

So here’ s my olive branch, I ask you just to be patient a little while longer, dear little Blog, while I try to find the center, knowing that I get such pleasure and satisfaction, and deep personal gratification from sitting down and filling you up with my thoughts. 

 

Love,

Chantal xoxoxoxo

A New Wind Blowing

After a gorgeous, warm, and sunny Thanksgiving long-weekend, back-to-work-Tuesday dawned with a sudden rain storm.  The power flickered on & off in the apartment, and the wind howled through the trees.  When I arrived at work, the rain had stopped, but the sky was that dark blue steel colour, and the wind was blowing the clouds, hurrying them on their way East.  Stormy fall days are soaked with energy….even the most dreary rainy days have this special glow. 

                                                       (http://www.criativa-arts.com/home)

My parking spot at work is about a 10-minute walk from the building.  That day, my focus was on holding on to my purse and lunchbag while negotiating the wind.  I was thinking about the week that was, fit for an episode of a reality show, full of the challenges and tears that parenting brings.   Alone with my thoughts, I was digging deep inside to find a little bit of optimism and renewed courage, you know, kind of like a Pep Talk to Self.  

As I walked along, the wind blew the clouds behind me and for a few seconds, the sun shone through, bright as can be, and its light was made even brighter by the golden leaves twirling and rustling in the wind.  It was such a sudden change, like someone flicking on a switch, that I turned around and smiled at the sun and said thank you.  I’m glad I did, as no sooner had I turned that the wind once again covered the sun with clouds….a fleeting moment of gratitude. 

www.allposters.com

So I continued walking, across the road, onto the sidewalk, up the ramp.  I’m leaning into the forceful wind, feeling my coat being blown out and around me, the wind whipping my hair into my face one second, then blowing it straight back the next.   Which didn’t really matter because my hair always looks like it’s caught in a windstorm anyways.   A sudden noisy gust makes me look up in time to see a blitz of leaves being blown in a farandole, spirited, swirling, dancing, and they’re heading right for me!  I turn my head and continue walking up the ramp, cocooned in crimson and gold jewels, and all I can think is:

Exhilaration.    Pure.     Joy.  

I start to laugh to myself, and couldn’t help smiling, because I had this yearning to dance around with the leaves and the wind, and to laugh out loud!  I wanted to twirl like Maria in the Sound of Music, on top of the mountain!  I wanted to sing and laugh!  

It was an incredible feeling, to sense that the wind was not just another weather element I had to contend with……it became this breathing entity, this presence that I could nearly touch, it made itself known to me very briefly, yet unforgettably.   For a few blissful seconds, I was filled with such a desire to be with the wind, to abandon myself to it, to answer its call to be joyful, to be what I was created to be.   Like a little kid reluctant to leave her game when being called in for dinner, I reached the front entrance to my workplace.  I found I wanted to stay outside, in the gusting wind, not only to feel its energy, but to become its energy, to feel it transform me. 

God is in the details.  It’s in simplicity that I find deep riches. 

And as Bob says:  the answer is blowin’ in the wind…..

Love,

Chantal  xoxoxox

P.S. That new wind blowing has brought sweeping changes in my life, as my husband has now relocated from his warm Floridian climate to the crisp and chilly North.   It’s been a little over a week that he’s been here, and I’m so happy!  I’ll write more on the transition of our marriage and relationship going real-time from being super-long-distance……but  now, I’m enjoying my real male, rather than my e-male

To Lighten Your Darks, Wash In Courage

tr.v. re·lin·quished, re·lin·quish·ing, re·lin·quish·es

1. To retire from; give up or abandon.

2. To put aside or desist from (something practiced, professed, or intended).

3. To let go; surrender.

4. To cease holding physically; release

Today is the Autumnal Equinox, the day is as long as the night.  Perfect balance. 

In a week, it will mark five years since my Dad passed away.   Before we headed back to our hometown for his funeral, I remember my sisters saying that our father had gathered everyone together at a time of the year when Nature was at her most spectacular.  It was like he was giving us these rich colours of the season to show us that our joy at having him as our father was as meaningful as the pain and sorrow we felt at losing him.  Perfect balance. 

When you think of courage, who do you see?  Courageous people don’t think or talk about courage; every day, they live it.  They don’t pray for it or look to others to give them courage.   They just live as they do.  They actually do something on a regular basis that makes them courageous. 

Like getting up early every day to go to work and provide for their family.   Without complaining.    Like being generous with their time and money.   Without even thinking of being thanked or expecting recognition.    Like being up to their necks in financial hardship.   Without letting the stain of neediness tarnish their own self-respect.   Like having rock-steady faith in the darkest of journeys.   Without giving creedence to false arrogance and delusions of being able to do it alone. 

My Dad was very much a man of courageous relinquishment, if you will.   For as long as I’ve known him, he’s had to let go of a part of himself in order to live as he felt God asked of him.  And if you asked him if he was courageous, he would’ve laughed and said any courage he had didn’t come from him.   It would be easy to think that he lost it all, his health, his money, and in the end, his life for nothing.    That would be true if he gave up.  But he never did, he never let it show if he did.  Any darkness that he found himself in was befriended and turned over to God.  Probably not in that exact moment when he felt most vulnerable, like in that moment when your eyes are unaccustomed to the dark after the switch is thrown.  It always seems darker than it really is.   I’m sure there were times when my Dad was scared sh*tless at what he faced.  I never knew if he was.  He always carried on, like a wounded soldier on the battlefield, determined and sustained by unknown forces, to seek the light at the end, to complete his tour for the good of those who fought alongside him. 

It’s not the big, tough loudmouths of the world who make a difference.    The real heroes are not the politicians or the celebrities who have it all,  yet who have nothing.   It’s the quiet, ordinary people who sit beside you at work, the ones who serve you coffee, the ones who make sure their elderly neighbour ate supper that night.  It’s the ones who give a damn about that one kid in their class who everybody else has written off as a “problem child”, it’s the ones who give up their own free time to deliver Christmas hampers during a blizzard.   It’s the ones who stand up to the meanies of the world by offering them a helping hand or a genuine “Good morning”. 

So when my father had filled all of his days with unsung acts of courage, when he had relinquished all that he had been given,  when his light came into perfect balance with his dark, it seems now, in retrospect, that he truly began to live, even though he had passed away. 

I would give anything to be with my father again, and I can’t.    There’s too much I still didn’t know about him, there’s so much that I can’t remember and I can just kick myself for not paying closer attention when he WAS here, there’s so much I want to say to him now that I’m older.  This is my relinquishment, part of what I have to gradually let go of. 

As time goes on, and memories (although always present) become more like still shots instead of the moving pictures they once were, the light of joy edges closer in balance to the darkness of grief. 

Love to you, Dad

Chantal xoxoxo

Peaceful Tomorrows

Everyone knows where they were and what they were doing on this day seven years ago.  Since that time,  alot of really bad policies and destructive actions have emerged from September 11th, but there has also been much good that we sometimes cannot see until some healing takes place.

There is an advocacy group who has turned this catalyctical event into a channel for peace.  What resonates with me is the desire of these families of September 11th to keep their personal losses from becoming a basis for justification for more violence and revenge. 

That takes alot of inner peace and courage. 

http://peacefultomorrows.org/index.php

Love,

Chantal xoxoxo

Wanted: Professional Eggshell-Walker

Having a pre-teen daughter makes you grow up real fast as a parent.  Up until this time, you have been a parent-in-training, a rookie.  Ha, and you thought you had graduated to your senior year as a parent once your daughter became a tween.  No no no, now you are on probation, in Purgatory, you need to be purified before you can earn your wings.  And the purification is done by fire, not water, which might make Hell look just as good.    

I was a girl once, I’ve gone through puberty, I should have an edge in understanding & knowing what to do with my own daughter.  But I forget what it was like.  I think that’s a natural design because why on earth you would want to remember that time in your life is beyond me.   And yet, with every angst-filled moment that I spend with G, I cringe with memories of that awkard stage. 

Even if I have gone through the first 11 years of her life with her, I am not prepared for this pre-teen-toddler that my daughter has become.  Even if I have listened to and thought I understood what other parents of pre-teens were going through as they described the tantrum-du-jour of their little Jeckyll and Hyde, I know for certain that nothing can prepare you for this:

G (opening & closing every kitchen cupboard, including the cutlery drawers):  Don’t you have ANY snacks for the movie tonight?

Me:  Well, I can make some pop…..

G:   LEAVE ME ALONE!!!!!!!!  (stomp stomp stomp slam)

Me:  ….corn……(oooookkaayyyyyy……)

Five minutes later, as I’m making popcorn for her brother: 

G (smiling…no really, it’s a real smile):  Can I have some, too? 

Me (who are you and what have you done with the diva-tween who lives here?):  Sure, you bet……(please God, let there be enough of her favourite popcorn seasoning left…I don’t think we can survive two fires within 5 minutes of each other….).

This is a minor one, there have been more serious tantrums and outbursts that have kept me awake at night, days of feeling it’s been one big long never-ending trail of anger & nastiness.  And I know there will be more to come (thank you, Mr. C. for your unwavering support from a thousand miles away….). 

Lately, bickering is almost a constant, the days have rudeness on the menu for breakfast, lunch and dinner.  Long, interminable days of me counting the minutes until the next explosion (so far, 10 minutes is the record to beat)…..moments where I feel there is no hope,  that I’m missing the boat in giving her what she needs, because obviously if I did then she would not be swinging like Tarzan between such strong emotions (I forget that hormones are at work here).  I look forward to bedtime & lights out so I can have some time to go over WHAT THE HECK HAPPENED TODAY WITH THAT CHILD, and find a better way to be a mom to this sweet-and-sour girl….  

As I tuck her in, something about that time of the night lets her unlock her heart, finally.   I become privileged to her trust, which she is very careful of protecting to begin with (sounds familiar), and so I know that in this moment, I better step up to the plate, or else risk losing her.  I inhale deeply, lay my hand on her head…..and so the sadness pours out of her, and it triggers in me something from far away.  I recognize her pain in the girl I once was, especially the pain of trying to say what was in my heart and being told to stop crying already.   

I listen to my girl-on-the-verge, I soothe and I listen as she tells me her feelings of being left out since her stepbrother was born a few months ago, and how she feels she’s not important to her dad & stepmom, that she can’t do anything right when she’s there, that her brother P can do no wrong in their eyes, that the baby cries alot…..

And like a baby, she cries in my arms, big sobs and gulps, lots of Kleenex.    In a way, I’m so grateful that she’s feeling sad and wants me to hold her while she cries, because G is very much a hands-off kid who at best, tolerates hugs (she’s invented the Sideways Hug, where if she’s asked for a hug, she’ll turn her body sideways and hug you with one arm while her other hand pushes you away).   But in these bedtime confessionals, it’s really me who’s receiving absolution:  I’m given the reason for why I became her mother.  Not just a mother, but her mother.  My parental insecurities and doubts fade away,  my anger and resentment at her outbursts and mood swings of the day dissipate, as do my hurt feelings at taking her negative behaviour towards me personally.  

In her sadness and pain, I’m the one she turns to, I’m the one she wants comfort from, even if moments earlier, I was the Wicked Witch of the West. 

This is what God must feel like.   

Love,

Chantal xoxoxoxo

What A Difference A Year Makes…..

Holy mack, I’ve been blogging for over a year now. 

Surely it’s been longer, but no, I wrote my first post back in April 2007, and moved here to WordPress the following month.  I don’t know about you, but when I read stuff that I’ve written, even posts I wrote just last month, I sort of read them through squinty eyes.   It’s like hearing your voice on a recording, or watching yourself on video.  You know it’s you, but it doesn’t sound like you think you sound, it doesn’t look like you feel you look.  And yet, it’s you.  Maybe these writings, these recordings of my thoughts, are teaching me who I am.  So that I can recognize myself. 

This past year has been quite the ride.   I’ve gone from being happily single to being happily married (even though it’s an 1800-mile-long-distance marriage).  The distance will be bridged hopefully sooner rather than later, once the immigration process is cleared.  It’s amazing, but despite the distance, my husband has given me support like no other, it’s almost like he was here.  Communication is very important in any relationship, and crucial in a long-distance one.  We laughed one night, as I was reading to him from a book on long-distance relationships, and the recommendation that you shouldn’t let more than three days pass before calling or emailing your loved one.  My husband and I both cried out “3 days!!! We can’t go 3 HOURS without touching base!”   

I’ve made more mistakes as a mother than I ever thought possible, with words I swore I would never say coming out of my mouth like water from a firehose.   And every time I think I’m at the end of my rope and not able to find peace in my heart,  something happens or someone will say just what I need to hear to help me carry on, with renewed patience.   Funny how those moments of fallibility & doubt are swept off like crumbs on a table  when you focus on the good stuff:  there was G’s participation in the Battle of the Books, P’s first year playing hockey, the homework struggles and payoffs, the new friends, the anticipation of planning a first summer holiday together…..

I tried new challenges at work, and even if I didn’t feel I was in my element, I still stuck it out and gained confidence in myself and in my ability to make decisions.  I received an award for creativity and innovation, which came as a surprise….if you don’t think your smallest contributions to your work environment have any effect, think again. 

I became a vegetarian in January 2007, and a few months ago, I felt a need to take it one step further and committed myself to gradually living as much a vegan life as I possibly can.    I gave up drinking coffee (if you try this at home, don’t go cold turkey.  I did, and the although the worst of it for me was confined to the first four days, the physical pain of severe headaches, hot & cold sweats, and a general feeling that I was going to die have made me think that the advice of gradually cutting back is indeed wiser.)

I’ve given all my Glamour magazines to the recycling bin, as self-flagellation is really not something I want to pass on to my children; plus, I’m maturing now, I’m 41, I don’t need to be told by a magazine what I know I lack according to their standards.  I like feeling good about myself, and no matter how they try to disguise it, magazines aimed at women (and those aimed at men) are not designed to make them feel good.   If you feel bad, you’ll keep buying their magazine.  And why is it that on the one hand, Glamour magazine will have a section on clothes and what fits which body type, showing all different sizes of women, but in their major fashion layout shoot, the model is always tall and skinny (not slim, but skinny)?   In their beauty sections, the models are girls, 14 or 15 with airbrushed faces under captions that read ”You too can have perfect skin!!”.  Heck, those models don’t even look that good.  I just reached a point where I couldn’t relate anymore, where even their political pieces buried at the back of the magazine seem like lip service, like a filler designed to attract a more savvy reader.   

I’m trying to maintain my 20-minutes a day on the treadmill (I know it’s not much, but as one who would much rather NOT exercise, this is a positive step).    I actually use that time to read, which is something I would always rather be doing.  It’s actually been ok, I read a little, then I look out at the dawn and can reflect on what I’ve read, and just let my mind go wherever it pleases.  It’s become a little Zen-like, this reading on the treadmill thing. 

I’ve been struggling to keep the community and ritualistic side of my spirituality alive.  I was raised in the Catholic faith, and have maintained my attachment to the Church, despite having my trust betrayed by a priest when I was a child.  Throughout my whole life, I’ve always attended mass, and participated in all that was required of me.  People sometimes ask me how I could still attend church after what happened, but I go because that was a place where I felt close to God.  And that’s a nice feeling.  Over the years, especially since I separated, I’ve lost that connection.  Not with God, even though my relationship with Him has wavered….I always trusted He was there for me, and He hasn’t let me down.  The Church, on the other hand, has.  Especially now that I am a divorced woman who has remarried.   I’m no longer accorded the sacraments of communion, of reconciliation.  These are things that are very meaningful to me, I took them seriously and accorded them the sacredness that they were entitled.  But despite my reverence, I’m cast aside.   I can look but I can’t touch.  I’m invited to the party, but I will not be served cake, or allowed to watch as the gifts are opened….I won’t receive the surprise bag at the end, and will be sent back home, empty-handed.  With an empty heart.    All because I wanted to be happy.   I will not give a long theological analysis, because I’m not qualified, but in a nutshell, as a divorced-remarried woman, I live in a state of perpetual sin.   I have things that I’ve done that I want to reconcile with God in the traditions that I grew up with, but I am denied access because I’m remarried.  I cannot ask forgiveness in the sacrement of reconciliation unless I leave my husband.  A murderer who repents in good faith is forgiven; in the eyes of my Church, that person has stopped murdering, whereas I continue to live in sin, it’s ongoing.  I cannot repent with the intention of never committing this “sin” again, because my intention is to love my husband until death.  Even the priest who abused me has presented himself to receive communion.   I’m glad that people who have committed crimes are able to turn their life around and be accorded these graces…..and I understand that the alliance of marriage before God is one of fidelity & permanence, that it’s irrevocable.   I understand that by divorcing, I have broken that alliance.   I did not take a life, however.  I did not commit a crime.  Yet I can’t even atone for the sin of divorcing, or for any other sin that I’ve done.  God’s love and forgiveness is for everyone, He excludes no one, and it’s important to distinguish between God and the Church.  In the year that has past, my spirtual self has made stops and starts, but my relationship with God continues to grow and become closer and stronger;  as for the Catholic Church, I feel rejected and let down.  It’s difficult to stay involved in committees and activites, to continue attending mass, when you know you’re not wanted.  My faith is a very important part of my life, for some people it’s not and they might have an easier time to know which way to go.  But I struggle with this, and for anyone out there who is feeling lost in this respect, know that you’re not alone.       

In the course of this year, I’ve discovered things about myself that I didn’t realize I could do.  I’m sure something happens to women in their forties, something shifts (other than certain body parts heading south).  You grow tired of accepting toxicity in your life, and you slowly begin this purging of things, of ideas, values, objects, of people, that you no longer need, that have become dead weight.  In your forties, you realize “Hey, I don’t have the time for this anymore, this is not part of the path that I’m walking.”   You rid yourself of cobwebs and things you held on to for fear of….what? Losing a part of yourself?  Your self is in what is closest to you….I start from the inside out and to my amazement, in this world of excess, I find that what sustains me lies in myself and in those I love.  I don’t need to look any further.  So whatever I lose in the process of loving is excess baggage that only served to drag me down, be it habits or ideals or relationships.   That’s the beauty of being in your forties….you retain the optimism you felt on the last day of school when summer was official, you conquer (alot of) your insecurities, you cringe as you look back on your twenties and thirties, at your arrogance, at how in many ways, you were only playing at being an adult.  This makes one grateful for gifts of wisdom, grace, and maturity.  

In your forties, you see the rest of your life as happening right now.   The rest of your life is right here, right now.  When this dawns on you, every moment after that is crystallized.   With all the richness that’s laid out before you, you don’t take anything or anyone for granted. 

Speaking of richness…..with this blog, I’ve expressed myself about things that I probably couldn’t in person.  It’s allowed me to gather my thoughts into coherency (because when I talk I usually stumble and can’t quite seem to get my point across).   I work through grief at my parents’ deaths through this blog, I’m able to sift through my feelings about being a single parent, I can marvel at the beauty of my children, I can rage against injustices, I can laugh at myself.  I can dream my dreams out loud.   This blog has brought much richness to my life….in retrospect, it’s been the candle glowing in the window as I unknowingly waited for my soulmate, my true companion.   One random hit on Daughter of Eve, Daughter of Desire, and there he was….. thank you, Mr. C, for being compelled to comment on that post, for setting in motion the forces that brought us together. 

I’ve gone through many transformations this past year, and I’ve shared many of them on Ain’t Life Strange?.  I’ve met wonderful people who have become friends.  Thank you for reading my ramblings, and for gracing me with your comments.   Whether you made yourself known, whether you commented anonymously, or whether you just felt that reading was enough and commenting not required, thank you.  Writing this blog is one of the most challenging and rewarding things I’ve done, and I look forward to seeing what Year Two will bring.   Thank you for being a part of my passion.

Love,

Chantal xoxoxo