Get Unwrapped!

Which way am I facing?

2026-09-15T20:36:25.589-03:00

There's no super easy way to say this.

On September 6, around 11:45 am, my husband quietly slipped away into Eternity, after a brief (3-months is brief) but intense battle with metastatic (i.e., Stage 4) pancreatic cancer, which affected his liver, one adrenal gland, and eventually his stomach.

He died of a gastrointestinal bleed, a fancy way of saying he lost a lot of blood and threw it up. Transfusions had worked the previous day, but this time, his body was having none of it. His organs started shutting down. By then, it was a matter of making him comfortable, and it wasn't long after that when he breathed his last.

I'm not going to tell you all that happened. Some of it was intensely personal and very wrenching.

The week after that day, all that week, people gathered around me and my daughter, and they loved on us. They cared for us. And love (as I have said so many times before) does heal.

His service was the following Friday. And it was amazing. I felt as though he were watching from Heavenly places. Perhaps in another dimension we can't see. Perhaps in that very room.

I cannot describe or explain how this can be. When we first heard he might have cancer on June 1 (and it was confirmed June 16), I had this terrifying moment of sheer panic. And then I remembered who was in the room. My daughter was sitting beside me ... and I knew I couldn't afford to fall apart because she would need me - and so would he. So, I stayed strong, even when I felt so very frail inside.

I truly believed he would be physically healed and that the miracle would be a testimony to the greatness and power of our God. When it became clear that physical healing didn't happen, I was ill-prepared for the flood of sadness and shock and grief that flooded me on that morning.

But ... but ... God knew I would need someone, not my daughter, but someone, to lean on and grieve with. My daughter was carrying her own pain and didn't want to be comforted.

But about 10 minutes before hubby passed, my best girlfriend phoned me. "I can't talk right now," I told her. "Do you want me to come?" she intuitively asked. "Yes, please," I said. "I'll be right there." And she was ... but only after he had stopped breathing, and we were in fresh grief. It hit her too, for we were all such great friends together ... and for the next hour, we sat there, unwilling to leave... because leaving would mean they would take his body to the morgue.

Free image by pixabay.com

Finally, though, as we sat in silence, I began to feel restless, and we gathered up our things - and his - and we took our leave. Nurses hugged us and told us how sweet he always was. "I know," I said. "He was just so grateful for the excellent care you gave to him."

The rest of the week seems like a blur. Somehow, however, I managed to get the details of the Celebration of Life service put together and someone to speak, folks to serve as pallbearers, music chosen, and so forth. And it all came and went in a jumble of faces, words, and final duties.

And suddenly, a week had passed and I was amazed at how well I was sleeping (Ativan is a thing!) and still functioning day to day. And then I saw it.

An email from a training organization that sometimes gives free workshops on various topics, offered one (in 3 parts) on helping clients through grief. Hmmmm. Well, I guess I could check this out!

The speaker was Tara Brach, who is a mindfulness-based psychologist. And in those 45 minutes or so, she suggested turning TOWARD grief, instead of AWAY from it. It's normal to turn away from something that is painful. But in turning toward it, we allow ourselves to experience the deep feelings that need to be expressed, and in so doing, we participate in our own healing.

I had been cringing away from this thing. The crying I was doing was (with rare exceptions) making me feel worse. Until I participated in Tara's demonstration guided imagery exercises. And then, when I cried, I was feeling my feelings with NO JUDGMENT ... and I was able to start the healing process.

So I'm learning to ask myself, "Which way am I facing?" Am I running away from my pain, or am I turning toward it and accepting my own vulnerability and need for comfort? Am I allowing sadness to accomplish its work and gather people around me who will help me? The more I do that, the more completely I will heal and embrace my "new normal."

When Tears Flow

2026-08-29T09:40:15.930-03:00

One of my most favourite songs in contemporary Christian music (and by contemporary I mean in the last 50 years, doesn't that make me old?) is Twila Paris singing "The Warrior is a Child" ... it describes someone who is admired for her strength and courage, who really cries inside to be held by the Giver of Strength, God, and gives herself permission to do just that, while acknowledging that her admirers are not aware of it. (I also like her "Sing me a Lullabye" for much the same reason - except this one is actually a prayer.)

Free photo from Pixabay

They are on YouTube if you want to look them up.

This part of the journey is not easy to talk about. It's about seeing someone you love more than you thought possible, struggling to go from day to day, fighting what seems like an insurmountable battle and an unwinnable war. It's about watching the people around you offer their help and their comfort and their support in ways that are tangible - money, yes, but also chores, gift cards for gasoline, offers to donate services for free, HUGS, sometimes even a song, and so much more. The kindnesses shown bring tears to my eyes because I know there is no way that I can repay them, and because they are proof positive that we are loved and cared for by so many more people than we ever imagined.

But it is also about knowing that what we can see with our eyes is not necessarily all there is to it. I believe in divine healing, and I stand in the faith of Jesus when I speak to the cancer and tell it to shrink and be destroyed and eliminated in His name. That's the warrior part of me.

And sometimes tears flow. And that is okay. In this weak flesh, I pray that His amazing power and glory will shine so that all will see that He is the source of the miracles.

And some days are tough. It doesn't mean that faith falters (for it's His faith!) but simply that some days, I feel weaker and more vulnerable. That's all. It keeps me humble, and it keeps me coming back to God to "drop my sword and look up for a smile," as Twila sings. That's the child part of me.

I don't usually talk about my faith on this blog, but it's such an important part of who I am that this once, I cannot be silent about it. When tears flow, and they do, it's not a sign that I've lost faith, but that I need help, strength, and renewed hope to carry on and keep resting in my Saviour's faith. And He gives it.

Things that are real are not always visible. In fact, St-Antoine d'Exupery said in "The Little Prince" that the most essential things are invisible to the eyes.

I've learned that my tears allow me to fully experience my humanness. That they show my love, my faith, my gratitude, and the depths of my human experience. I do not apologize for them.

The Unexpected Gift

2026-07-29T23:53:03.813-03:00

I can't fully describe the depth of gratitude that I feel ... but because I write, I'll try to begin.

The last few weeks have been a blur of being surrounded by the love, support, encouragement, and generosity of people. Some I barely know. Others, I have known for years, even decades. And yet, it blows me away every time someone reaches out with offers of help, with food, chores, and yes, money.

In such a time of need, a couple of my friends decided to create a GoFundMe page in my name. They asked me for a photo of my husband, which I am showing here:

This guy. This guy is my heart, my soul, my life. He's my very best friend on this earth. And I'm his best friend too. We've been married for only 45 years this past June. I was counting on 70. And ... maybe I'll get it, and enjoy every last moment. Of all the recent photos I have of him, this is my favourite because it was the week right after he got his 2nd cataract operation done (May 2026) and he could see me clearly from five feet away. Before, I had to get six inches away for him to make out my features.

I won't repeat what is in the GoFundMe page, but I'll include the link to it so that you can see for yourself that we are in need of help to make whatever time he has with us worth living with respect to his quality of life. We've been making do with a little 5 foot by 7 foot bathroom, the only one in the house. And now, he can't take a shower in it (because he is afraid of falling in the slippery tub-shower). And the Integrated Palliative Care team occupational therapist can only recommend a bath transfer bench that allows him to sit on the edge of the tub and put his feet in there. Like an invalid. Like some 90-year-old doddering old man. He's not even 74 yet.

So without further ado, I will share the link to the fundraiser here which will open in a new window for you. Please visit the page and look at the story. With the price of everything going up exponentially in the last year or so, (THANKS tRump!) the cost of materials and labour has skyrocketed. And please keep in mind that donations to GoFundMe are quite possibly tax-deductible when you do your income taxes.

And that is all I have to say at the moment. Please share this post and/or the link to as many platforms as you can. More people asked means more donors. And God knows we need generous people like you, my readers, to contribute to something we couldn't possibly pay for ourselves.

I have never asked you for help before. God willing, I won't ever have to ask again.

Thank you!

To the Adventure!

2026-07-23T00:38:26.383-03:00

The last week has been ... interesting to say the least. Hubby started chemotherapy yesterday morning. His schedule was given to us at that time. So his next chemo treatment is on July 29 (Wednesday), and then he gets a 1.5-week-long break from it. In between each treatment, usually during the run of a week, there are blood tests, oncology consultations, home visits from Home Care nursing, physiotherapist, occupational therapist, dietician, and on and on the merry-go-round goes. Then he goes back on August 10th for the first treatment of his next cycle.

I'm learning the vocabulary of cancer treatment. At first it was confusing, but I'm catching on.

The time between the first treatment of one period of time and the first treatment of the next period of time (usually 4 weeks but in this case it's 3 weeks) is called a cycle. The period of time between the first treatment of the first cycle and the last treatment of the last cycle (which is 3 months) is called a round.

Free image from Pixabay

After the first round of treatment cycles, he will have a CT scan to determine if the drugs have had a shrinking effect on the tumors and lumps. If it is working, we go to the beginning of the next (3-month) round. Perhaps at that time, they'll move to a 4-week cycle (3 treatments, 1 per week, followed by a fourth week off). It depends on how well he handles the medications. There are at-home medications for him to take for the day of treatment and for the 2 days after treatment.

So far, after only one treatment, he seems well. He is not bothered by nausea at all, and if he is, then we have medications for him to take as needed for that. The best thing so far is that after we reduced his pain medication so that he wasn't quite so "out of it", he is more alert ... and even with the reduced medication, his pain seems to be less. What a relief!

On July 30, he will see a radio-oncologist to address the oozing / bleeding in the stomach cancer that was observed on July 8th. We'll probably set up some sessions to irradiate that specific area (that is, hit it with radiation) and get the bleeding under control (perhaps) as a result. I have no idea what that will look like or how often he will need to have these radiation treatments. Once I know, I hope I will have the strength to keep my readers informed.

Caring for someone as close as my husband is to me - he is my best friend, after all - is taxing. Not only do I need to look after his nutrition and medication needs, I need to watch him closely so that he is sure to follow the requirements for looking after his toileting ... specific procedures like sitting to pee, closing the toilet lid, flushing twice, and then washing his hands. These procedures are to help to protect the other people in the house from exposure to his bodily fluids, as they don't know what the long-term effects of that exposure would be for those NOT in treatment. I also have to make sure that if he soils his clothing, it is kept separate from our laundry and double-washed.

And that is heaped up on top of all the things that need to be done to run a household, which, to my shame, has all been handled by my husband - until he was no longer able. Now, my daughter and I have to share the chores: dishes, sweeping, laundry, trash, cat's boxes, feeding the animals, keeping them hydrated, letting the dog out several times a day, groceries ... and also the unexpected duties that crop up. Neighbors have offered and still are blessing us with things we can't handle, like the lawn. Some have dropped off food. It all helps, but the day-to-day can be tiring.

There is much we don't know about all of this. For example, we are not sure if our insurance will cover the cost of the medications they are giving him, or if they do, how much they will cover (and how much they initially cost!!) and even though we have applied for PEI's Catastrophic Drug program, we have not heard whether he will qualify for it.

At any rate, we are determined to be transparent about his journey and our own parallel journey as we walk this road beside him. His attitude is positive, and so far, so is ours. We surround ourselves with people and music and news that is/are positive, and we speak healing (see previous post) daily into his body. We know so many others are praying for him and sending him healing vibes. And I know that he is loved - so much more than he would ever believe - so very much by so very many.

In a sense, even though we live on a fixed income, we feel rich, because we have the love and support of family, friends, and neighbors. And we are looked after by our Higher Power. What more could we ask for?

The Waiting Room ... Again

2026-07-05T10:44:40.209-03:00

Since my last post, most of the time has been spent in waiting. Day-to-day duties and chores are getting done, even if a bit late at times. The main feature of our moments has been hubby's pain management, as the tumour on the pancreas presses in on his spine and causes nerve pain, which we are managing with prescribed pain-killers.

We have been charting the little victories: the chiropractor whose treatments and whose prayers over him have reduced the severity of the pain - as the muscles around the area are very tight and increase the pain, and discouragement also increases the pain - and we look forward to those sessions.

Free photo from Pixabay

I've been waiting specifically for any contact from Oncology. Thankfully, two days ago (Friday, July 3) we got a call from the Cancer Centre with the information we'd been waiting to hear: he has appointments this coming week - July 6, 7, and 8 - culminating with a consultation with the medical (chemo) oncologist who will be working with us. I say "us" because we are just as much a part of hubby's treatment as the chemotherapy drugs will be.

We've been asked to bring a few things: his health care card, his medical insurance number, and his pills (including supplements and over-the-counter meds) in their actual pill bottles. That leads me to believe that they will be billing his medical insurance for the chemotherapy drugs, and they are NOT CHEAP. Since his plan covers only 80% of the cost, there will be a cost to him for the treatments that have the purpose of trying to kill the cancer while saving his life.

Wow. Just ... wow.

To ask for help is not in our nature, so I'm not going to do so at the moment. People have been very kind, offering help in tangible ways like mowing the grass or transporting garbage bins, etc., and we are grateful for every single act of love and support we have been receiving, knowing full well that there is no way we can repay anyone for their kindness. We are so humbled by their generosity. We are so blessed by their love and their prayers and positive thoughts toward us.

Nobody has been negative - at least, not on purpose - and we are grateful for that as well. We can feel the love holding us up, the prayers acting like a life-jacket in deep water, the social media likes and comments that remind us that we are not in this alone. It all helps. So, even though it feels so NOT enough for me to say, I say it anyway: THANK YOU ALL.

We still believe in miracles, whether they come instantly or gradually. And we look forward to what our Higher Power will do through those whom He has gifted with special talents and gifts.

Love Heals More

2026-06-19T13:40:12.495-03:00

The last few weeks has been somewhat of a whirlwind combined with a nightmare. My daughter and I have been concerned about my husband's weight loss and loss of appetite, especially after he stopped trying to lose weight, because his appetite has stayed near zero and his weight loss continued.

Finally, while consulting for low iron, the doctor ordered a colonoscopy, which revealed no internal bleeding. Yet the numbers were still low. So, he ordered a CT scan of his head and of his torso (shoulders to pelvis). The scan was on a Friday. The following Monday, we were called into the doctor's office and told that there was a 7.2 cm mass on the tail of the pancreas, and some suspicious "spots" on his liver and on his right adrenal gland. The next few minutes were a blur of talking about Oncology and about a biopsy they needed from the liver site, as the pancreas could not be reached by the type of biopsy they were planning to do.

Telling our daughter was hard. Losing one (or both) of us was her worst fear. She kind of knew when she hadn't received a text from me ... but it was still hard to see the sadness in her eyes. We wondered when the biopsy would be. "Sooner rather than later," the doctor said.

The biopsy occurred within a week. And we waited, hoping that the results would be benign.

They weren't. Another trip to the doctor to discuss findings, this time with our daughter. Metastatic pancreatic carcinoma, with spread to the liver and that adrenal gland, we heard.

I felt the sudden rush of panic I had felt in the first meeting, but I saw it coming and decided to compartmentalize my own fear for his sake. For their sake.

No amount of preparation or bracing can prepare you for that kind of news. It's like having nightmares of monsters, finally relaxing because someone is there to chase them away, and then realizing that they came for the one who chased them down. There's fear, panic, grief, sadness, anger, and pain all bound up into one entity that I try to push away from me because it's too much all at once.

I am the ultimate catastrophizer, the quintessential awfulizer. I can imagine scenarios upon scenarios if I let myself. I have a vivid imagination, and sometimes, it turns on me. I can't imagine living without him, and yet, now that imagination leads me to that place where I feel forced to do just that.

And yes, I know it's not healthy. As a counsellor, I can identify all the negative patterns of thought. But I also understand that those feelings are absolutely normal for what the situation is.

Free image from Pixabay dot com

As a practicing Jesus-Christian, I believe in divine healing, absolutely! And from the moment this first became "a thing," I've been speaking healing, strength and life into my husband's body, telling the cancer to cower, to shrink and to be expelled in Jesus' Name. Dozens, maybe even hundreds are praying for his healing as well. Those who don't believe the way we do are still sending positive thoughts and vibes toward him and toward our little family.

And some of those who are able ... have offered help in tangible ways. Mowing the lawn, for example. Neither I nor our daughter can do it because of allergies, so others have offered and we have accepted their offers. The hardest part of that is accepting the help and learning to receive it, because he has always been the one to give to others. So now, we've started telling him that it's HIS turn to benefit from being given to. So when our daughter or I do the dishes or take out the trash or whatever... it is one less thing that HE has to do (see "Every Snowflake Counts", my feature post, visible on your PC.)

And we are grateful for every single day. All of us. Because love - that is the only thing that heals. And it heals more than all the pills, injections, and treatments can do. It's healing us all on the inside, where it counts.

And all I can do - all we can do - is be grateful.

The Child Within

2026-05-12T11:38:00.005-03:00

She's been with me ever since I can remember.

The child - me as a child.

She wants to be cherished, loved unconditionally, and protected.

She's learned that the world isn't like that.

Free image from Pixabay

She's afraid, self-conscious, shy, lonely, and at times even suspicious. Suspicious of new things, of new people, of letting her light shine.

Afraid of others' judgment, she hides and defines herself the way her abusers did: small, insignificant, a country mouse, a bumpkin, unworthy of belonging. Or love.

She and I have gotten to know each other lately. I helped her see her abuse as not her fault, and as a mistake her abuser made. I told her she was brave, and that her heart was loving and sincere. She started to believe me. I want her to believe that she has something worthwhile to say. But she still shies away from the spotlight; she has for decades.

And now, we face another time when she and I will face the spotlight again. In a few weeks, I'll be giving a presentation I created at a national conference in Halifax, NS for the counselling association I belong to. And I'm bringing her with me. I'm being intentional about inviting her to watch, to see how people react, to experience this honour with me.

Now, I know that that little girl turned into the woman I am now; I haven't lost my marbles (haha). However, that small child, that afraid little girl, is real to me. I can see her plainly in my mind. She learned early on to cower ... because cowering made her safer. And I'm trying to teach her that while cowering kept her safe then, it doesn't serve her well now. I've been giving her something she never got: compassion, love, and a sense of belonging. She's learned to trust me (that is, grown-up me) ... but she's still unsure about others, even though I have been telling her that they care. Now, I believe she needs to SEE that caring, in action, to understand that she IS worthy of love and belonging, of positive attention, of the gratitude she never got.

I'm not sure if any of this has made sense. I just needed to write it.

The Machine

2025-11-28T08:51:00.015-04:00

I remember when my mother got diagnosed with obstructive sleep apnea. She came home with this Machine. It roared like a white noise maker, sometimes "bubbled" - and she put on this mask every night. The first time I saw her with it on, I took one look at the mouth-mask that changed the shape of her profile, together with the black velvet-like straps that held it on, and I couldn't help but think of Bessie the cow with her halter on, waiting to be milked.

I burst out laughing. I laughed until tears started spilling out of my eyes.

So when I went to the doctor at the end of summer this year, and mentioned to the doctor how tired I was all the time and how I never seemed to get much real deep sleep, he ordered blood tests for me to rule out thyroid and organ function problems, and he also referred me to the local sleep clinic. He informed me that it was likely that I had sleep apnea - and that those people who got treatment noticed an increase in their alertness level, and many of them lost weight because the stress was less during the night from trying to get enough oxygen.

The blood tests came back normal. I took my sleep study home on September 11, a weird contraption that was a band around my upper chest, a nasal tube like you see in hospitals and an oxygen monitor that you clip on your finger for the night. (The thought crossed my mind, regarding the date, that my own "twin towers" might get hit - that my laughter so many years ago was coming back to bite me!!) To my surprise, I was able to sleep that night. (Preconceived notion of a machine being too intrusive? Gone.)

When I took the diagnostic machine back to the clinic, I picked up a brochure with all the models they had in it, as well as some information about what CPAP is (Continuous Positive Airway Pressure) and how the new generation of machines is so quiet. (Another preconception dismissed.)

A week later I got a call from the clinic with my results. Yes, I had obstructive sleep apnea (OSA), and could I come in on November 27, 2025 to pick up a CPAP machine? I made the appointment and put it on my calendar. Two. Whole. Months?

The same day, I got a call from my doctor's assistant, who had received my test results and wanted to know if I had any questions. I wanted to know more details. So, I learned that my OSA was moderate, with 24 episodes of apnea and/or hypopnea (there's a word - it means snoring!) per HOUR.

Blink. Blink. Processing.

That night, I put my diagnosis on Facebook and a dear friend of mine, who also has OSA, commented, "Welcome to the Snuffleupagus club!" I laughed - at least she didn't say the Bessie club...

Yesterday, after 2 months of counting off the weeks, then the days, I picked up my machine. (Technically it's not mine yet; I have it on a 30-day trial). My appointment lasted an hour. Laura Lee (not Secord) went through my results, asked questions, let me ask questions, and then brought out the Machine - in a smart, black, canvas-looking case. She showed me how to put it together and what to do with each part. The mask was made of medical-grade silicone (so no acne or skin irritation!) and the air supply hooks to a strap that goes over my head; the hose hooks to a 360 degree elbow-joint (made of hard plastic) that allows me to turn over in bed with no problem, and the whole thing is held on my head by a strap that goes under my hair at the back of my head. She turned the Machine on after she fitted me for the mask, and there was no sound. NONE. My tongue went automatically to the roof of my mouth as I breathed normally through my nose, just like babies do! Laura Lee had to tell me the machine was on. I didn't know.

Huh.

I didn't feel suffocated.

Huh.

I learned that I have to use distilled water in the machine to humidify the air that goes through the mask because the air by itself would dry out my nasal passages and my throat.

Huh.

(Note to self - those big bottles of distilled water are soft-sided, so be careful when putting water in the reservoir. I won't say how I found out...)

Finally, bedtime! I kissed hubby goodnight . . .

And I turned the Machine on and found a comfortable position.

Free image from Pixabay!

The next thing I knew, it was 1:00 and I'd been asleep for an hour and a half! I unhooked the hose, went to the washroom, and got back in bed and reattached the hose. Aside from turning over in bed, I slept.

I usually wake up around 10 or 11 in the morning.

This morning I woke up at 7. SEVEN!! More refreshed than usual (which is NOT refreshed!) And I laid awake with the Machine still on, until about 8 o'clock.

And I got up.

Huh.

When I checked the sleep summary on the Machine, it told me that I averaged 13 apnea / hypopnea events per hour last night. (Down from 24 in my diagnostic test.) When I checked my Garmin app (which measures stress levels and heart rate etc., through my watch) my stress levels had gone down significantly from all the previous nights. My heart rate was in the 60s (not the 80s) ...

Huh!

My jaw dropped.

Blink. Blink. Processing....

And so begins my journey with the Machine. It's much easier than I thought to adjust to, and I like the results so far! Could this be ... part of self-care?

Huh.

I go back in a week to get my machine read, and to adjust the flow of the air, as well as to make sure the mask still fits properly.

But for today, I think I'll go do something else that is good for my self ... maybe get a haircut.

Worthy of Love and Belonging*

2025-07-05T11:06:00.001-03:00

* - Brené Brown

Most of my readers probably know that I'm a psychotherapist (aka a counsellor). My practice includes adults age 16 and up, individuals and couples.

What some might not know is that in training, student counsellors are taught that it is considered necessary for every counsellor to HAVE a counsellor. So yes, I have one. My therapist helps me stay on track personally, holds me accountable for important things I often forget when I am busy. In particular, such things include self-care, which is written into the Code of Ethics of my certifying body. In fact, it's in the very first article of that Code!

Blossoms - free image from Pixabay

Since seeing this particular therapist, I've been taking more time to do some of the things I let slide before. I spend more time out in Nature, marvelling at the handiwork I see. I reach out to friends and to people that have touched my life in some way, even if just to say thank you (those are powerful words, just saying). I look after my emotional needs. I tell people that I care about how I feel about them. I spend time thinking about any unresolved feelings about past events that may be hindering me, and I work to clear those things the same way I help my clients do the same. (How can I help them to heal, unless I first heal myself?) I take time to enjoy the relationships I have in my life.

The other day, I was outside on our property. Our pink weigelas are in a riot of bloom, and there is a honeybee hive not far from here. Coming in close to the bush, I could smell the gentle but heady scent of the flowers. And then I saw her. A honeybee had crawled into one of the weigela blossoms. I could only see the back half of her as the flowers are trumpet-shaped. As I watched, I could see her hind end rhythmically going up and down as she drank deeply the nectar that was inside of that flower. Time seemed to stand still. There was only the bee in the flower. And I marvelled at how bees have two stomachs: one for nectar and one for pollen. And I considered in my soul how the bee takes only what she needs to feed her body, and gives the rest to the hive to feed the colony. In so doing, she is nourished to be able to contribute to the good of all, and she tastes the sweetness of what she will give to her sisters at the hive. What a beautiful picture of self-care in the context of a natural care-giver!

I've carried that picture with me ever since, in my mind's eye. It's okay to gain strength as I give to those who need some of that same strength. It's okay to look after me on a regular basis - it helps me to better help others.

The secret - and I think the bee knows this instinctively without having to be taught (unlike us humans) - is in adopting and believing in a phrase that Brené Brown uses often: "[I am] worthy of love and belonging." The bee is a crucial member of the hive and knows instinctively her role and her worth. She is listened to when she returns to the hive to tell the others where to find nectar. She is believed. She is respected. She belongs. And ... just so ... in my new and renewed relationships with those who are my equals, I belong as well. I am valued. I am worthy of love ... and respect ... and friendship ... and belonging. That reality brings me such gratitude.

These are thoughts that have been percolating in my mind lately. And these thoughts are the reasons why I have been reaching out to people who are in my life, letting them know how much I appreciate them, spending time with them, sending a note to connect with them, and realizing more and more that I grow in attachment with others. Not necessarily in a crowd (because that's not my style) but in individual connections with one or two people at a time. As I do so, I get to remember how very rich (not in dollars, but in the depth of those individual relationships) I am. I'm so thankful!

As Time Goes By

2025-03-01T12:00:00.002-04:00

On Monday of this week, I awoke as any other day, and during breakfast I noted the date and remarked that we were into the final week of February, "finally".

Something niggled in the back of my mind, something I couldn't quite name, but it felt kind of important. I felt "off" all day long. Yes, I did the usual things with my family. Yes, I looked after myself and my business. Still, something was ... I dunno ... missing.

Not until the phone rang that evening did I realize what it was. Monday, February 24, was the five-year anniversary of my brother Ben's death.

Free photo from Pixabay

The caller - someone very dear to me - said he'd been thinking about Ben all day and he wanted to call me to let me know it. We had an amazing conversation for a good half-hour. It was wonderful to hear his voice again.

As he was speaking, it occurred to me that I had almost forgotten this was the anniversary date. Okay, I HAD forgotten.

But my subconscious, even my body, didn't.

And today, at the breakfast table, I remembered how much I missed him, how lost I felt without him - especially at first - and that even though I would not wish him back to the suffering he experienced every day because of his physical conditions, I truly miss his humour, his talent, his presence. I miss how we would talk about important stuff, how we would sit together and sing and play our guitars together - "jamming" we called it.

Grief takes many forms and each is valid. One never stops grieving a loved one, but the shape that grief takes might change over time. Let me be clear: time does not heal this wound. Time does not heal trauma. But love? Love heals. And unconditional love heals best.

I can remember Ben today and honour his memory and his talent. I can smile at the memory of his antics and his single-minded loyalty to me, his desire to protect me from harm, and his pride in me as his 'little sister' ... I can laugh at his old jokes and how he could make people laugh with just a facial expression. I can close my eyes and listen to him sing his songs with me. I can hear him play the guitar - in his inimitable thumb-and-forefinger style.

And I know that someday, perhaps not soon, but someday - I will see him again. And we will jam together.

The Unwrapping

2024-12-31T12:36:00.005-04:00

"Unwrap him, and let him go." - John 11

It has been nearly 16 years since the above scripture became much more meaningful to me. I am a Christian. I have been ever since I was a teenager. However, my Christian life (my "walk" in churchy terms) left something to be desired. And then, when I was about 48 years old, my "walk" actually became a WALK. Not a hop.

To explain that last sentence, I refer to the story of the raising of Lazarus, from where the above scripture comes. The burial custom of the day was that when someone died (after several rituals meant to make certain the person was dead) they were wrapped like a mummy in strips of cloth with spices sprinkled between the layers... to hide the smell until the funeral was done and the person laid on a stone shelf inside a tomb, which often had a round slab of stone rolled in front of it. Jesus arrived at Lazarus' home to find Lazarus' sisters and a whole lot of other relatives, mourning outside his tomb. He had died 4 days previous, so decomposition had started to kick in. Jesus told them to roll away the stone, and after a bit of protest (but he's stinking by now!) they did as He asked. Jesus wept when He saw their misery and lack of hope. He then called out to the dead man and told Lazarus to come out of the tomb.

Lazarus was still in the mummy-wrappings. So the only way he had of moving forward from the ledge was to take small little hops and hope he didn't fall over (because he was unable to extend his arms.)

Freeze frame right there. Lazarus had been raised from the dead. Everyone could see that. It was a bona fide miracle! But for Lazarus, it was taking all his strength just to stand up. That is what my Christian walk was like, with wrappings others had put on me, just as others had wrapped him. Neither of us could move without risk of great harm.

And Jesus spoke to the assembled crowd. "Unwrap him, and let him go." As they did, the putrid strips of cloth, which by now overpowered the spices his sisters had so lovingly put there, started to loosen and Lazarus could move. A little at first, then more. And more. And more. He could finally benefit from the miracle that was already his - this newness of life.

And in my life, as I began to drop the grave-clothes of old habits and prejudices from me, I learned how to really be alive and not be hindered by the bondage that made me try to live the Christian life by my own efforts (hopping). I could walk. I could run. I could breathe a deep breath. Lazarus and I were both raised by the Master, and loosened / unwrapped to fully enjoy life.

The process took longer for me than it did for him. I was several months getting those stinky old things off me ... and there are still times when I find a hanger-on from my old self-effort life, for which I get help to free me. Together with the lifestyle I learned during that time, I can enjoy life, as Lazarus did. I look with pity on the person I was before that time, and I revel in my new-found freedom. All that I had lost, all that I could not touch because of the grave-clothes, came back to me.

I talk about my spiritual life occasionally on this blog because it is part of me, just like any other part or role that is mine (wife, mother, friend, counsellor, etc.) And I do so as living, walking, talking proof that there is One who delivers, and those who loosen the bonds; each serves a role.

And me? I'm grateful. That's it, that's all.

Ready for Christmas?

2024-12-14T09:58:00.002-04:00

It's a question I hear every year. And I am not sure my answer is satisfactory, at least to me. But I say it anyway.

"Are you ready for Christmas?" .... I think people mean, "Have you gotten your Christmas shopping / baking / decorating done?" To that intention, I usually answer, "Almost," and I would be telling the truth.

Summer 2011 - all of the family

But part of me is never ready for Christmas. The part of me that remembers that it was Arielle's favourite holiday, the part that remembers how she'd fill her mouth to the bursting point with Christmas dinner and then try to talk (as a joke), the part that misses her and her quirks. That part of me is never ready.

All the preparation I do for the holiday seems bittersweet. It's not as bitter as it was when the loss was fresh, I'll admit that. But there is a certain wistfulness about it for me. I wish she could enjoy it with us, or that I could be aware of her enjoyment. For all I know, she IS with us every Christmas dinner - it happened once that I was aware of it - that first Christmas. That was SO special. I hug that memory to my heart often.

But people don't need me to bleed on them when they ask something that for them, is more like a "hello, how are ya?" kind of thing. So I say, "Almost," to their query about my 'readiness' for Christmas, and they can go on their merry way. Only those who know me best understand what my response means. I guess that means I have grown as a person ... the "old Judy" would have made them feel uncomfortable by being brutally honest and ruining an otherwise great day for them. I'm not like that anymore. People have a right to feel happy (or whatever they feel) even if I can't quite attain that level of joy myself. And here I go comparing happiness and joy - two totally different experiences. Happiness is usually (for me) dependent on circumstances, and joy speaks more of an inner peace in spite of circumstances.

And yes, I have joy. I can honestly say that as deep as the loss of losing Arielle is, it would have been a deeper loss never to have known her, never to have borne her. There was a time I couldn't get there because the loss hurt so much, but now - I think - I can honestly say that our lives are richer for having had her in them, even if her presence is only a memory now. And I do have the sure hope that one day, I will see her again - without the faults that made life with her less than perfect, that made us - and her - so frustrated. I look forward to building an eternity of experiences with that girl: the one we couldn't (and can't) help but love. Do I miss her? OH yes. Every day! And grief's shape has changed over the years to make space for me / us to honour her memory in little ways that would only matter to us.

So am I ready for Christmas?

Ummm, almost. :)

Mother's Day - a journey

2024-05-14T11:52:00.000-03:00

I have had a love-hate relationship with Mother's Day for almost all of my adult life. From the moment I realized that my own mother was - shall we say - not the best mom in the world, and vowed never to be like her, Mother's Day has been fraught with feelings of anger, shame, jealousy of those who had "the best moms in the world", and confusion about how I should feel about the day - and the role. And her.

When my mom was diagnosed with dementia in 2016, and gradually forgot what she had "done to me" - the confusion grew, the existing emotions were an exercise in frustration, and there were more feelings: hatred for the disease that was making her more and more helpless, guilt that I couldn't forget my childhood like she did, and much, much more. All the while, the 2nd Sunday in May was a day I would always dread. I would even make one post early that day and then leave Facebook alone as I didn't want to read all the gushing messages and posts from people whose mothers seemed so much more saintly to them. I railed against the idea that the "saint" was what others saw, while I got to see what she was like behind closed doors. I could see both sides in her, but nobody would believe my version of the woman. Nobody, that is, except my older brother, who saw things up close and personal.

I knew all along that she would never change - that she never once thought she did anything wrong. I knew that she would always treat me like I was six years old. What I didn't realize until a few years later was that her own emotional development - through her own trauma of being the victim of child abuse - was stunted. I was raised by a grown woman with the emotional maturity of an 8-year-old. That stark realization, which I came to in therapy in 2019, freed me to see her for the woman she had become in her dementia. All the masks were stripped away and she showed who she really was to everyone, not just to me. She could be so kind, and in the next breath, critical and cruel. But it was still hard to watch. It was harder to listen to people excuse her behaviour by saying, "It's the dementia."

When my older brother died in February 2020, I lost someone very important and dear to me, whom I still miss terribly. I also lost my only witness, which was just as hard for me. However, I came to understand that it didn't matter what used to be, just what "is". She could no longer recognize me when I went to tell her about Bro. To her, her daughter Judy was six years old, not some sixty-ish woman. And her short-term memory only lasted for about 5 minutes on a good day. By the end of the visit, she asked me how Bro was doing. I couldn't bear to see her grieve all over again, so I said, "Better than ever, Mom. Better than ever."

And then came the day that she passed away. April 2, 2023, around 8:40 pm, the phone rang, and a nurse told me that my mother had died.

I didn't know how to feel. At first, I thought it was some cruel April Fool's Day joke so I checked my watch. No, it wasn't that. In a fog, I thanked the woman for telling me, and then started going through the motions of the only surviving natural child of someone who has died. Funeral arrangements, phone calls to inform extended family, travel plans, and write-ups occupied my mind - as did the inevitability of preparing to greet the people who would come to the visiting hours and to the funeral. I don't know how I would have gotten through all the preparation without the help of the funeral director, Erin. She was a God-send.

The overwhelming sensation I felt (and still feel) was relief. She was out of her emotional pain, with a perfect memory, re-united with my dad who had died in 1993, and with both of my brothers (the oldest died in 2010 and Bro in 2020). She also knew everything that I was feeling and had felt. For the first time, she understood me. I can't describe how that felt. It gave me ... rest, I guess. Peace.

The funeral was amazing - but surreal. I decided to let people believe about her what they wished, without making her special memorial about me. I wrote up a biography speech for the pastor to read at the funeral... a list of her accomplishments, things that folks there would remember her doing. I learned that so many people loved her - and that I loved her, in spite of everything.

Mom and Dad on my wedding day in 1981.
He was nibbling her ear.

Mother's Day last year felt like a blur. I was still processing some pretty heavy emotions and realizing some new and interesting things about myself. Now, I imagine Mom being the person she always could have been, totally healed from her own childhood trauma, and able to love and be loved without shame, without false modesty, and without fear. It comforts me. It lets me love the good about who she was, to honour the sacrifices she made, to remember the good times.

As Mother's Day approached this year, I also realized something else. I wasn't dreading it. Strange how that is. Instead, I had come to understand that all these years, I was robbing others of the joy of wishing me a happy Mother's Day and keeping them from celebrating ME as a mom. Wow.

I've been freed. I can't explain much more than that.

Dearest Judy

2024-03-30T10:27:00.002-03:00

One of the hardest things about life is when the opposite happens, and we are forced (ready or not) to say goodbye. I am no stranger to separation by death. Yet every time it happens to a beloved family member or a close friend, it feels just as awful, just as violent - whether the person died in their sleep or in a tragic accident, or whether there was time to prepare or not.

One of those incidents happened not long ago. A dear friend, unbeknownst to me, had a stroke and dropped out of view. When Judy was not on social media for 3 weeks, I began to get concerned and I contacted her family, who told me about the stroke. She was in the hospital.

Judy had always been so strong, so independent, that we did not think much of the fact that she was getting old and it was getting harder for her to move around. We enjoyed her company, her laugh, her stories, her enjoyment of the little things, and most of all her love. When she would call me, she would identify herself as "Judy too," as my name is Judy. We would invite her to our house for Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners. She and I would make "play dates" or as I called them, "aerie times", referencing our favourite metaphor, the eagle. She would invite our family to Dairy Queen and pay for our meals. She prayed every single day for each of us, as well as for her family and other friends. What a precious lady.

My husband and I went to see her on Christmas day 2023 when she was in the stroke unit; she was largely unresponsive, and her words slurred when she spoke, as if she was drunk. About a week later, we went in to see her again. This time she had been moved to a full-care unit where people go to recover. We were hopeful that she would get better. However, it struck me while we were there that they had put in a feeding tube through her abdominal wall into her stomach. She was totally dependent on them. I remember being grateful that the stroke seemed to affect her ability to compare the quality of her current life with the one she had been living prior to the stroke. We wanted to make our visits a regular thing.

The week after that, we got sick with some sort of flu and we didn't go to see her for fear that she would catch our sickness, which would not have been good. We were sick for about three weeks.

During the time we were sick, Judy passed away. We didn't know. One day in early February, I went onto her wall on Facebook, and learned from a post someone left that she had passed, just about a month or so prior to her 80th birthday.

I'd been keeping a Christmas card for her in my purse, which i wrote to her after our second visit. Yesterday I was looking for something else ... and I found it. Slowly, I un-tucked the back flap of the envelope, and slid the card out. The picture was of a cardinal. Inside I had written a short note to her from us, and I started it out with "Dearest Judy," as I often did on Christmas or her birthday.

I froze. Floods of memories from before the stroke came to me, as if to comfort me.

Try as I might, I could not (and cannot) be sad for her. In 2007, she lost her beloved husband Bob to a heart attack, and she often spoke of him with us, because we knew him from when they were married. We knew that they were reunited after all this time (this coming April 3rd it would have been 17 years). She is happy and pain-free for the first time in many years - head injuries from a previous relationship gave her Menière's Disease, affecting her hearing and her balance. She is finally free of it.

No, I cannot be sad for her. However, I can be sad for me. I will miss this wonderful big sister of mine, who was technically old enough to be my mother. I will miss our long talks, our prayer sessions, our sing-songs, her vivid imagination, and so much more. I will miss how articulate and talented in writing she was, how spiritual and yet down-to-earth she was.

And I can imagine her keeping watch over us all, in that "great cloud of witnesses" the Scriptures mention (Hebrews 11, I believe, but I could be wrong.) I can picture her joining our daughter Arielle's twerking class (Mother Theresa was her first graduate, haha)... and dancing with all her might. I can imagine her singing while Bob makes his heavenly electric guitar just wail ... and I know that while it seems like a long time here, it won't be long for her when she turns around and I'll be standing there, arms wide for a big hug.

Life after Fiona

2023-06-22T12:29:00.003-03:00

From an October 2022 post:

[Hurricane] Fiona took away. She took away a LOT; there is no doubt of that. The topography of our landscape and of our communities is forever changed. Some things will never come back; others will take decades. But Fiona also gave. She gave us a renewed sense of community. She gave us friends we didn't know we had. She gave us compassion and empathy for each other. She spurred our generosity.

If there is a light in this darkness, I think it could be that.

Spring came slowly to PEI this year. The weather was colder for longer. However, the grass did green up, the dandelions came, the crocus and the tulips came up, blossomed, and faded, and the ground was warm enough to plant our garden by early June.

After Fiona, we thought we might have lost the opportunity to see any kind of positive result, but about two weeks ago, we noticed something in our back yard. One of our apple trees, the one we almost lost because it had been pushed to almost a 45 degree angle by the storm, and which we shored up with some thick, padded staking wire, was producing blossoms. Not just one or two, but dozens of blossoms! One of the branches wasn't, and we decided that come autumn, we would prune it back. But yesterday, we were thrilled to see that while the other blossoms had come and gone, new blossoms were growing on the branch we previously thought was 'dead'!!

Apple blossoms from our Red Nova tree, June 2023

So this year, we will see some apples in the fall! This from a tree we thought had bitten the dust.

As a matter of fact, all the plants in our back yard are looking greener and less spindly since the storm took away trees that shaded them, and in that way giving them more sunlight for longer in the day.

Even the vegetable garden is growing better. We are getting carrots coming up for the first time in three years, as well as beets, spinach, and herbs, all of which apparently prefer full sun. Who knew!

Our flowering bushes are budding. We are awash in lilac blossoms, plus weigela, spirea, hydrangea and rose buds. It's lovely to witness. We are so grateful.

As I mentioned in my post, "Hashtag Fiona2022" last fall, we have developed closer relationships with more of our neighbours, and it's been amazing to see how those friendships have enriched our day-to-day lives.

It's caused us to rethink other kinds of storms as well: events that happen to us that seem unpleasant and cause us distress. Sometimes, while the events themselves are difficult, they may clear some of the debris - things in our lives that are unnecessary - from our lives. These are things like unbalanced relationships, old habits and ways of thinking, and other hindrances to living a full life, making way for new and renewed relationships with equals, new habits, new ways of thinking, and a new capacity to experience joy.

Life gets better if we let it.

No April Fool

2023-05-20T21:02:00.006-03:00

I'm not a great fan of April Fool's Day jokes. Most are pranks played at someone else's expense (a practice I consider cruel and spiteful), and so I weather the day hoping nobody does anything disrespectful.

This year, nobody did. I breathed a huge sigh of relief.

On the evening of the next day, I got a telephone call from a nursing home out of province telling me that my mother had died. I checked my watch for the date. Nope. Not April 1st.

The next few days, I worked with the funeral home director and with loved ones to plan and arrange my mom's funeral. It turned out better than I expected, and although the occasion was sombre due to the reason for the gathering, it was good to see everyone again, and I was surprised at how many showed up for the service.

In the time during and since the initial rituals of grief and saying goodbye, folks have been kind and tender. And I have been okay. Probably more okay than I would have thought.

Free photo by alexman89 at Pixabay

As we prepare for her burial in a few weeks, I've done a lot of pondering about how I've spent the last several years trying to be heard and believed about my lived experience as her daughter; even though I love her, it was not an ideal relationship for many reasons. And I've finally realized that people are going to believe what they want to believe about her (and about me) no matter what I say or don't say. With that realization, there comes a bit of ... peace, I guess.

We all have that part of ourselves we only show to those closest to us. And I know that my mom did the same. Most people viewed her as a saint (in the sense that she should have been canonized...) but nobody knew what happened behind the four walls of our little house. Nor would they have believed it.

Nor does it matter any more. She understands now more than ever how I feel, how I felt, and all the multi-faceted complex emotions that implies. And somehow, I am starting to understand the relief involved in the little saying, "April Fool!" when the joke is over - that the horrible thing that someone did or said wasn't what it appeared to be after all. That the truth is now revealed and the cruel joke is over.

She can rest. And I can rest. And from now on, there is no more April Fool.

Only the truth. Just knowing that is enough for me.

Getting Back to Normal

2023-02-05T13:43:00.001-04:00

COVID-19 is certainly unlike any other virus; don't let anyone tell you it's just a bad cold or a bout of the flu. It is AWFUL. It hits just about every system in the body: respiratory, circulatory, digestive, and neurological. It saps strength and weakens the body. I had a mild case of it, and I would not wish it on ANYone, including politicians (which is saying something for me).

Hubby got hit harder. He was in bed for four days straight, lost his senses of smell and taste, lost his appetite, and even with Paxlovid (R) which we both took, he felt so weak that just the trip to the bathroom was exhausting, even after he no longer tested positive for the virus.

Image by Miriams-Fotos at Pixabay

He still can't smell much, and can only taste the strongest tastes of sweet, sour, salt, and bitter. He cannot taste eggs or potatoes or even lasagna. Not yet. And it's been 2 months since he tested positive. He is back on his feet and able to carry on his activities but ... nothing except super-spicy, sweet, or salt tends to flicker his needle. It's been frustrating for me, as I enjoy his appreciation of my cooking. And he clearly misses not being able to enjoy simple meals. Oh well, we're told this part will pass.

In the middle of our recovery, we found out that our dog Bullet (3 years old, male Pomeranian) had grade 3 luxating patella (dislocated kneecap) in his left knee (hind leg). We took him to an animal hospital on the mainland to get the surgery done - and so now HE is recovering. He is doing far better than we expected, and we hope that by this time next week, he'll be putting his full weight on his leg. He's already putting SOME weight on it, and his flexibility has not suffered. He'll just need to strengthen those muscles through which they had to cut to reach that kneecap area.

It has been, as you can imagine, a stressful time for all of us, including me. Thank goodness for my therapist, who has kept reminding me to use the relaxation and grounding tools I prescribe for my own clients, in this situation, to avoid stressing out. And at our last session, she told me to remember the good that I do and the treasure that I am to people - not only to my family and friends, but to my clients as well. I really needed to hear that. It's easy to get overwhelmed with the path ahead, but if I take it one day at a time (sometimes one hour at a time) I get through it and I am often surprised with how well things turn out.

Despite my aversion to the term "normal" for the most part, I can get back to my own equilibrium - if that is 'normalcy' for me, I'll take it. And perhaps I will (and so will the dog) get even better than normal.

That would be amazing.

Isolation

2022-12-10T13:28:00.000-04:00

Today marks day five since my husband tested positive for Covid. He tested positive in the evening, but that morning I kissed him good morning as couples tend to do. What he hadn't told me is that he already felt horrible the night before. (Sigh).

Blame aside, I think we just got a little complacent. COVID-19 has been around 2.75 years. We had never gotten the bug, so maybe we thought vaccinations were enough, especially at home.

But vaccines are not the only way to protect the ones we love. We'd forgotten that. And with restrictions lifting for some, people are not as protected as they were at the beginning of this long-term siege.

So, when I awoke this morning feeling completely drained, crappy, and sore all over, one of the first things I did was take a Rapid-test. (Grr, I hate those things...) and it came back negative. I was, quite frankly, disappointed from a very selfish perspective. I missed the company of my best friend and soul-mate.

However, if there's the off chance that what I have is NOT COVID-19, but some other virus, it would not be good for the two of us to be together to give what we have to each other.

Picture by Firmbee at Pixabay

So, I'm writing this from our half-renovated den in the basement. Daughter and I brought the puppy's pen and crate downstairs, set up my computer, charging station for my phone, a few blankets, and supplies I'll need for looking after the puppy, for as long as I'm here. It is so very quiet down here - no TV, just the noise of the heat pump whenever it's on. Part of me wonders how my back will handle the sectional's cushions; time will tell I guess. It has to better than sleeping in my recliner in the living room!! I even brought down a kitty night-light for the night time. (Pitch black is not an option for me.)

If tomorrow finds me testing COVID-positive, then it's back upstairs for me and the pup, and sleeping in my own bed. But whatever the outcome, I will not run the risk of putting my beloved husband in danger. That's what all the vaccines and the masking and the hand-washing are all about.

It should be an adventure, at least.

Always Something

2022-12-07T13:03:00.002-04:00

Life has a way of unfolding in ways we don't expect most times. It seems there's "always something" that happens or that surprises us.

This time, after two and a half years of being so careful, getting vaccines, wearing masks, and washing hands when others were just not wearing their masks or washing hands, it happened.

My husband tested positive for COVID-19. Almost immediately my daughter and I did rapid tests and tested negative. However, it means that because I am in a position of trust, I must also isolate for 14 days to make sure that I have not caught the virus. And if I have, I must reset the clock and start my 14-day isolation. (I know that's not what the current guidelines say, but my daughter is immuno-compromised and so are some of my clients.)

The busy-ness that I noted rising in my office calendar last week is now put on hold as I contact my clients and reschedule their appointments OR offer them a video session instead of in-person. That's okay; I'm prepared for that.

Life will always throw things, people, and circumstances at us and the best we can do is to accept, live in the moment and the day, and keep our priorities straight. Priority for me right now is looking after myself and my loves at home. It's all good.

Hashtag Fiona2022

2022-10-01T16:40:00.001-03:00

Fiona - Hurricane Fiona - took her good sweet time roaring through Atlantic Canada last Saturday, September 24, 2022. The intensity of the wind was about 150 kph, or 90 mph... a Category 2. I know others have had worse, but it's the worst this little corner of creation has ever seen. In a hurricane, there are mini-tornadoes that twist around such things as tree trunks and transformers and literally rip them apart, leaving them looking like some giant hand reached down and broke them like individual matchsticks.

The next-door neighbour's 100-foot-high maple came out by its roots, crashing over power lines on both sides of the road, its crown landing on another neighbour's lawn across the street. With it, it took out the power pole that his, our, and two neighbours across the street were connected to. Lines severed, pole smashed into four pieces. Fortunately the power went out a few minutes before that.


Neighbour's maple - its roots exposed for all to see.

Base of the power pole
shattered.

We were spared the tragedy that so many experienced: damage to their homes and vehicles. In both cases, there were close calls!

But we lost a good third of the trees on our property, mature shade trees and evergreens alike. And in the wake of that kind of devastation, seeing that other still-standing trees were weakened so the next storm might bring them down on someone's house - perhaps our own - led to the decision to cut down a few more of them. And yes, we have been grieving the loss of these, our dear tree friends, tall sentinels of our home and providers of shade and privacy.

Yesterday, as the sound of chain saws filled the air from power company crews and others working in the neighbourhood, I noticed something that hadn't been there before: there was more light in our back yard. Those shade trees, while providing protection from exposure, had been blocking valuable sunlight from reaching our backyard garden and fledgling apple trees.

And since the storm had demolished our neighbour's privacy fence, the sunlight could reach his beautiful landscaping.

But the most amazing thing for me was that I could look across the neighbourhood and see something I wish I could bottle and sell: the people who live in these houses were helping each other, pitching in and sharing information and resources, and reaching out to connect with each other.

Fiona took away. She took away a LOT; there is no doubt of that. The topography of our landscape and of our communities is forever changed. Some things will never come back; others will take decades. But Fiona also gave. She gave us a renewed sense of community. She gave us friends we didn't know we had. She gave us compassion and empathy for each other. She spurred our generosity.

If there is a light in this darkness, I think it could be that.

The Hollow Place

2022-08-13T11:33:00.002-03:00

Most everyone has at least one hollow place in their lives: a place that has marked them and left them scarred, empty, unfulfilled in some way, and aching.

For some, it's the loss of a loved one. For others, it's a dream destroyed. For still others, it's a ruptured relationship. There are so many places like that. Even when the wound heals, there seems to be a hole left behind, a place that is irreparably damaged.

I got to thinking about this as the 9th anniversary of our daughter Arielle's death gets closer and closer. This past July, she would have turned 30 years old. That birthday was a little harder this year than the last one ... for some reason. Grief has no rules, it seems.

Free photo by Ulrike Mai at Pixabay

About six or seven weeks before she died, she sent me a video of herself just ... being her. She talked about what she was doing in that moment, gave us a tour of her surroundings, and talked about missing us and loving us. I've played that video many times, more often lately - the sound of her voice is somehow comforting now.

And even though most times it doesn't "hurt" exactly to realize she's no longer here, there's still that hollow place, the place left over, the healed edges of grief. There's that empty feeling, call it the "new normal" as I've been known to call it, but in that, there is the knowledge that there is no going back. There is only moving ahead. There is only looking for ways to honour her memory. There is the acknowledgement - and the gratitude - that we had here here with us, even if only for a short time. There is the hope that someday, we'll see her again... someday.

But that hollow place remains. If I had chosen to live there, to keep the edges of that wound raw and torn, to torment myself over and over with the fact that I had experienced a loss that no parent should ever know (and believe me, the temptation to do that was real!) I would have been stuck there, unable to heal, unable to move on, unable to live life as she did: with zest, with joy.

Yes, that hollow place exists. I don't deny it, nor do I deny that there is pain there sometimes, in the most unexpected of circumstances (like a smell, or a song, or a memory). I've learned to accept those as part of the never-ending process of grief, and I feel my feelings and honour her memory.

It didn't come easy. But it came.

And I guess that if I had any words of comfort to you in your own hollow place, it's that the grief never stops BUT it changes shape. It heals as you move on ... and honour the empty place, as you let people love you in ways you can perceive. Moreover, it's possible to eventually help others with their hollow places because you know what it feels like, and you can allow space for them to feel what they feel and heal at their own pace. You can realize their hollow place isn't going to look like yours, necessarily, but the healing process is the same. Time is irrelevant. But it's LOVE that heals.

Living with Crows

2022-07-02T11:58:00.001-03:00

Years ago, when we first moved into our neighbourhood, we had a problem. The problem was CROWS. They pecked at and destroyed our garbage bags that we put out by the road, strewed things from it all over the road and the lawn, made so-o much noise in the mornings so we couldn't sleep in, and basically we considered them a nuisance.

My husband even got a pellet gun and shot pellets into their tail ends. They didn't pierce the skin but they hurt, and the crows learned very quickly to stay away from our garbage. They recognized him too, and knew when he had the "sting-stick" with him. In time, he didn't even have to raise the gun to his shoulder.

Smart. (No pun intended.)

When our oldest daughter was in her early teens, suffering from ischemic migraines that left her bed-bound for days at a time, she heard a crow outside her window, cawing as though he was a 12-year-old boy whose voice was changing. She named him "Buck" - and looked forward to hearing his voice. In a couple of years, Buck had offspring and they learned how to caw like him. It became a joke in our family, as we called him "Buck-buck-ba-CAW" ... and slowly our attitude started to change regarding these creatures that we had always seen as pests.

We noticed their family groups. We noticed how they mated for life and how,when widowed, they would be taken in by their relatives. We heard them feeding their young. We watched them and their social interactions.

"Black Crow" provided free by
MapleAmber at www.pixabay.com

We found different ways to discourage them from destroying our garbage bags. We would spray Javex on the bags to mask the food smells inside - and the crows were smart enough to leave that stuff alone. Nope, not edible.

And then, about 2 years ago, we got a little dog, a Pomeranian. When he was about 6 months old and had all his shots, we started taking him for walks. And the crows noticed. We observed them as they observed us walking our little guy around the neighbourhood, stopping when he stopped to pee and poo. They watched us pick up his poo in little bags, and when we moved past their sight, they flew to a different tree or pole closer to where we were, and continued to observe our behaviour, and his as well. Sometimes he would try to catch one; it would stay where it was until he was about 10 feet away, and just hop into the sky and fly off. I could imagine the crow chuckling to itself.

That's when we started noticing other, more amazing behaviours. Near our neighbourhood, there are a pair of eagles that hunt small animals and birds. The crows set up sentinels spaced at various intervals throughout the neighbourhood. They would watch the eagles and warn each other when the eagles got too close. They were especially vigilant when we were taking our little dog out for a walk. They would band together and chase the eagles away, dive-bombing them and just being a nuisance to them so they would stay away.

And it worked!

These one-time pests had accepted us into the community and were looking out for us. They protected our little guy from a predator that could kill him. (Collars have been found in eagles' nests).

So, now we use a white noise machine so we can sleep in when we want to, and we have learned to live with (and appreciate) the crows.

Funny how attitudes change.

My Safe Place

2022-03-06T13:51:00.000-04:00

The other day, I was sitting in a virtual classroom with 90 other students, when the professor asked us to each participate in an exercise designed to evoke a feeling of safety, of feeling supported, loved, and comforted. He asked us to focus on a moment, a memory that was both vivid and that would produce those feelings.

Immediately, my thoughts wandered to all the possible memories I could have chosen: me being in my grandparents' barn hayloft with a mother dog and her pups, or me talking to my uncle's Percheron horse as a nine-year-old girl, my grandmother making new potato hash browned potatoes... but I rejected all of these and chose something more recent: one time I awoke in the middle of the night as a grieving mother, sobbing into my pillow, and feeling my husband's arms around me. His presence, his unspoken support, his love, his comfort - they were all tangible.

As we went through the exercise, our prof engaged all of the five senses. As he drilled down into the memories we each chose, he was able to bring them front and centre. When it was done, I was one of many who dabbed at their eyes.

It was a powerful experience for me, both during and afterward. My eyes filled with tears of gratitude, of love, of letting go of that pain, of a feeling that I was kept safe and sheltered from the horrible storm in my heart. The feeling stayed with me long after the exercise was over. Each time I thought of that moment, the same feelings came back. I had discovered a new Safe Place, one to which I could return when I felt overwhelmed, anxious, depressed, or threatened.

Free photo by Pexels at Pixabay

Our professor took us through that exercise so that we could experience for ourselves the power of emotions and the need for acknowledging them in our lives and the lives of our clients. Point. Taken.

Shortly after I wrote the above words, my kitten, Willow (aged 7 months) crawled into the space between me and the arm of the loveseat. I started petting her head and neck. And then she lifted her head, looked at me, and crawled up on my chest and laid down, her face nuzzling under my chin. She stayed there for a good fifteen minutes, soaking in the love, absorbing the sense of peace and calm in my body and in the room, and dozing off amid soft purrs.

For a few minutes, I was her safe place.

When she was all filled up with comfort and with love, she got up, hopped off my chest, and went to her perch on the cat-tree to groom herself and survey her domain. Cats position themselves where they can see their people as a way of marking their territory. We are her people. She feels at home here. Now, she has returned to the back of the loveseat, and has laid down just behind my left shoulder. Her left front paw is on the back of my upper arm. She has fallen asleep. Connection. Trust. Safety. Love. Peace.

That's the feeling everyone needs to feel. I need to feel it; she needs to feel it; you need to feel it. And we need to feel it often. At least once a day, Willow comes to me for that feeling of safety and love, usually right before we settle down for the night. It's security for her. It's belonging for her. It's Home to her.

We can call that return to security whatever we like: grounding, meditating, centering, breathing, pranayama, enjoying the moment, going to our happy place, or whatever. For me, it's going to My Safe Place. As part of a healing and growing process in my life, it's essential. And it feels SO good. It's designed to - because we are each designed to connect, to feel safe, to feel settled and secure.

* ♫ ♪ ♫ *

If you want to learn more about living a lifestyle that lets go of the past and releases the future, you can try my book, after which this blog is named: Get Unwrapped! It's not long, but it's worth reading slowly. Get it here: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/91697

New light - Thoughts under the stars

2022-01-04T03:04:00.019-04:00

The clock nears 2 a.m. I cannot see the stars, but I know they are above the clouds, each one singing its song in the symphony of the Universe.

Free image "Milky Way" by Pexels at Pixabay.

I sit alone at my computer with only the sound of the refrigerator behind me and the peeping frogs of tinnitus pulsating in my right ear to break the silence.

The dog, confused at my early emergence from my cocoon of blankets, watches me sleepily from the hallway.

An open cookbook is to my left, a reminder that I will try that recipe for English muffins when I eventually start the day; hopefully I will have slept before that. To my right is a shiny white mug that I use to encourage myself to drink more water.

I notice these things but I attend to my writing, to calm my racing thoughts. This happens occasionally, these bouts of insomnia that I have learned to accept and do something else until I feel tired enough to go back to bed.

My thoughts turn to the sleeping ones in my house. The cats of course - they sleep over 18 hours a day - and my husband down the hall, oblivious to my insomnia, snoring softly. I hear him whistle occasionally in his sleep, pent-up breath escaping like a distant boiling kettle. I imagine what it must be like to breathe all the time through half-congested nostrils. To have to choose between breathing and eating, for only one can be done at a time; his allergies make him miss so much of what others ... what I ... take for granted. I shudder.

My daughter stops by and checks on me. I explain my insomnia (or what I think caused it this time) and she brings me a heating pad for my aching belly - in this body I pay for every pleasure, it seems, with pain - this time it was a prolonged belly-laugh earlier this evening at some silly thing that happened. She and I understand each other's pains. She's a good person, one I am honoured to call my friend as well as my child. She goes back to her bedroom and wishes me a good night. The heating pad helps. Or was it just her love and care for me? Perhaps both. Definitely the love.

And in this relative silence, I sit and type out my thoughts. Blogging relaxes me; it gives me an outlet and orders my thought process so that it doesn't race along, pinging off the walls of my mind like some freshly-released pinball. Yet the thoughts this time are not regrets or flashbacks - those rip at my soul, but not tonight.

Tonight I am ... grateful, pensive, even (dare I say it?) happy. I am unaccustomed to this new way of being. The change came just this morning when I was watching old reruns of The Big Bang Theory. It was near the end of the series and Leonard, who grew up in a loveless home, realizes his mother is using him again to further her career, as she did when he was a child and all through his growing-up years.

He becomes very angry ... and she gaslights him, ignores him until (she says) his tantrum is done. At the end, he finally decides to forgive her, and comes to tell her so. She hadn't asked for his forgiveness, and told him that. But he forgave her anyway. And his words (paraphrased below) pierced my soul to the quick. "I forgive you because ... I'm just going to have to accept you the way you are, and realize that you will never change. And maybe someday, you will learn to accept me the way I am." She sits in silence for several seconds, and says, "That feels good. To be forgiven even though I didn't ask you to do it." He is silent. And she gets up and for the first time in his life, she hugs him. And he hugs her back. No questions, no conditions, no ground rules, Just one simple act of kindness.

And yes, I cried.

Free image by
Evgeni Tcherkasski at Pixabay.com

The scene reminded me that there are certain people in my life who need forgiveness and who will never change. And maybe it doesn't matter if they do. They need it anyway. And more than that, I need to give it to them. No questions, no conditions, no ground rules. Just one simple act of kindness, repeated over and over and over again, until the healing is complete.

I said to someone earlier this week that miracles happen every day. And a miracle is no less a miracle if it happens slowly and gradually. Just like my little light here that I shine is no less amazing than that of the stars that seem so dim but are really enormous and magnificent. That there even IS light is amazing. And just because I cannot shine as brightly as the sun (or as brightly as other people whom I admire) doesn't mean that I should stop shining my own light, or that I should even dim it. It could be that somebody, somewhere, might be just as inspired as I am by what little light I can shed.

I think I can go back to bed now.

Whether I sleep ... is immaterial.

Storm Stayed

2021-12-01T15:49:00.000-04:00

It was January 1980. My (then) fiancé and I were sitting on the floor in front of a roaring fire in the fireplace at my brother's apartment. Each of us sipped on a hot chocolate. All the lights were off, and the fireplace exuded wave after wave of nice, dry heat through our sweaters, soaking us in hearty, healing warmth.

It was over 40 years ago. But the memory is just as vivid: the taste of the mini-marshmallows smooth on our tongues, the warmth of the hearth making one side of our faces hotter than the other, the utter peace and joy in that moment, nestled in each other's arms, the crackling and asymmetric thrumming of the flames, the only other sound being our own breathing or the occasional whispered confidence as we gazed into the dancing tongues of fire behind the mesh grate.

The storm was raging outside: one of those come-out-of-nowhere winter storms when the snow gets into cracks and makes ever-changing desert scenes in swirling snow-devils barely visible in the starlight. That we would possibly not make it to church the next day was the farthest thing from our minds. We were lost in the dwindling flames, kept just as hot by the glowing embers as the clock slipped past one o'clock, then two. We were loath to leave it, because it meant I would head to the guest room and he to the sofa. So we lingered.

Free image by Capri23auto at Pixabay.

That scene flashes into my mind when there's "nothing on TV" and I see that the Fireplace channel is featuring a roaring fire in Banff or les Laurentides... without music. The decision to change the channel is not hard!

With just the sound and appearance of the flames, without any of the deleterious side effects of wood smoke (stuffy nose, watery eyes, etc.), somehow my body feels warmer, and that peaceful, relaxed feeling slips over my tired soul and lulls me into an extreme state of mindful gratitude. Sometimes I even drift off into a doze and catch myself nodding off. My head jerks upward - did anyone see? Nobody would care anyway - they were doing the same thing.

I even enjoy seeing the wood become charred, like rows and rows of charcoal, black alligator hide all aglow with dancing fire-creatures, the flames burning lower and lower until the embers seem lit from within: last, brilliant jewels of their former glory.

Other memories surface. Sitting in a cozy living room in Dorchester, New Brunswick listening to the flames inside a wood stove and enjoying their heat to the music wafting up from my brother's Ovation guitar. Singing along with him in harmony ... and wondering if life got much better than this. I had long since put my own guitar down, fingertips throbbing, but he kept going - joying in a gift re-given when he recovered from a woodworking accident enough to be able to play his "axe" again.

All those images, sensations, sensory memories of times gone by, swirl around me like the flames swirl around the logs they consume. I am in the fire, and I AM the fire. I both consume and I am consumed. There is no difference. Past, or future, only feeds into the now. I bow my head and fuel my own flame.

And here, surrounded by the crackles and the wisps of smoke, I am more easily able to wait. Time becomes an abstraction. Minutes, hours, days ... all meld into the moment of becoming who I am.