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

As You Wish

I had alot of fantasy games that I would play when I was a child, and being as I was mostly a solitary kid, I never ran out of imagination to fill my time with.    I had friends, of course (some real, some not), but I was mostly content doing things on my own, letting my creativity and imagination come out however it would.    I remember once playing with paper cut-out dolls (by myself), and I guess I was really good at giving my dolls voices, because when my mother came upon me in the living room, she was sure I was sitting there playing paper dolls with friends (real ones)!  She  told me about that later on in the day, and for some reason, that story stuck.    As an adult, I came to find out that people were worried about me back then, because I was a loner kind of kid; and sure, there were periods of time where I was too alone, but in retrospect, I see that now as being a form of self-preservation from what I was going through at the time as a young girl preyed upon by a vulture.    But no worries, folks, I turned out ok!    At the time, however, I don’t remember feeling lonely, and I don’t remember longing to play with other kids when I was alone.   I just preferred doing my own thing, I suppose. 

One of those “own things ” was playing school.    I liked school, I didn’t love school.   But I looooved playing school at home.  I often converted my bedroom into a classroom, with stuffed animal students, and my little round  formica play-table serving as the Teacher’s Desk.   When my parents bought the corner store, I had a whole basement to play in, and over the years, many parts of that basement were converted into my school space.   I loved playing school so much that on the last day of school, I would bring a garbage bag, gather all the discarded workbooks from my classmates who had better things to think about, and I would drag my loot home, where I would divvy all the papers into piles and prepare my “class”.   This, on the LAST day of school!  Good grief….

Going to friends’  houses and discovering that they loved to play school, too was the greatest!  I’d get ideas from how they did things, how they set things up, what they used for desks, and how they decorated their “classroom”.   My friend  in grade 5 or 6, her name was Darquise, (yes she was real…..),  she was a popular girl, always the teacher’s pet.  So it was a privilege to get invited to her house.  She had five siblings, and part of their basement was converted to a classroom, with real student desks that their dad had obtained from some sale at the school board.  They had it all, the supplies, the decorations on the walls, the blackboard, even the little bell on the teacher’s desk.  I was in heaven.   Darquise, her siblings & I would play til I had to leave for supper, and I’m only sorry I didn’t get to go back more often.  I met Darquise again a dozen years ago, where we ran into each other at  Wal-Mart (surprise), and guess what she is now?  A school principal! 

But that’s not the point of my story.   Little girls who play school don’t all grow up to be school principals.  Some little girls who played school grow up to be government employees with dreams of writing writing writing.   And they have the good fortune of marrying a man who is a heart-reader.   

We’ve just moved from an apartment to a house,  which means Mr. C. & I are having a blast, shopping the classifieds and visiting the bargain stores for some much-needed good used furniture.   Little by little, we figure out what we need the most, then scour the ads, hoping to find THE bargain.  And we usually do.  So as we slowly settle into our little castle, I saw the need for a small desk that might be set up in the kitchen,  like a little office space kind of deal, you know, to put our papers in, pay bills, make lists, a place where we can find our stuff.   We left it at that, and continued our search for some piece of furniture that would fit the bill.  (When you furnish your house this way, as opposed to walking into a furniture store and saying I want this & this & this,  you need patience and the undying faith that something good will turn up if you just wait long enough…..hold on to that thought because it will become important later on in the story).

So I drive up to the house one night after work, and Mr. C’s truck is backed up in the driveway, and there’s this HUGE old-fashioned wooden desk sitting in the back.  It’s like a schoolteacher’s desk from the forties, with three drawers on either side, pull out shelf-y things at the top to write on, and a drawer in the middle.   And brass drawer pulls.  Not cheapy metal, brass.     Think Sherriff Andy Taylor’s desk in the Andy Griffith Show.    It’s very scuffed and the top of it would need some serious refinishing.   But that’s not what I see. 

I see that little girl again, playing school in her room, sitting at her formica table, imagining herself a great teacher to her panda bears and dolls…I see dreams floating out and around, dreams of being someone special, dreams of mattering to someone, dreams of accomplishing good things but not quite knowing how, dreams of creating a life,  long-ago extinguished dreams of following her heart only to find out that her heart wasn’t in it, dreams of writing.  Not the next great novel or bestseller, just writing.  Period. 

“It’s for you.  We can put it in the family room, and you can set yourself up in there.”  He’s come outside to see what I think of this big old piece of furniture.  He thinks I’ll be disappointed in his offering.   Two weeks prior, at the pharmacy  he & his co-workers were renovating , he asked if anyone wanted the old desk up in the bookkeeper’s nook.  Nobody did, it was free for the taking, so he put dibs on it, paying his work buddies some  beer money to help him load this used-up unwanted desk onto his truck.  Two weeks without saying a word, two weeks of holding in this most wonderful surprise.   He thinks I’ll be disappointed with this old beat-up desk that was so big & bulky back in its day that they had to saw off the back legs  just to get it into that bookkeeper’s nook. 

He thinks I’ll be disappointed…..heck, I am so excited that I feel I could pratically haul the thing out myself!   Over and over, as we set it down, as we clean it off, as we position it in the corner in the family room by the French doors so that there’s lots of light, I thank him, over and over.  I can’t come up with anything more profound to say than “This is the best gift anyone has ever given me!”, hoping he can  really feel how much his thoughtfulness means  to me.    At the time, that was all I could articulate, but this is what I was really trying to tell Mr. C.:

You haven’t yet  sought to create any corner of the house as your own, as your domain, your own special place to write.   Between the two of us, you are the writer,  I’m more the putter-downer-of-ideas.   And yet, the first piece of furniture that could serve you as YOUR writing place, you give it to me.   To set up with my things, my books, my pictures, my laptop.  My space.  A room of my own, as Virginia Woolf would say.  

You bring me this beautiful desk, this very used and abused desk, with sticking drawers and wobbly tablets, a desk only a dreamer could love.  A desk to store all my dreams in, all of my school-girl aspirations that grew and eventually dissipated….or maybe those aspirations only clouded up  into a different atmosphere, re-shaped into different purposes.   A desk only a dreamer could love,  loving it with each object she places on it, loving it by filling up drawers, loving it by running her hand over the rough-yet-smooth surfaces while she ponders the past, while she ponders passed the regretful past and into the joyful present. 

I have never received a more meaningful gift from the heart, Mr. C.   The desk is a tangible symbol of who I was before, and who I am now.  It ties you to me in a way that nothing else does.  Had we found this desk together in the classifieds or at a used furniture shop, it would not have the same meaning for me.  The fact that you saw it, you saw its possibilities, and you offered it to me is one of the purest expressions of love.   When you furnish your house this way…when a couple seeks to care for the other more than for the self, it requires patience and faith.  When the motivation is the other person’s joy, it makes patience and faith a piece of cake.   Adjusting to being a couple is not always a piece of cake, but I’m grateful to Him for having given me the patience to wait for you to mosey on into my life, and the wisdom to recognize the gift that you truly are.        

My relationship with Mr. C. is much like my relationship with my desk:  it’s a work-in-progress.  I move things around, I try different approaches, I make mistakes,  I  appreciate it more and more as time goes on.   I see the faults and the quirks (his, mine, AND the desk’s) as part of  the whole, without which it would not mean anything to me.   I get to take my dreams and bring them to new levels of realization.   So no, I won’t be looking to change it, or refinish it, or give it a new look.  If anything needs changing, it’s my own perceptions.   From the moment I laid eyes on my desk, I accepted it as it was, and I love it as it is.   From that early moment when I knew that Mr. C.  and I were true companions, I accepted that moment as it was, and I love him as he is. 

My desk

Class dismissed.

Love, Chantal xoxox

Being

End-of-the-school-year (G is gone camping for 3 days with her class, little graduation ceremonies, school concerts, outings).        Soccer season starts (P is playing competitive soccer this summer, which means 2 games per week  one hour after I get off work, which means rushing to pick him up at school, then trying to find time to get something nutritious in his body, then get him to his game on time…..plus practices and tournaments…..need to find alternative to McD’s….find time this weekend to come up with fast easy things to eat that can be prepared at home & taken along).       Mr. C has a new job (have to brush up my massage skills to counter those 10-hour days on his feet….and need to make those minutes left over at the end of the day count.   It’s nice to take care of those you love).     New digs await us in a few weeks (we haven’t started packing yet…..but we are SO ready for our new place with THREE bedrooms!  No more mouldy apartment……).    Meeting my new sisters-in-law (SIX of them!) and their families next week at a family wedding for which I don’t have a dress yet…….I tried one on yesterday, a nice cream silky number with a beautiful purple flower print & a sash, except I looked like a big grape   (no pressure, I still have 7 shopping days left……minus 3 soccer nights and one child’s friend’s birthday party evening, so 3.5 days left, really….ok, there’s a little bit of pressure there); need to find something that makes me look like I am, a happy woman, wife and mother, not something that makes me look like I’m rushing from one thing to the next, trying to keep up with this culture that imposes too much on everybody, and certainly something that doesn’t make me look like a giant fruit, no matter how tasty. 

So I’m taking this little moment with you, to breathe and thank God for all my blessings.  I don’t usually like to ask Him for favours, but if I can be given what I need, to be the mother, the wife, the woman that I have to be, that’s all I can ask for.  And I’m willing to put all my energy into being that being.   In spite of my human frailties.   Maybe because I’m such a human.

Blessings to you as you go on living your day and being your own being for those you love. 

Love,

Chantal xoxoxoxo

No I’m Not, I Just Look It

How is it that despite our enlightenment, modern women can still be slayed by one insensitive, ill-thought comment? 

I was at my children’s school the other evening, for the annual Family Fair event.   Games, penny sales, cake raffles, lots of children running around, teachers, parents, grandparents and friends connecting and reconnecting.    A dear friend and I sat and talked for an hour, having a wonderful time catching up and giving each other moral support in our quest to be mothers in the modern world.  Our sons are best friends, and the unique bond she and I share is deep and meaningful.  She is a woman I think of when I look for inspiration and determination.   I treasure the conversation we had, she’s a very special woman, and we parted with the promise of going out for a girls-only coffee date.  

Sitting at one of the long tables in the gymnasium, watching the hustle and bustle going on around me, I concentrated on being quiet inside and reflected on the good things that have happened lately, in spite of  the adjustments that continue to need attention as my husband and I forge our couple-ness and try to blend into a family without making too much of a mess.   With echoes of my sweetheart’s tender words from our afternoon lingering in my heart, the evening wore on, and the time came for me to search out my kids and head home.    Mrs. Dana, a teacher who had taught my daughter in kindergarten, was clearing off the tables.  She & I have known each other for as long as my children have attended school, and although we don’t socialize, we’ve developed a friendship and have been each other’s champion in the face of our triumphs and struggles through the years.    We made small talk as she threw plates and pop cans into a garbage bag; I rose to leave, gathering up the kids’ backpacks & lunch boxes.  Mrs. Dana frowned and looked at me with a mild look of alarm.

“Are you pregnant?” she said, her nose wrinkling up as she said the word “pregnant”.   

I’m not very swift at coming up with witty replies when things like this happen to me, and I’m too self-conscious to be able to think of something equally stinging to retort with.  All I managed was a very fast, barely noticeable headshake and a quiet “No” with a smile, hoping no one else overheard her asking me such an embarrassing question.  I walked away and kept on walking as I heard her stammer a feeble “Sorry, but your coat…the way your coat….”  Too late, I thought to myself, the damage is done.  Not only have I been feeling  like a blimp lately, but now it’s been publicly pointed out.   Her comment was like a hammer to my heart.

No, I am not pregnant.   But the fact that my body looks like I’m pregnant does not make me feel very good.  Not because I WANT to be pregnant, oh no, my childbearing years are over.  It doesn’t make me feel very good to know I look pregnant when I’m not because that means I MUST REALLY LOOK FAT!  I held my tears until I got home (the kids’ excitement at having had so much fun at the fair was a welcome distraction).   Finally at home, in my kitchen, I  began to frantically make banana bread.  I needed to do something quick before my self-esteem ran out of me into a puddle on the floor.  And the bananas were there, ripening before my eyes.   So I’m standing at the kitchen counter, measuring flour and stuff  when my husband comes to hug me, asking me how the Family Fair went.  “Fine”, I said, “until someone asked if I was pregnant.” 

There, in the safety of his strong arms, my face smushed into his chest,  I sobbed quietly.  And with each sob, he stroked my head and held me close, each of his consoling “Hush, now” speaking to my heart, telling me that no matter what anyone says, I’m his beautiful girl and that’s all that matters.  And he’s part right.  What matters is what he feels for me, but also what matters is what I feel for myself. 

Eleanor Roosevelt said:  “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.”   Add fat to that inferiority complex.   Even though I wish I was a Beatrix Potter, or a Marie Curie, or a Sacajawea, I am a modern woman living in modern times where women struggle with their weight and appearance from the time they’re 10 when they notice that their thighs jiggle (why doesn’t anybody tell us that thighs are SUPPOSED to jiggle?).   I was a typical, shy, awkward young girl dealing with a secret she eventually told.  I grew into a shy, awkward young woman with no fashion sense to go along with that low self-esteem who did her best at building a life like she thought she should.    Three years after having my children, I topped the scales at my heaviest post-baby weight, and had lived for years in a survival mode of not feeling too dang much emotionally. 

Many moons ago, an unkind observation was made on my appearance by someone very close to my heart.  I had not realized how sensitive I can be to others’ unintentional comments until now, as I write and reflect on this whole thing.  And I’m amazed at how I let myself be affected.  Eleanor is right, I need to stop giving consent to others making me feel bad.   In any case, with this remark all those years ago, a realization came to me that I had to take better care of myself, if only for my children’s sake.   Deep down, I wanted to be loved for me, no matter what my body looked like, but somehow there are crossed wires inside that (still) fool me into thinking I am nothing  if I am not thin. 

And so I began to lose weight, losing a significant amount over a period of 7 or 8 months, transforming myself into someone I had a hard time getting used to when I looked in the mirror.  Who is that girl?   Sometimes I would smile when I asked that question, sometimes I’d frown in bewilderment.  I went from years of not feeling, to a period of time when I had to acknowledge alot of issues and serious matters in my life.    In those seven or eight months, I was losing more than weight:  my father passed away, I was going through a separation, then my mother passed away.   The day after my mother died, I began a sporadic cycle of bingeing and purging that lasted about four years.   Weight loss, weight gain…..it has nothing to do with eating or excercise.  It’s all about your psyche. 

The woman I was when I was at a normal, healthy weight was actually hurting more inside, probably because she was dealing with all those repressed emotions in her life but felt them to be too much and tried to swing the pendulum a little with bingeing and purging as a way to bring comfort and relief.   At least that’s what I tell myself.   

But a funny thing happened on my way to Skinnyville:  I became visible to others, whereas before I went about my business, relatively unnoticed.  Now, people where I worked knew my name and sought me out.  I didn’t know most of these people, but suddenly, they knew me.   Men I could understand, but women who wouldn’t have given me the time of day before were now seeking to get to know me.  People were nicer.  All because I was thinner.   I became That Woman Who Lost All That Weight. 

Last summer, I got tired of the near-obsession I had maintained in order to keep my weight down.  And I found myself going off the rails a little.  The pounds started piling on.  At least I wasn’t bingeing and purging anymore, right?    But I could feel myself expanding.  By the fall, I couldn’t fit into any of my jeans.  By winter, I was down to three skirts &  a few sweaters for work, and two pairs of yoga pants to wear on my down time.   I had made an attempt before Easter to curb the appetite enthusiasm a little, because at the rate I was going,  I couldn’t zip up my winter jacket, and could barely button my long winter coat.    I’m dreading spring and don’t dare think of summer.  I go to work now, humiliated at being the fat girl again, at having everyone be a witness to yet another of my failures.   I avoid looking in the mirror when I dress, I wince if I happen to catch my reflection; I can’t cross my legs like I did; I feel body parts jiggle when I walk where they had not jiggled for a while.      

I see people look at me differently now, I see their eyes asking:  “How can you let yourself go like that?”.  I hear their voices boldly asking  ”Are you pregnant?” .   I know how pathetic and insecure it is, after 42 years of being here, to be placing so much of my personal worth on how big or small my body is.   I also know how this latest weight gain is a symptom of things I can’ t deal with.  High sensitivity to other people and what they feel and think of me affects me more than the average bear.  Couple that with a lifetime of feeling unworthy and inferior and you get the idea.  Not that I want to feel superior to anyone, I just want to feel good about me in my body no matter what size I am.  And to find my purpose in life, and to know that my passions and my drive to achieve something, to create something, is not dependent on my body size.    

It’s not a good feeling to be ashamed of how you look, and it’s even worse to admit that how you look even matters.  I think of myself as an intellectual person, and I’m smart enough to know that your body size means dick all.  In each person I meet, I try to see beyond size, bad breath, differing opinions, or whatever else is different from me in that person.  So why can’t I see that other people are probably giving me the benefit of the doubt as well? 

Because I can’t cut myself any slack.  It’s much easier to see the beauty in others than it is to see it in yourself. 

Later that night, after the Great Banana Bread Bakeoff, I lay in bed with Mr. C.   He reminded me that he fell in love with my mind way before he actually met me in person.  And hadn’t I done the same?   I don’t know how he does it, but he manages to become a mirror, reflecting back what’s essential for me to see in myself.   Going from years of not feeling to feeling too much, maybe this is a time where I will find balance and wisdom. 

Maybe this is the time of my life.     

Love, 

Chantal xoxoxo

Lord, Love A Duck

Another winter storm, and yet it’s April.  Sigh. 

Last week, the weather was cold but sunny.   Driving into the entrance at my workplace,  every morning last week,  I would see this mallard couple waddling across the intersection, coming from the old age home next door and making their way God-knows-where.   They were just the two of them, he with his bright blue/green head, she in her camouflaged dress.  Ducky and Lucky, I named them.  I wondered where they were doddling to, as there isn’t any body of water nearby.   They’d have to fly over the boulevard to get to a creek, so why not just fly there from here, why take the risk of tottering  across a busy intersection in morning rush-hour traffic?  

One morning, I was turning into the entrance, checking to see if they were there,  when I saw him,  alone.   Alone in the middle of the intersection.  He was just standing there, hardly moving, but  looking back now and then towards the old age home.  I was wondering where his partner was, I couldn’t see her.  I slowed down and stopped my car, the mallard clearly in my view to my left.  I looked to the right, on the grass.  There she was, tentatively approaching the edge of the curb, and there he was, waiting in the middle of the road for her, stopping traffic to allow her to make her way safely to him, so that they could continue their journey together. 

They must have this incredible communicator built in, because when he turned to her, she stopped and stayed on the curb, as if he was signaling her that there was danger.   Then he turned and continued on his way across the road, where he waited for her on the other side.   I would have gladly stayed parked there in the middle of the road to give her time to cross, but I sensed that she was waiting for me to move on.  So  I slowly edged my car  forward and drove off, checking in my rearview mirror.  There were no cars coming, and I saw a little brown form waddle quickly but cautiously across the road to her mate.

I could imagine the quacks and the coos as she reached him, her little heart beating fast underneath her speckled feathers. 

“Good job, Lucky!” 

 ”Phew! I was scared!  That crossing seems much bigger when I’m alone!  Thank you, Ducky, for waiting for me….” 

I imagine that Ducky’s little heart must have been beating hard, too, as he watched her cross that road. 

I don’t suspect that Lucky and Ducky will be there tomorrow morning, what with this storm blowing everything all over creation.   They’ll probably be sheltering themselves somewhere, huddled close with their heads tucked under their wings.    Which is good, but too bad for me…..I’ve been looking forward to seeing them together, their small, fragile naturalness up against harsh metal and asphalt.  Defying the odds to journey together in this world.  Determined to make it, and to make it as one.   They sort of became a little symbol of hope in a world that can sometimes be cruel and unforgiving.  

In a couple’s life, there are many moments.   The most important ones, the ones that are life-changing, are the smallest ones…… Secretly watching him read and studying how his eyebrow arches up in the most perfect way as his eyes move across the pages……  Catching the tone in her voice and knowing she’s said something really ordinary, but she’s said it to you, which makes it extraordinary…….   Being absorbed in your respective books at the coffee shop, and feeling his hand squeeze your knee, under the table……..    Making her laugh…….    Hugging him for the millionth time, and being taken right back to that moment when you first hugged him and knew that this is where you wanted to be for the rest of your life…….   Watching her move around in the morning, getting ready for the day, and being sad that she’ll be out in the world for a few hours without you……   Letting him see you cry………    Remembering her eyes on you when she promised to be your true companion……..   Holding on to his hand as you negotiate the slippery sidewalks…….   Catching her scent on her coat as you help her into it…….   Hanging on as long as possible to that intimacy when you’re the only two people in the whole world…….. 

All these small moments are so fleeting, so ephemeral sometimes, they can even be missed completely…..and yet, they are what love is built on.   Love constantly forgets itself.    To love someone, there needs to be a setting aside of egos.  Easy to do in the beginning of a relationship, and something that requires care as the relationship grows.  But the rewards of truly loving someone, of loving someone truly, are immeasurable.   

Those small moments, I can’t imagine taking them for granted, and yet we do.  We all do.  Life is what it is, a great ocean of joy and sorrow.   For some reason, lately, I’ve had Liam Neeson on my mind, and wonder how do you move through the death of the person who was your center?   How do you enter into the dance of grief for the One who gave you those small, fleeting moments upon which you built a life together?   All those small moments must be excruciatingly painful when they resurface in grief.   Heartbreaking and bittersweet….and yet….it’s those small moments that heal.   Natasha Richardson’s tragic death, when she was at the prime of her life, gives rise to many questions on life itself.   Years after my parents passing away, I am still grappling with grief.    

And in all of this grappling, I’ve discovered that, for those who remain,  death is not a closure.  You cannot find closure from losing your spouse, your lover, your parent, your child.    You can seek closure, but you won’t find it.   On my grieving path, I’ve found that death is more like an opening for the living.   Those small, fleeting moments that make up your memories of the person you love who has passed away, those small moments come back to you.    They’re painful to recall, certainly when the loss is new and recent, but also especially when they surface at a time when you feel you’ve entered a more settled phase of your life in grief.   

The reason you were given those small, fleeting moments with your loved one while they were living is so that you could live through your grief when they’re gone.  

Which is why we need to remind ourselves now to cherish the small moments with those we share our lives with, to not take them for granted.  Because when you’ve passed on, your spouse, your child, your parent will need those small moments that you shared together, so that they can find the open door to life.  Ultimately, that’s what grieving is, finding the open door to Life.

I may not see my little mallard friends again, and hopefully they’ll have safely made their way to where they need to go.   Their small moments of caring for each other will go far in building a life together.    Funny what you can learn from a duck…….

Love,

Chantal xoxoxo

Skål!

 Way back in 1990, almost 20 years ago now, my first husband and I took the one and only trip we would ever take  together in our entire 17-year marriage (a weekend in Montreal 5 years after the birth of our kids doesn’t count).  I know that sounds like a sad commentary on the state of our marriage, and it is.   In retrospect, our lack of taking time to be alone together was a contributor to our eventual disintegration as a couple.  That, and many other factors, of course.   A marriage of nearly two decades doesn’t fail on one issue only, just as an enduring marriage doesn’t hinge on one aspect.  There are many spokes to the wheel of love, and it takes two to keep it turning.

So back in 1990, the  Meech Lake Accord was on its way to defeat,   the Oka crisis was unfolding,  The Tragically Hip won a Juno for Most Promising Group, going on to become one of Canada’s most influential bands,  the Hubble Space Telescope was launched, leading to important breakthroughs in astrophysics.    And M & I were flying to Stockholm, Sweden for three weeks of discovering a new country.    I had always wanted to visit a Scandinavian country, and to his credit, M was game to go anywhere I chose.  So we saved our money, planned our itinerary, including a side trip Baltic Sea cruise to Leningrad (before it became St.Petersburg again) and set off on our adventure.

It was an amazing trip,  my first time flying, a learning experience in self-sufficiency, and an awakening to how big, beautiful, wonderful and small our world is.  We met Swedes  (the most healthy-looking and attractive people on this planet that I’ve ever seen, from the youngest baby to the oldest grandpa);  our trip was coloured with their warmth and humour.  We befriended Polish immigrants who worked at the student residence where we were staying, and we enjoyed many late nights being regaled with stories from their country and served extra helpings  on our dinner plates of the most delicious Swedish meatballs I’ve ever had.  On our last morning, we had to leave early, before the breakfast canteen opened, but to our surprise, our Polish friends had prepared a huge breakfast tray for us, with way more food than the usual yogurt and cereal!  

We met the friendliest Americans from OshKosh, Wisconsin, from California, from New York.  Some of them we met while in Stockholm, some we met on the cruise to Leningrad.   On the ship, Fred and Winnie, a couple in their 80’s from New York who were seasoned world travellers, took us under their wing and were delighted that the youngest couple and the oldest couple on the cruise were at the same dinner-table.  We were pretty smitten with them, too, and felt very protective of them when our group ventured into Leningrad for an evening at the circus; Fred and Winnie were immediately surrounded by young Russians wanting to exchange cigarettes, but M & I worried for nothing…Fred and Winnie were prepared with a shopping bag of chocolates and American flag pins that they doled out to the boys while never breaking their stride on their way to board the bus to take us back to the ship. 

We met a German Mercedes-Benz dealer on that cruise, whom we avoided after our first encounter, convinced he was a spy or smuggler or dealt in some type of illegal activity.   A little  overactive imagination while travelling is a good thing sometimes.

We walked everywhere we could in Stockholm, we got lost on the bus (we weren’t really lost, M was getting upset, but I just told him “Hey, if we stay on it, eventually the bus will return to where we got on, and then we won’t be lost anymore”).    One morning on the bus ride from our residence to the centre of the city, I saw a woman across the aisle from me who had a lidded basket on her arm, and out popped the head of a sweet little dog!  I was amazed that animals were  allowed on public transport.  

Another day, with our overactive imaginations in high gear,  we thought we were being tailed by someone on our way to the Toy Museum and tried out our evasion techniques (but we weren’t really being tailed…..at least that’s what we told ourselves).   We drank strong coffee that cost $2.00 for a teeny tiny cup in outdoor cafés, we marveled at the cleanliness of a city with nearly 2 million residents.   Walking with our trusty map (which we forgot on a park bench somewhere on our very last day),  we quickly learned the main streets and spent our days wandering and discovering this beautiful city.   We visited the island of Djurgarden twice,  the Skansen museum, and the very impressive Vasa Museum with its fully restored 17th century Vasa Ship that sunk on its maiden voyage.    Stockholm Palace was grand, and watching the changing of the guard was something else.  During our tours of all the museums, during our walks along the cobblestone streets and alleys lined with centuries-old buildings, I came to realize how new my country was in comparison, how here in Canada we don’t have this identity steeped in thousands of years of history.  We cruised the archipelago, we visited the Nordiska  museum, we went to the Museum of Modern Art.    Our newly-bought 35mm camera came in handy and we  took a gazillion pictures.  Which brings me to the point of this whole post.

When I separated, I made sure to take all the photo albums and pictures with me.  I sifted through them all afterwards, giving M his pictures and those of him and the kids, and of course all the pictures of the kids that we had double prints of.  But the pictures and souvenirs of our trip to Sweden, I kept those.   I don’t know why I needed to hang on to them, but I did.   I haven’t looked at them since I moved out, which has been almost 5 years ago now.

If you have a look-see on my sidebar, (yep, right there on the right), there’s  a link to Archerfoto, which is the website of one of THE primo photographers whose work leaves me dreaming.   Her photographs of buildings, nature, people, streets, animals, they ALL pull me into their world.  I know diddly-squat about taking pictures except point & shoot, but I’m amazed at all I’ve learned just staring at her wondrous photos that she has on her website.  I have to hold back on commenting on every one, lest she thinks I’m some obsessed fan, but I swear, every single photograph that she puts up there elicits a reaction from me, there’s a story in each one of them being written out in my head as I contemplate them.    And you can tell alot about a person’s creativity, quality of workmanship,  and level of skill by the comments of photographers and non-photographers alike.  I visit her site daily, eager for the new photo, but just as grateful to browse and locate my favourites.

So when she came out with this new site  to display more of her unique and beautiful work, I was excited at the prospect of losing myself in her world, of  stopping to figuratively smell the roses (and the tulips), and especially of being inspired in my own creative writing.  Because that’s what gifted artists do, they inspire the rest of us to imagine and dream and create.

I know, I know, I’m getting to the point of this whole post now.  I clicked on her new site, Amy Archer Photography, and I scroll the galleries, wondering which one to open first.   The title “Family In Sweden” catches my eye; as I slowly cycle through this “family album”, I’m floored by how I’m transported right back, nearly 20 years ago, to Stockholm, to the colours, the cooling dark green of the foliage, the building facades, the sunlight reflecting off waterways, bathing the city in warm liquid gold.  I’m back in Djurgarden, feeling the cool June breeze.  I can smell the highly-polished scents of the museums enveloping the murmuring of tourists, I’m sitting again at the open-air restaurant in the middle of the city by the life-size chess game with the soft wind blowing clouds to hide the sun, momentarily turning the brightness into muted tones of shade and coolness.  Kind of like the Swedes, bright and cool. 

Through the sharing of her pictures, Amy has allowed me to connect to a time when I lived  a special dream of visiting a country that I had longed to see since I was a young girl.  I was a soulfully sad girl back then who grew into a soulfully sad but content woman, and I seemed to identify with Swedes for some reason, admiring their clean living, their social structure, their industriousness and inventiveness, their soulful sadness that seemed as ingrained in them as it was in me.  Since then, I’ve discovered that soulful sadness underpins warmth and joy, and that we are complex humans, no matter where we come from. 

And maybe that’s what Amy’s pictures give me, a sense of warmth and joy in their tranquility, in their reflectiveness.  That even in something that brings me sadness and melancholy, and makes me feel that I’m still in mourning for a marriage failed, I’m renewed and continue healing.  

I discover a deeper self, one who brings much to the life of her children.

I uncover the womanloverfriend I have become for my Mr. C., who helps me keep the wheel of love turning.  

Most of all, I recover the young girl with dreams of writing and living a simple life. 

Thank you, Amy…..you are a gift. 

Love,

Chantal xoxoxox

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

From Mayberry to Sud-Berry

Do I have to tell you that parenting is not for wimps?  Of course not.  You know this already.   Everybody knows that.  You learn this from the moment you begin to express in public your desire to have children.  Everyone and his dog will tell you how having children is the easy part, it’s raising them that tests your mettle.    Somehow, the instinct and desire to procreate tunes out the part that warns of the boatloads of patience and consistency that you’ll need.   THAT YOU MIGHT NOT HAVE.  Somehow, you BELIEVE people when they say “Watching them sleep at night makes all those struggles during the day worthwhile.”   Somehow, you think that once you’ve cleared the baby years and the toddler years and the pre-school years and those pre pre-teen years, that you’re home free, piece of cake.   Somehow, you think that the diapers, the nursing, the trying-to-figure-out-what-that-crying-means, the YEARS OF NOT SLEEPING, are things of the past once your children enter their pre-teen years. 

WRONG! WRONG! WRONG!  Diapers are replaced with you constantly reminding them of the importance of DAILY bathing,  the challenges of nursing are replaced with the challenges of how to get nutrition into their bodies without actually resorting to something resembling a torture chair, and what used to be called the  Name That Cry game  has now been expanded to Name That Attitude/Whine/Mood Swing game, Version 6.8.  The only thing that remains consistent are the years of not sleeping…..they sleep, but you, on the other hand, cannot for the life of you teach your body to unlearn sleeplessness. 

Now, close your eyes and imagine yourself trying to do your parenting thing, with all its faults and inconsistencies, all its mistakes and failures, on your own, without a partner to support you.   That’s one challenge many of us face.  Now, close your eyes again, and imagine yourself finding the love of your life, bringing that person into your family circle, and trying to do your parenting thing, your faulty, inconsistent, failing parenting thing in full view of your new spouse.  You would think that having someone by your side would make things better.  And it does, truly nothing can beat having someone who loves you in your corner. 

But I didn’t think it all the way through, you see.  I was looking at all the benefits and the positive impact on myself that having my new husband in our lives would make.  And those benefits really do outweigh the struggles, just as the little moments spent with my kids that make my heart swell with love for them outweigh the maddening moments when I bite my tongue from wondering out loud “Who ARE these children, and please take them back!”.  

What surprised me, and you can go ahead and call me naive because you’d be right, was how I did not anticipate that when things sometimes get chaotic in our family, and I’m called upon once again to mediate, to lead by example, to lovingly and patiently correct behaviour when all I wish for is a mute button,  I feel like the parenting spotlight is shining on me even brighter.  I see all of my shortcomings, all of my flaws are highlighted and magnified for the love of my life to see. 

It’s embarrassing.  I am so not ready for that close-up.  Thankfully, I’m slowly learning that Mr. C. wears glasses coloured with love and understanding. 

Becoming a blended family is a delicate dance.  The adults in the relationship need to have a very strong attachment to each other, because their committment and love for each other forms the core around which they ALL dance.   It’s like a maypole, festooned with ribbons, and each person holds a ribbon in their hands, dancing around.   When the pole to which the ribbons are attached is strong and supportive, the dance will continue on, even if the ribbons get tangled and some dancers miss a few steps; in its consistency, strength and unwavering support, the pole (like the couple’s love) gives each dancer what they need to continue.   Support.  Forgiveness. Love. Understanding.   

Since Mr. C’s arrival in our family, he & I have had to be patient as our love for each other reveals itself to be a strong core for our family.  I marvel at my husband’s inner fortitude, and his ability to continually give me his support and optimism, in spite of seeing me at my weakest mother-moments.  Mr. C, in all of his imperfectness, is perfect for me, especially for the Mom-me (ok, he’s perfect for the womanly-woman-me, and the creative-woman-me, and the spiritual-woman-me…..heck, he’s just so perfect for me, but you get what I mean).  So what does Mayberry have to do with all of this?  I’m glad you asked.

My husband is a movie-buff, especially old black-and-whites.  When he arrived, he brought boxes of DVDs, filled with movies and TV shows.  Sometimes the kids will ask to root through the boxes, but their attraction to and appreciation for old black-and-whites are not as developed yet.  But one day, Mr. C. took out a boxed set of the Andy Griffith Show.  He had been home with P, who was sick, and they watched an episode or two together.  That night, P told his sister about Opie and the gang, and so we sat down on Sunday evening to watch the first DVD.  I had heard of the Andy Griffith Show, of course, from my parents and sisters, but I had never watched it on TV.    But it had been a week of high tension in the household, and although I was very skeptical that my 12-year-old daughter would sit through an episode without rolling her eyes or casting criticism, I was looking forward to all of us watching something different. 

Kids will surprise you. 

Mr. C. & I kept looking at each other over the kids heads, and smiling in that ”Ah-Ha we’re on to something!” way, as the kids laughed and enjoyed one episode after another.   To our amazement, the kids loved it.   Heck, I loved it!   Whatever it is about that TV series, it works.    The more we watch it together as a family, the more we laugh at their corny jokes, the more we wonder what life was like when haircuts were 25 cents,  the more we talk afterwards about the morals of the stories.  I know it’s scripted and all that, but sometimes seeing someone else dealing with issues in a way that’s respectful of others helps me in my own life.   

We now have regular screenings of the Andy Griffith Show (we may have to buy the next boxed set, Mr. C.),  it’s something we all look forward to watching together; no one’s drifting off in the middle of the show to do something else, and I still get a charge out of hearing the kids or Mr. C. laugh at Barney Fife’s antics.  Since Mayberry has come into our living room, the tangled ribbons of our maypole have untangled somewhat, giving us the much-needed breathing room to once again be able to offer each other support and love.  It’s not a TV show from the 60s that can miraculously erase all the hurts, but for us, it was a small bridge that we crossed together, to reach a new place to continue our blended-family dance. 

I’ve been working on this post for awhile now, and it’s fitting that I’m done writing it today, because today is Mr. C’s birthday……in all that he does for us, with all of the right things that he instinctively knows to say at the right time to make us all feel like we are shining stars, in all the little ways that he lightens my load, I’m convinced that HE is a gift to the kids and I.   During one episode of the Andy Griffith Show, Opie asks Andy:  “Is there anything I can do for YOU, Paw?”    To which my son turned to me and said: ” Hey!  That’s what Mr. C. says to you EVERY day!” 

Happy birthday, Sweetie…..

Love,

Chantal xoxoxoxoxo

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

She’s On Fire!

Rejoice by Monica Stewart

     http://www.art.com/asp/sp-asp/_/pd–10044808/sp–A/igid–829566/Rejoice.htm?sOrig=CAT&sOrigID=0&ui=3DA7391EA93143699B9114C22CC7A8B2

I slept last night!  Halleluja!!!!  Nearly 7 hours of sleep, with only one interruption.   I woke up this morning with renewed optimism in life (renewed optimism…..does optimism ever get old?).   Overwhelmishness was at bay, Self-Acceptance said a shy good morning, Regret and Guilt were buried (for now) underneath the To-Do List (which seemed more manageable after getting more than 2 hours of sleep).   Life is good.   Does this happen to you, when life is good?  You have these feel-good songs running through your head, as if you were on top of the world and nothing can get you down?  Songs like……

I Can See Clearly Now The Rain Is Gone…..Doo Doo Doo Doo….I Can See All Obstacles In My Way……

I like that song. 

But when I’m feeling pretty good about myself, I have Train’s “She’s On Fire” playing in my head.  Train is one of my most favourite bands, and when Pat Monahan sings “Well it’s not just a daydream if you decide to make it your life“ from that song, it gives me the mental lift I need sometimes to take care of business.   (Note to self:  To balance the emotionality of the overwhelmishness, remember to  use music more often than chocolate.) 

Anyhow, I’m flitting around the kitchen, it’s 7:30am, and I’ve got great tunes going on in my head, “She’s On Fire” being one of them.   I’m still in my ratty old bathrobe, the one I debated tossing before Mr. C moved in a few months ago, for fear of shattering his goddess image of me.  In the end, I decided to keep the bathrobe, confident that he’d love me no matter how I look in the morning, which he does.  ( Although he did mention something, now that I think of it….he asked if maybe I would like a new bathrobe for Christmas…..hmmmm.)

So I’m making lunches, getting breakfast together, planning my day out, etc etc.  You know, the usual morning kitchen stuff that everyone clad in their bathrobes do.  I put a pot of water on the stove and fire up the gas burner.  She’s on fire…..She’s on fire….I hum as I get my son’s lunch together while I wait for the water to boil.    She’s on fire…..She’s on fire….

I return to the pot, and smell something burning.   I stop humming.   I think, Wait a minute….Water doesn’t burn (althought I could probably attempt that feat, no problem).  I quickly shut the gas off, and then I see smoke rising….from….where?  Inside the oven?   Pulling open the oven door, I realize OMYGOSH it’s my bathrobe sleeve that’s sparking smoking singeing!!!    I bat out the flames (Ok, they weren’t flames….yet) and dance into the living room to the bewildered amusement of   Mr. C and my son, who don’t know what to make of this sudden inflamed crazy woman.  I’m sure Mr. C thought I needed more sleep, or that I had fibbed about sleeping well the night before…people who are sleep-deprived do strange things. 

It was over in mere seconds, but my bathrobe bore the evidence of something that could have been much worse.   I stood in the kitchen with Mr. C, looking at the trail of scorch marks on my robe, feeling like a kook.

“Good thing I didn’t ask for a new bathrobe for Christmas…..”

I thought about my bathrobe today, hanging on the back of my door, and maybe I should replace it with a new one.  But I think I’ll hang on to it a little longer, singe marks and all.   Worn and woven into the green terrycloth fabric, my trusty bathrobe has signs of a life lived and of dreams realized.  And now it proudly bears singe marks to remind me of the morning when my soul was singing and a fire lit my creativity.  Literally.

Love,

Chantal xoxoxoxo