Unexpected Gifts

It's easy to take things for granted.

"I never do anything for myself." She sighs deeply, flicking her perfectly shop-French-tipped-manicured fingers through her six-hundred-dollar hair extensions.

"You know? Like it's always go go go, and never a minute for me."

"That's rough." I say, snatching a glance at her from over the edge of my coffee.

"Ugh, you know I don't know what I'm gonna do." She tops up her wine from the half empty bottle of Chardonnay. 

We have been sitting here for the last two hours, conversation only interrupted by the tinkle of incoming texts and the pause while the tac-tac-tac of the response is hammered out.

"We could go for a walk." I suggest.

"Oh I'm just so tired, like you have no idea, so like, today, I had to go get my nails fixed, because you know, those nail people are just so unprofessional. So I'm sitting there, and I have to tell her three times my pinky is crooked! Finally, I had to tell her I just wouldn't pay, and I mean, I could go somewhere else! And since I'm like, a regular, that would be good business they are losing!" 

I curl my own broken and jagged nails inwards, suddenly aware of the paint spatter and Clay across the tips. 

"I just don't know how you do it." She carries on. "You just do the stuff you want to all the time." 

"Not all the time." I answer, trying not to notice the glaring difference between my ragged, stained jogging pants and her perfectly crisp designer jeans.

"But you're always so content, and I'm just exhausted. I mean, if I don't unwind with my wine at the end of the day I'm just a wreck!"

I'm not sure what to say. 

In the silence that stretches between us, I come to realize that as much as I'd like to get my hair and nails done weekly, have a hot tub to lounge in while sipping my imported wine, be exhausted from doing nothing but pamper myself every day, complain about being broke with a couple thousand in my bank account... I actually am very lucky. I'm blessed. 

Since I see these things as exquisite treats, they are sacred and blessed events. 

I stretch my work hands out and scratch my tangled, undyed hair. In an hour, when I climb into my second-hand car and drive to my where-the-poor-live home, I will count my blessings and find that my cup runneth over. When I crawl into my comfortable bed, I will begin to write a letter to someone who has nothing but bars and time.

Once, I would never have considered writing to someone in prison. When I started to, I thought I was doing them the favour. I was extending compassion, sharing a burden, being an ear or shoulder to listen and lean. It didn't take long at all to realize that I had it totally wrong. It was me who was learning, growing, leaning and expanding. There are lessons I have learned both in triumph and in sorrow while sharing my time and life with the prisoners I correspond with. These are gifts from an unexpected source.

"When I look around this cage, these four walls, all I can see is the past that brought me here. But when I think of the coffin I could be looking at, I say thank you bars. This is both my shame and my salvation." -excerpt from a prisoners letter

I have friends and acquaintances from all walks of life. From the grass is always greener to the sky is falling, from the cup is halfway full to the going-to-the-garden-to-eat-worms sort. There are those who have cast me out of their lives with and without reason. There are those I have chosen to distance myself from with and without reason. The lesson I am learning from all of this is we are all the same. 

 Perhaps it's not what we have that matters, but how we see what we have. From someone who has everything money can buy, to someone who gets by, to someone who has nothing but remorse and shame....we are all the same. The person who can appreciate everything while having nothing is as equally blessed as the person who appreciates nothing while having everything. 

Perhaps then, the blessing is not the having, but the knowing. The gifts that all these people can give is the unexpected gift of being, it's up to us whether we accept it or not.

Of Nature

"There is no accounting for what dogs do" I say this often. Dogs are dogs. Cats are cats...it is the nature of the beast to be what it is. 

When I first got my Quaker parrot, she was a hatchling. A tiny little snugly baby, all chirps and downy feathers. I never imagined clipping her. I remember the lady telling me she would need to be clipped every six months or so, and I internally snorted. As if I would ever do such a cruel thing to my baby!

Many months later, Cora made her first great escape. Sitting at the tippy top of the tallest tree in our back yard, she squawked "pretty girl, pretty girl" at me in a taunting fashion. "Come DOWN pretty girl!" I hollered up at her, trying to entice her with seeds and snacks I know she loves. It ended with my son climbing up the tree to snatch her and carefully bringing her down snug in his jacket.

The second time Cora flew off, she whizzed out the front door past a terrified plumber dude. It was a rainy, windy, cold day, and I had to work. 

To make a long story short, what followed included people climbing trees and being told to "suck it" by a taunting bird, flying from tree to tree, until finally she took off after a failed attempt to use a pool skimmer as a net.

Late for work and dejected, I begged my neighbour to continue the hunt.

A couple hours later, I got the call that she was home safe. Tammy had found her, or rather she had found Tammy. Wet and cold, she had nuzzled Tammy's neck all the way home, insisting "Cora pretty girl", and Tammy soothing her, "yes, Cora is a pretty girl"

After a couple days, she was herself again, and I took the dreaded trek to have her clipped.

She is a bird. It is her nature to fly.

Yet she was born a hatchling, in captivity, in a country she was never intended to be in! She was not designed to survive Canadian winters. She was not born to be free in her rainforest....

So what, exactly IS her nature?

I write to a murderer, he writes me back. Yesterday I received these words:

"I do try to focus on joy and happiness, but from my earliest days my joy and happiness was taken from me. I move forward, trying not to dwell on it at all, but inwardly I know it is something I have never had. So, in the emptiness, I do not feel joy or peace; therefor in solitude, I feel sadness and despair. Meditation is hard for me, it demands stillness. This is emptiness. How can I find peace when in the state of stillness all I find is what I am lacking? Maybe a different life would have brought me different places. Instead I am here, and in my attempts to find silence and acceptance, all I find is what I have never had and never known."

This brought to mind the story of Grandfather and the snake.

Finding a dying snake, grandfather picks him up. He takes him home, nursing him back to life. The snake lives in grandfathers corner, growing strong and enjoying life. Together they hunt mice, share stories, bask in the sun and pass time.

One day, snake bites grandfather. 

As grandfather lies dying, he says to snake:

"Why? I gave you life. I loved you. I cared for you. Why did you bite me?"

Snake hisses at him as he slides away,

"Silly man, I am still a snake."

What is in our nature to deny what is? Humans do not share the ability of animals to just be. Sometimes I think this is what causes so much pain and disharmony. The constant need to change what is, to deny who we are and why. We tell ourselves stories to change what truth may be.

There is no happy conclusion to this blog, not yet any way. 

For people will be people, and part of accepting what is, is knowing that you can't do anything to change it. Maybe only nudge and hope, forgive and have faith. I will continue to say "dogs will be dogs", and what I mean by that is everything, everyone, has the right to be and do exactly what they need to. I might not always like it, I might not even understand it, but it is what it is. Live and let live.

Namaste

My Journey to Peace

There was a time, not long ago, I was crippled by fear.

I had anxiety, weight issues, guilt, nervousness, depression and relationship issues. I wondered some days why I was still alive. I wondered if there was anything worth living for, and if so, would I ever find it?

I was anxious about carpet fuzz, driving, social situations, relationships. I did my best to hide these by avoiding them. I cleaned habitually with no joy. I made excuses not to drive or attend social functions. This was the life I hid with a mask of hilarity and togetherness.

When Victoria asked me if I would consider life coaching, it was like a light bulb. Yes! Hypnosis and deep meditation were already on my list of things to try, however I had never gotten the motivation to do it. 

Within a month of starting our sessions I had put in the work and time, her "homework" becoming a habit of positive thoughts and actions. I was off my medication and functioning at life. The years that followed have been a steady climb. I stumble and fall, but have the tools to get back up and try again. 

It has been well over a year since my last panic attack and I have done things and gone places I never thought possible. 

I would suggest to anyone who is serious about getting their life back on track to get life coaching from Victoria. She is helpful, professional and a great support on your journey to peace! 

Namaste

Clay Rose

Fingers dripping with water, clay sticking and drying in the cracks between. I ball a chunk of clay and begin to flatten it across my palm. I work the cracks out, smoothing the edges to a petal shape. 

I bite my lip in absent concentration. The first layer is curled into a thin tube, gently pushed together to show the edges. The next layer is slightly feathered outwards, overlapping the first. 

As I work my way out from the centre, the petals become more and more fragile, bending and splitting as the pressure is applied. 

I'm trying to make a clay rose. So far, my attempts have been futile. My thin clay cracks and crumbling as the layers are applied. In absolute frustration, I grab my work and ball it in my fist, crushing my attempt. I begin again.

I feel like it is a metaphor for who I am. Attempt after attempt to embody the thoughts that dwell within, only to succumb to the weight of drama and disharmony once again. 

I curl outwards, layer after layer of joy, love, peace and hope. My edges begin to crack, there is a day of frustration. I take something personal. Someone lets me down. I smash my broken rose and tumble back into a heap of clay. 

But there is hope. Hope that one day I will rise above, hardened and solid in my will to succeed. I will glaze my edges and paint the colours I wish to show...one day.

And so I start again.

Retraction

Can I get a retraction please?

I have noticed people post their lives on Facebook. The ups, the downs, the rock bottoms. 

The break ups, the make ups, the birthdays and keggers. 

But we miss out on the in betweeners. 

We don't know how it went from you broke my heart to you woke my heart. 🌹

We don't hear how haters became besties. 

We don't see the deep conversations of I'm sorry and I forgive you. 

We hear the wahoos and the way to goes. We hear the never let you goes. 

Yet never hear the "please baby, forgive me's". 

We see the 😔😒😞😁😢😱😤😅's

We know the places. 

We see the time, most of the time.

We send out ((HUGZ)),

We share the joke.

We hit the like, we smile :).

Text a note, then hit send.

We friend, we friend, we accept and friend.

But is it really real...?

Where's the retraction that takes all that time back.

Hush

Now and then life just becomes quiet. 

Most often it is after a stormy flurry of chaos and activity. Like the sun that comes to shine sparkling rainbow lights through the iced limbs of the burdened trees. Like the wind that calms to a sigh, running her fingers over the blanketed fields. 

The white that devours all colour, dancing over the horizon and hanging all chilled thoughts lazily over the blue wall. 

Fortunately, within the warmed walls of dressed comfort, we look out. We notice. Not that the noticing matters, as if majesty might exist without audience.

For quiet is what comes next. A chapter in the book of never-endings. Written by the hand that stirred the pot. A creator of no fictional endings or seven gun salutes. A hand that swiftly announces and softly descends. With finger, might raise the orchestra, or fall gently over a lip for hush.

Then We Bloom

How we become,

Amidst all opposing forces.

We,

Seeds,

Clenched in muddy fists.

Hoarded from whence we came.

Each plunged by the tip of a finger into murky, stifling darkness.

We,

Choked and trapped, now drenched.

Our insides writhing and expanding,

We break.

Our depths reaching outwards, blindly twisting and curling both downwards and up.

We, 

Stretching with aching desire for an unknown source.

We, 

Against all odds, watch as our bedfellows are plucked, devoured and wither.

Still we reach into our center and expand evermore.

We find light.

Pushing against the grave we have encountered. 

Once cement, now the clay we claw and ground in.

We find hope within the struggle and scream "I am here", as we poke through the tunnel we created. 

We find room to breathe, 

And we do.

We breathe deeply in unison. 

Then we bloom.

For blooming is what we were designed to do.

From bag to bag, 

We beget what will again follow.

Whispering as we fall,

"This is why, that why was it."

Whether for a day, or only an hour.

That we were.

**this was inspired by a painting, in the photograph, by Artist James Flux.