If Regret Makes You Old, I Must Be 102

George Sand, the French writer,  said: “Guard well within yourself that treasure, kindness.  Know how to give without hesitation, how to lose without regret, how to acquire without meanness.”

Kindness is my motto, it’s my motivation, it’s what I strive towards.  My daughter says I’m a goody-goody.  She’s 13 and  has to deal with way more than I ever did at her age.  So if she wants to think her mom is a goody-goody, fine by me.  She could call me worse.

It’s just that after 43 years of hanging around, I feel that all good stuff in life twirls out from the circle of  kindness.   It’s like watching cotton candy floss being spun in front of your eyes when you were a kid.  Yummy strands of sugar (kindness) which become flossy glossy puffballs to which everything sticks (laughter, joy, comfort, understanding, compassion); and when you let it melt in your mouth, it transforms itself into something else entirely  (satisfaction, happiness, fulfillment). 

If I’m to heed  Sand’s advice on guarding that precious treasure of kindness inside myself , I’m two-thirds of the way there:   I can give without hesitation, I can acquire without meanness.  I do those things with my eyes closed.  But losing without regret is something I haven’t mastered.  I hope that if I do live to be 102,  I can look back on my life and know I was able to accept losses in my life with no regrets.  But I’m eons away from scoring a kindness hat-trick. 

We are undergoing a major change in our family life.  As of tomorrow, my children, G & P, will  both live with Mr. C. & I full time.  This is big.  It’s so big that it deserves to be shouted out!  As you know, dear Reader, since the separation several years ago  (has it been six years already?), P & G have been living the nomadic divorced-family life of one week with one parent, the next week with the other parent.   During the course of those six years, both my kids  have struggled with this, each in their own way:  I spent many nights consoling my daughter G over the phone when she would cry and beg for me to come and get her because she missed me;  with my son P, the pain of being separated from me became too much, and he eventually lived with me for a short time,  and again with Mr. C. and myself during a time last year.   They’re well-cared for at their father’s, but eventually, they wanted to live in one house and be like their friends.  And the long-standing ache of living half the time in a place that they felt they didn’t belong took its toll:  G had a break-down at the start of the school year and chose to live with us (which came as a huge surprise to me, as the past year has been very difficult for her and I).  Mind you, G made sure to preface her decision with “It’s not because I miss you or anything like that.”  Ok, if you say so….. With G, you have to be a very good reader-between-the-lines in order to understand and feel what’s truly in her heart.

For P, he’s been on the fence for a long time, sensitive to his dad’s feelings, so when he finally came to us a few weeks ago with his decision to live with us, we were very happy, but we all knew it would cause conflict and heartache.  Both of my children knew their father would feel hurt, and they’ve tried in their own way to make it easier for him, with wisdom and grace beyond their childhood years.   This makes me so proud of them and so profoundly sad for them all at once.  

To say that I’m happy to have my children with me full-time is an understatement.  My heart is so full, I can barely articulate it without tears coming to my eyes.  So why the regrets?  This should be a happy time, a triumphant time.  And it is.  It’s all that and more.  I have my children with me again, and with Mr. C. by my side, we are a family, a true family. 

The regret comes from a crystallized moment in this whole sad story:  I regret that when I left their father, I didn’t stand my ground and bring the children with me, in the face of his empty threats that he made in painful anger.  I wasn’t able to see past my own hurt to know that his reactions would pass.    I regret that I took the easy way to avoid conflict with him and the legal battle that would have ensued.  What children need most in times of conflict is stability, and I was sure that stability meant for them to alternate between their father and I, because we both loved them, we both were able to care well for them, and we both wanted what was best for them.  The phenomenon of shared custody in divorced families is relatively new, maybe 20 years or so.  In theory, it’s a good plan, I believe that.  But in practice, it serves only to alleviate some of  the guilt that parents feel about causing this upheaval in the lives of their children.  Most importantly, the children are uprooted every week or so to live like gypsies.  For them, it’s like shifting sand, very little stability and constancy, always having to adjust. 

A regret is a painful self-reproach, something that one wishes to have done differently.   Divorce is alot like grieving.  There are stages and phases, and sometimes it feels like you’re going around in circles.    My regret is not that I divorced; I think it takes courage to face circumstances that you know are not salvageable and to make hard choices that will have serious consequences on everyone involved.   My regret is that in the face of making that really hard choice and being strong, in the interest of being as fair as I could possibly be and not cause any, and I mean ANY, financial hardship on their father, I let my fear of his anger and my pathological avoidance of conflict dictate my heart when it came to my children at that crucial time in their lives.  Sometimes, I feel I should have fought for my children, so that they would have lived with me, not because I’m a better parent than their father, but as it became evident in the years that followed, they needed me in their lives full-time.   That’s what would’ve been best for them; instead I believed in feeding them the rhetoric that having two loving homes was the way to go.   As it turns out, kids of divorced families don’t care about having two homes:  they only want one, they only need one.  P expressed his frustrations about kids in his class telling him how lucky he was to have two houses:  he doesn’t see it as luck, for him it’s a burden.  One night, as he poured out his heart, he said to me:  ”Divorced families should live in one house with four floors so that everybody could live together.”  I hugged him and said I thought that was a great idea, knowing that he wouldn’t feel that way if there had been violence and abuse in our past.  But in his 11-year-old eyes, in all of his budding wisdom, and knowing that he will never have his greatest wish of having his parents be together ever again, his solution to this unsolveable dilemna was a wishful reunification on a different wavelength.

Those losses that my children experienced in the past six years, because of decisions taken without their input or permission, losses that they were made to feel  because of choices made for them…… that’s what I regret. 

Now here come the hard questions: 

Is it possible that one can never experience a loss at the moment that it’s occurring without feeling any regret? 

Does being able to lose without regret, as Sand advises, does that come only later (and maybe much later)?  

Perhaps it’s necessary to regret losses as they are happening. 

And here’s one to wrap your head around:  Maybe it’s impossible to not regret your losses until you’ve regretted them. 

What if the biggest kindness that you can do for yourself is to travel the path of regretting a loss, so that you can come to a point where you can rejoice over that loss? 

I think I have a shot at that kindness hat-trick after all……..

Love,

Chantal

An AmeriCan Yarn

I love Rick Mercer.   (Go to www.rickmercer.com)  He’s funny, smart, irreverent, and is never afraid of making a fool of himself for the sake of  his country.    He talks about political things that I can never say on this blog, so I thank him for being my voice.   Plus his famous rants are always bang on, and leave me cheering and laughing.   Rick’s sense of humour projects what lies at the heart of Canada:  cheering for the underdog, the ever-present self-loathing and inferiority complex along with the justifying need to overcome those things, the desire to do the right thing, and the righteous beast within that rears its head in the face of injustice and especially in the wake of stupid politicians’ actions and words.  Rick is a master at highlighting the inconsistencies, fallacies, and sometimes just plain dumbness of politics in Canada.  And with that as a springboard, he’ll never run out of material.

A few years back, he ran a segment on his show, where he went down to the States and held man-in-the-street interviews, asking your average American citizen questions about Canada.  The point was to highlight how little Americans know about Canada and Canadians in general, as opposed to our ingrained  knowledge of the USA, its culture and its politics.   And you know, it stands to reaason that we WOULD know more about the US,  given that they are bigger and more influential.   Even if I sometimes feel Canada is saturated with American culture, it’s still better to know the score with your neighbour than it is to be ignorant, even if you come by that knowledge and understanding through assimilation and osmosis.  (I’ll try to apply that same logic to my own tale of two solitudes……but that’s a whole other blog post). 

ANYWAYS…..  Rick Mercer’s segment was funny, the people interviewed were good-natured about their ignorance of we, the people of Canada, and it made for good TV.  Everyone was happy.  But here’s where I got to thinking……

As you know, dear reader, my Mr. C. is an American living in Canada with me, his French-Canadian sweetheart (his words, not mine).  You would think that there wouldn’t be too many differences between us, given that I’ve just said that Canada is absorbed into US culture.    However, Mr. C’s political views (sometimes) clash real loud with mine, and we’ve had many opportunities in the past two years to put the word “truce” into action.  Yet our cultural differences have knit us into this warm and woolly scarf, where we bask in happy contentment & respect for each other’s country.  There’s more to be gotten from learning and understanding then there is in standing with your arms crossed, unwilling to budge.  Especially when you’re married.  And you sleep in the same bed. 

As Mr. C. and I embarked on this amazing knitting project of enmeshing our two selves together, I found myself feeling more and more….dare I say it…..ignorant.  Ignorant of my heritage, ignorant of my culture, ignorant of how my government operates.   As a newbie to Canada,  just about everything was new and different to Mr. C.:   our “Monopoly” money (he eventually conceded that ours is better),  health care (’nuff said),  looking for work, Celsius degrees, our politics, our history, our history as it relates to American history, our perceptions of Americans, our perceptions of him….HE was new and different here;  people were quick to pick up on his accent, to his growing bemusement, because he doesn’t feel he has one.   I keep trying to explain that we ALL have accents, however, it might take time. 

So whenever Mr. C. came across something he wasn’t familiar with,  he would, of course, turn to me, his smart Canadian wife, his link with his new world, and he would ask:

“Why did Trudeau repatriate the constitution?”   ”What’s the House of Commons?”    “What’s the FLQ?”   “What’s the NDP?”    ”Why do I have to take my shoes off in the house?”    “Why do you have  a Governor-General?”    “Why do magazines cost more in Canada?”    “Who’s Brian Mulroney?”     “What’s the deal with Québec?”        “What’s that in Farenheit/gallons/miles?”     ”Why the conflict between the English & the French?”     “What’s a ‘too-que’ and why do you pronounce it ‘too-que’ but you spell it ‘toque’ ?”  ……..

And I, in all my Canadian smartness, found that more often than not, I could only smile sweetly and say: 

“I’ll have to look that up and get back to you…..”. 

It’s embarrassing.  It took marrying an American to make me see how pathetic my knowledge, awareness, and understanding of my own country was.   When you know your history, when you understand your culture, how your government works, all of that stuff, it goes deep inside of you and gives you a much deeper sense of belonging and enlightenment.  You understand others on another level, you see past the garbage-media-fed mentality and you succeed in “un-stunting” your own growth:  in other words, what was “Us vs. Them” becomes “Us & Them”. 

But when you don’t fully know from whence you came, and when you can’t explain the whys and hows of important events that have shaped your country, it’s more than embarrassing.  It’s apathetic.   Apathy is the opposite of passion and enthusiasm.  And I am nothing if I’m not passionate. 

So, in case I’m not the only Canadian who finds herself in this apathetic boat-to-nowhere, here’s what I propose to Rick Mercer:

Mr. Mercer, in the same vein as your “What do Americans know about Canada ” segment on your show, maybe you could do one where you hit different provinces and ask the average person on the street what they know about Canada.  We’re quick to laugh at Americans’ lack of knowledge about us, but I think we’d get a bigger laugh at our own deficiencies about ourselves.   We’ve proven time and again that we have a great sense of humour (elections, anyone?),  and think of what this would do to the self-esteem of Canadians everywhere….by doing this, you would greatly contribute  to the enlightenment and progress of this magnificent country!  Take a step to lead us out of this apathy, Mr. Mercer!   Show us the short-sighted, unaware people that we really are, so we can become open-minded and true citizens of Canada and the world!

I, for one, am trying to take a more active interest in how my country is put together, if only to preserve the image that Mr. C. has of me.  If he starts suspecting that I may not be completely up to snuff in the brains department, I may NEVER get him to take his shoes off inside the house! 

In the meantime, me & Mr. C. will cast on,  knitting &  purling our lives in a unique red, white, and blue pattern, happy and content to know that our warm and woolly scarf grows warmer and woollier with each difference shared and understood.       

Love,

Chantal xoxox

A Fall Reading List For You

A word to you, dear reader:  I had included the links to all the books listed below in my original posting, but somehow the gremlins got in and the links did not work properly.  I’ve disabled the links for now, and I’ll try and fix them asap for you, so please return here if you’re interested.  Thank you, and so sorry for this.  (Really, I want to swear like a sailor and scream like a banshee, but I will refrain). 

I’ve been doing alot of reading, and realized that I have not posted about what I’ve read in a very long time.   Every day is a good day to read, but in the Fall, I start wanting to read even more.  

I recently attended an information night at my daughter’s new school (she’s in grade 7, Lord help me), where the teachers presented their curriculum for the year, and I was duly impressed with their enthusiasm and desire to teach children in that age group.  I could never be a teacher, so to me, anyone who chooses to do this of their own volition, who holds the education of children over and above their desire for advancement or to make money, has my respect.    

That night, G’s French teacher presented her material, but before she did, she began by saying that someone who reads every day holds the keys to not only understanding  themselves, others, and the world, but to learning  how to learn.   Which is very important for a teacher facing a classroom every day;  children who don’t read have a harder time learning, and eventually become adults who don’t read and can’t stay focused. 

I’m fortunate that my mother gave me this gift of reading from the time I could flip the pages of the books lining our bookcase, and thankfully P & G have inherited this same love-for-reading gene, in spite of the attention-grabbing computer and video game worlds.   I can’t imagine not reading, and next to music, reading and writing are my most favourite activities. 

Ever notice how you can tell that you’re having a conversation with a book reader  as opposed to someone who rarely reads anything more than traffic signs?   Formal education, social status,  home environment,  physical health, family……all those things are moot when it comes to talking with someone who reads on a regular basis.    I’ve tread very shallow waters talking with university graduates with great family connections, big important careers, fabulous wardrobes, perfect nails and fancy licence-plated vehicles that cost more than my yearly salary.   I can tell they don’t read (much) because the mutual interest goes no further than what’s on the outside.   The conversation quickly becomes vacuous, and eventually all about them. 

But I have done some amazing deep-water diving, talking with readers from all walks of life, who have some or  little or no formal education, family lives that are less than stellar and usually turbulent, who are unemployed or toiling at a day job while nursing that passion that burns inside of them, be it playing in a band or moonlighting as a chef, or just trying their best to be their best.   I think of the richness that has been added to my life by knowing people who were illiterate, people who would love nothing more than to be able to read but who’s circumstances have prevented them; these people give so much grace and wisdom to those around them.     There’s much to be said for not judging a book by its cover, or its past, present, and future……

People who read formulate opinions and are able to consider others’ thoughts with a little more equilibrium.  People who read can express themselves in ways that build their confidence, which comes in real handy for those who are shy.    People who read can talk about a variety of things with others, they have the opportunity to dream and let their thoughts take flight with what they’ve read.   They are stimulated  spiritually and mentally.   Not only that, but a reader’s brain undergoes all these great synapses that allows them to stay focused, to pay attention, which is important for children and adults alike.   People who read learn patience, learn how to connect ideas, they learn to take their time to learn.     

Now before there’s an uproar over the value of someone who reads over someone who doesn’t, let me clarify that someone who doesn’t read is not someone who can’t read.   Someone who can’t read probably has more skills and a finer-tuned mind than someone who can read but chooses not to.  What a waste.   I guess I can’t imagine what it would be like to be quite capable of reading, but of not being interested, of not having that fire lit inside. 

The next time you’re reading, or you see someone reading, don’t make the mistake of thinking that reading is a passive, non-engaging, anti-social activity.  There’s alot more going on than what you see, and the benefits to humanity that come from the simple act of reading are endless.  Think about that while you have a look-see at books I’ve loved reading in the past few months. 

 

Oryx and Crake  by Margaret Atwood

A gift from Mr. C., which we brought with us for Ms. Atwood’s personal autograph when we met her last November.  A thrill of a lifetime for me (thank you, Mr. C.) .  I devoured this story, and was not disappointed.

Why Do I Love These People?   by Po Bronson

This book has the capacity to renew your belief in the power of family.   Each story in this book was touching and had something in it to which I could relate.  It’s the kind of book you want to buy for everyone you know.

Night Gardening  by E.L.Swann

I know, it’s a romance.  But it’s not your ordinary romance.  It’s way more sensuous, without being ever being trashy or silly.  I think I found this book at the library book sale, and I liked the cover.  I was surprised by the central characters, who are not your typical main romance characters.   It’s a beautiful, very sensual story of two older and wiser people…..there should be more stories like this.

 

Listening Is an Act of Love : A Celebration of American Life from the StoryCorps Project

Another gift from my sweet Mr. C.  I took this book along with me when the children & I visited PEI in July 2008, to have a reminder of my husband who was still living in Florida at the time.  I would read it at night in the  little by-the-sea cottage that I had rented for the week, while the kids slept,  and I’ve re-read it since then.   Surround yourself with good things, I say.  This book  will be dog-eared, I’m sure….. it already has tea stains on it.  A sign of being loved.   

You’re In Canada Now….. A Memoir Of Sorts   by Susan Musgrave

Another twice-read book……Susan Musgrave is one of Canada’s poets and so far, her life has been veeeerrrryyyy interesting. 

Elsewhere by Gabrielle Zevin

I found this book at the library book sale, read it in two days, then discovered it was a teen fiction.  I don’t know why that mattered, and actually, it doesn’t.  And I’m sorry to admit that, had I known beforehand that it was a teen fiction, I never would have probably picked it up, let alone read it.   So much for not judging a book by its cover, or in this case, its gendre (I think the reason I took it WAS because of its cover!) The story is thought-provoking, the characters endearing, and I would probably read other of Ms. Zevin’s books.

 

Longing  by J.D. Landis

This was one of those $2.00 bargain books at Chapters (which they don’t have anymore….that store really has changed over the past few months…..it’s not so much fun to go there anymore, but that’s another story for another day).  The story intrigued me, and when I began to read it, my intrigue continued to grow.  This is a book that makes you want to learn more and more about what  you’re reading, about the characters (in this case Schumann & Wieke), about the historical places and events that were going on, it makes you want to seek out their classical compositions and find performances of their work on YouTube.  This is a book that you underline passages, because they are so well-written, or they have struck that C chord in your heart.  I will have to re-read this book a second time, but much slower.  The first time, I was reading it through, anxious and wanting to know what was going to happen next.  It was like eating all the chocolates that I could in one sitting, and knowing they tasted good and sweet, but not really getting the chocolate high, you know?  The next time I read this book, I will savour it and take my time to research the historical characters as I come upon them in the book, so that I can have a better context.    

How To Lose Friends & Alienate People:  A Memoir  by Toby Young

OMG! OMG! OMG!  Read the book then see the movie, like Mr. C. did, or see the movie then read the book, like I did.  But do both.  This was a hilarious read, and much deeper and thought-provoking than I thought it would be, after seeing the movie.   Despite all that he says and does, in the end I was cheering for him.  I’m looking forward to reading his next one. 

The Weight of Water  by Anita Shreve

A dramatic account of an historical event on the U.S. east coast, this author has magically woven a very different past and present into a story where crossroads are reached and to continue the journey requires courage and trust. 

 

Homer & Langley  by E.L.Doctorow

Holy moly, what a discovery I’ve made!  When I saw this new book in the New Arrivals section at the library, I quickly nabbed it.  Hot off the presses!   And I was not sorry.  The story itself is fascinating, but I’ll let you read the book and its reviews.   Go on Wikipedia and search for the Collyer Brothers AFTER you’ve read the book.   What entranced me was  E.L. Doctorow’s writing style.  He is an American treasure who  transforms words into works of art.  This was a book where not only did I lose myself in the story, but I found myself reading and re-reading passages because of  the sheer beauty and genius of this writer.     And imagine my delight when I was looking at the book titles in our bookcase at home, and came across E.L. Doctorow’s Sweet Land Stories!  I must have got this book somewhere along the way and shelved it for a rainy day……Ah, would you look at that, it’s raining……

To you, dear reader,  I thank you for taking time out of your day to read my thoughts on reading, and I hope these book recommendations will give you hours of enjoyment and lead you to other writings that bring goodness to your life.  See?  That’s another, lesser-known benefit of reading:  someone is thankful you read their stuff.  

Love,

Chantal

A Little Rx

It’s OK!  Don’t panic!  You’re in the right place!  It’s still me, at Ain’t Life Strange…..I just mixed up the colours a little.

Being as I spend alot of time staring at a computer screen at work, I fiddled with the colours on my monitor a long time ago to come up with a combination that was soothing to my eyes.  Most of my co-workers  have the black background  with coloured writing, either red or blue or even hot pink!  I always found those combinations to be too bright, so I found that a medium grey background with white and black writing worked the best for me.  Because we sometimes move around alot, I got wise and wrote down the colour combinations so that I don’t have to waste time fiddling with the colours on my computer every time I move (if only I could remember where I put that paper…..) 

The most frequent comment I get when people see my screen is :  “How can you see that?  Don’t your eyes hurt?”  I’ve come up with “It works for me!   Now whaddaya want?”.  Ok, maybe I don’t really say whaddaya want…….  But I really like my choice of colours on my computer, especially that they don’t make my eyes tired.

So today, I’m reading this snippet in Zoomer magazine:

CONVENTIONAL, SQUINT-INDUCING LOOSE-LEAF PAPER HAS MET ITS MATCH.

Whitelines, the brainchild of Swedish designer Olof Hansson, is a carbon-neutral collection of writing paper and note pads that puts white lines against a grey background, erasing the perceptional stress that can occur on eyes when dark lines appear on a gleaming white background.  Hansson’s eco-minded masterwork translates into low CO2 emissions and line-free photocopies, making whatever you write and draw easier on the eyes — and the environnment.               Jessica Green  -  Zoomer magazine, June 2009

AHA!  White lines against a grey background…..just like my easy-on-the-eyes computer screen!  I was gratified to read that a very cool and hip designer, from Sweden no less, put this great idea to good use.  Now when people go ugh at my screen, I can tell them, Hey, Olof thinks this idea is so cool, he applied it to writing paper and now markets his Whitelines with great success.  So if it’s good enough for Mr. Hansson, innovator and designer, it’s good enough for me. 

So I got to thinking about you, faithful blog reader.  How are your eyes?  When you read my blog, were your eyes getting tired from reading the black writing on the harsh white background?  Did you have to squint after a while just to get through my latest post?  I’m assuming that if your eyes did get tired, it wasn’t  because of my writing.   (It’s not, is it?) 

I’ve had the same blog theme since I started writing here two years ago, now.   I’ve checked out other themes, but I always came back to the same one, white background, pink outlines, with the pen at the top.  Simple, clean, leaving more room to focus on the writing.  But after reading about Whitelines today, I thought maybe Ain’t Life Strange could stand a little change, and maybe I could ease the strain on your eyes while I was at it.  So I found this new theme that has a similar layout to my old theme, because I like change, but not too much.   The colours are a little bold, red and black and grey are all power colours, which don’t really describe me…..I would’ve liked the red header to be a soft pink or a nice light olive green, or maybe a peaceful blue like the domes of Santorini, Greece.   But the white writing on the grey background should mean less eye strain. 

I’m going to keep this theme for a little while, see how it goes.    I like it more than I dislike it, but I’m also wanting to know what you think.   Don’t be shy.  Don’t hold back.   If you hate it, you hate it.  You can tell me.  I can take it.  No, really, I can take it.   I know I’m sensitive and you know I’m sensitive, and being sensitive means that I can take anything you can dish out.  After I’ve cried.

I’m KIDDING!!!!!!

Life is good. 

Love,

Chantal xoxoxox

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

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

Gardasil’s Net Widens

Back in the news again, Merck & Co is now wanting to have this vaccine available to women 27 to 45 years old.   Here are the latest links:

http://www.cbc.ca/health/story/2009/01/09/gardasil-fda.html#articlecomments

 http://www.cbc.ca/news/background/cancer/gardasil.html

 http://www.merck.com/newsroom/press_releases/product/2009_0109.html

I am continually amazed at the speed at which this vaccine has passed legislation in ANY country.   Then again, consider this:  Merck & Co.  has to fill its coffers somehow after the Vioxx debacle, so what better way than to develop and market (emphasis on market) a vaccine as one that MAY prevent cervical cancer, lobby governments around the world to make it mandatory for school age-girls, create fear and guilt campaigns, charge $360 a pop, AND I’ m not done.  In the United States, any girl or woman between the ages of 9 and 26 is obligated to have this vaccine before she can obtain her Green Card.   If she is not vaccinated against a form of cancer, her application will be denied.   The cancer itself is not a communicable disease, unlike AIDS or tuberculosis or Hepatitis-B.  Yet you’re required by law to be vaccinated against possibly developing cervical cancer.   But the 4 strains that can cause this type of cancer ARE transmitted sexually….but THAT part is kept on the low-down.  Why is that?  I’ll save my opinions on that for another post because it’s a very hot potato, and you know me, I burn water, so what I have to say on that part of the issue needs to be thought out a little more.

So now, Merck & Co  has one target group, the 9-to-26-year-olds.  Cha-ching!    They’ve managed to include potential immigrant populations (I only know of the US that has adopted this policy in their immigration rules, I haven’t verified any other country).  Cha-ching-ching!!    Now they are on the cusp of adding the next target group, the 27-to-45-year-olds.   Cha-ching-ching-ching!!!!!

And what better group than this to market an “anti-cancer” vaccine to (even if that’s not what it is):  women, most of them working, lots with children, at a time in their lives where they are concerned with their health and well-being and  that of their families and friends, in an age in history where the cancer bogeyman lurks in all that we eat and drink, all that we touch and breathe in. 

I’ve created a page in the sidebar called Gardasil, and will keep adding as time goes on.  What I say about this topic is my opinion.  I don’t pretend to know more than the next person, nor do I dicate anyone to get their child vaccinated or not.  I don’t stand in judgement of anyone who does, or of anyone who doesn’t.    If I say anything, it’s this:  Keep informed, look at the big picture, take care of yourself and those you’re responsible for, get a regular Pap test if you’re a woman, and listen to your intuition.

Love,

Chantal xoxoxo

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

None Shall Sleep Tonight

I know my dreams may be of interest only to myself, but I had to write about something soon before I completely lost my courage to write. 

On the night before Christmas Eve, I dreamt I gave birth to a baby, in a strange house, with a midwife.  In my real life, I actually did give birth to my children at home with midwives.  But in my dream, I was at the age I am now (almost 42), re-married like I am now, and I was telling the midwife that this experience of giving birth was different from my other two (yeah, no kidding).  First, I told her, I didn’t have the people there that I wanted; I was alone with the midwife, no children, no husband….I didn’t dream  the actual giving birth part,  just afterwards.  I didn’t see my baby, it was taken somewhere, and I was waiting for it, in the room I gave birth in.  I was straightening out the bed, the things on the dresser….the midwife seemed distracted, worried about getting back to her family in time, she was mostly packing up her gear, not really taking care of me.  At one point, there was a woman from my work who was there, then she left.   Then alot of drunk people were in my room,  and I was shooing them away, they were trying to sit on my bed and I was moving them out the patio doors into the early evening, telling them I couldn’t have them being here, drunk and lighting up cigarettes, when my baby was going to be brought back any minute.  I found myself walking outside, with the idea of going to get my baby, but there was water water water everywhere, as if there had just been a flood or a huge rainstorm.  I was acutely aware of the colour yellow, as if everything was yellow.   A woman with short blond hair told me to wait, she was going to get her car and help me.  But I didn’t wait, I turned back and returned to the room, where the midwife was.  I didn’t know why I was waiting for my baby, why I didn’t have it with me.   When I returned, my son, P was sitting there with his father (my ex-husband), and apparently they had seen the baby and spent time with it.  I thought it would have been a girl, and I wanted to name her Maria, but they said it was a boy, and I was glad, but couldn’t think up a name for him. 

Throughout the dream, I was waiting for my baby, who wasn’t coming….I never saw the baby.  I don’t know what this means.  I was disturbed when I woke, I didn’t tell my husband (who loves to hear about my dreams, as he seems to think I have such vivid recollections), and I felt strange all morning, until I got home on Christmas Eve day after work, and my husband  and I spent the afternoon preparing to welcome the kids for Christmas Eve.

I know the obvious reasons for dreaming this dream right before  Christmas Eve, on the night we celebrate Christ’s birth.  Also, I know how sometimes, things that happen during the day serve as triggers for what you dream about at night.  On the day before Christmas Eve, I was driving around, doing last-minute errands, and was overcome with these strong feelings of  wanting to have a child with my husband, and burst into this weird, hormonal tear-fest in the car.    Before you jump to any conclusions, I am very happy with my two children, and will not be having any more.  I know that these are normal feelings to have for someone you love, to want to create a life with them.  Except holy mack, in that moment, I REALLY felt this surge of complete & pure love, it was this primal need and deep desire to have a child with this wonderful, generous man who has fearlessly taken me on to be his true companion. 

So it’s no wonder I dreamed what I did….except it’s the baby part I’m not getting, why was the baby taken away, why didn’t I get to see it, why was I waiting waiting waiting, why wasn’t it returned to me?   Maybe the baby was a symbol for something else in my life, something that’s gone now, some vulnerability that I’ve lost.    If you lose your vulnerability, it stands to reason that you gain strength of some sort.  Being vulnerable like a baby is being unprotected, open to being wounded and hurt, physically or emotionally.   It’s interesting that the verb vuln comes from vulnerable, and means to wound oneself by biting at the breast, and that the pelican (of whom it was believed to  feed its young with its blood by vulning itself) is a symbol of Christ. 

This is not making alot of sense, I know, but the more I think, the more I reflect, the more these ideas take shape in my heart….in my faith….. in my attempts at trying to translate my love into actions…. in trying to capture or re-capture my essence, which I feel has been knocked off its kilter.   

The past few months, I’ve been adjusting  to life with my new husband, to life with my children with my new husband, to parenting a pre-teen-going-on-25,  to finding the confidence I need to fit into this world once I’ve figured out where I fit into this world.

None Shall Sleep Tonight is the English translation of  Nessun Dorma, (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O0Sx5lbVlQA),  Puccini’s aria in Turandot, which is my favourite.  It never fails to thrill  and inspire me everytime I hear it.  (For more inspiration and making dreams come true, see this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1k08yxu57NA&feature=related ).  As I’m writing this, I have my iTunes on shuffle, and Chris Botti is playing a beautiful rendition of Nessun Dorma on his trumpet (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=exfNMsUm7Nk).  I reflect on my baby dream and these lyrics from an opera written nearly 80 years ago, a reminder that nighttime thoughts and dreams are revealed at daybreak, when the light shines.

 

Love,

Chantal xoxox

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