Moving Day

Today, I will move in to my new apartment. It signifies the beginning of a chapter, one in which I am living and loving on my own terms. One in which I am blooming within the garden of the will in which I rely. One without servitude or force, without limitations my own imagination concocted.

My own space. My own life.

I would like to take a moment of gratitude in writing...for I live much of my life in gratitude, however the word is a powerful thing.

I am thankful for the many many people who have helped me.

In support, listening, advising, pointing the way, shining a light in both the positives and negatives.

I am thankful for the hands, the direction posts, the lessons and the circumstances that have brought me to this place.

I have zero regret, or guilt, or bad feelings. Only blessings and love.

The desire to change what was binding led not to a "change" so to speak...but the unbundling and revealing of understanding. An acceptance for what is, and the release of all the masks I clung to.

I am here. 

For this, there is no one in my life who I am not fully in love with and in gratitude for.

Although I choose to embark on this journey "alone", I am not in a state of "alone-ness". Rather, I am at all times surrounded by a community of support and respect and love. Freely coming and going with the in and out breath. 

Thank you- for if you are at this moment reading, then you also are a part of my oneness. 

Lately, I have been asked quite frequently if I am afraid.

I have attempted to explain. Now I will express...

There is no fear in what I am doing.

There is freedom. 

There is peace and acceptance.

Where I notice concern, I breathe into this moment a release to know.

I do not need to "know" what is three steps ahead.

I only need to know now...and now, I am here. I am fine. All my needs are met and I am well.

There is no fear here.

Only gratitude and love.

As I move into a space I may call my own, it is with peace, thankfulness and open acceptance that this is where I am to be. 

All is well.

Listening

I listen a lot.

People will say they don't know much about me, but the funny thing is I'd answer if they asked. 

Loved ones know that. 

Others...well they just don't.

One of the main things I listen to is nothing at all.

When I'm walking, I listen to the trees.

When I'm in a crowd, I listen to the tone and the mood.

When someone is talking, I listen to their face....

Sounds funny, I know, but a face will tell you much more then words ever could.

What I really listen closely to tho, is actions.

Actions are deafening.

Actions are the very thing that probes beyond the words, the feel and the ideas. 

Actions give you a blow by blow on what's really going on.

Since I started practising yoga a couple years ago, I began to be very mindful of my own. 

At first, I still felt very out of control. I would try so hard to have my actions match my intent, match my words and so on. But it felt like I was trapped by this world.

In the last few months, I found a new strength. I hope it sticks around.

The strength lies in the ability to follow my gut instincts and act accordingly. It matches my thoughts and intent and ability to act, by accepting that each and every moment of each and every day are choices that I control. Not every situation is my choice, but what I do with it and how I react to it is.

Back to listening....

People will tell you if they want to be in your life. People will tell you if they care for you, love you or have any interest in you beyond what they can use you for. 

All you have to do is listen.

...and I'm becoming an excellent listener.

How It Ends

"Some things you let go in order to live" -Florence

If I turned, and looked over my shoulder, I could tell you a thousand tales. Stories of failure and triumph, joy and pain, villains and beasts and fairies and victors. I would sing to you folk songs of broken hearts and mended bridges. 

They would be mirrors of what was. They would be true and they would be false. For every story is only a piece of illusion seen only through my eyes and spoken in a whisper from the feeling they created.

They aren't my stories any more. They aren't my burdens or my reason. They are only parts of a cobweb that angels shed when they shine through the cracks in the floor boards. 

So what does that leave? 

Nothing.

 

A shadow in the starry night of someone in the shape of a human sobbing over loss for one last time. 

A safe journey only begun.

The dance on a dusty trail with no one watching but a nosy chipmunk.

It all means nothing, stitched together with good intentions and long lost love forged by familiar fear.

How do I begin?

With one simple sentence.

"I am here."

And I am. I am here, right here, right now, and nowhere else.

If you asked me, "why did you stay so long" my answer would be; "because I love him."

If you asked me, "why are you leaving?" My answer would be; "because I love him."

If you understand that...then you understand everything.

You understand the story, the illusion, the reason and the purpose. You understand the past and the present, and you can see me, clearly. You see the masks, the pain, the choices, the uses and abuses. As my hand touches the door knob, I could look you in the eye and you would see the light of this universal love, the present as it unfolds.

You would hear the voice that rings in my head:

"I don't know why I don't just stand outside and scream, I am teaching myself how to be free.

I know it seems like forever.

I know it seems like an age.

But one day this will be over, I swear it's not so far away." -Florence

I am inviting my truth and grasping onto forever. I am letting all these precious things go, and watching them fall one by one. 

I'm not brave or afraid.

I'm not strong or weak.

I am just me, as I am, 

And I am here.

Zero to Bi-polar

...in 2 seconds flat.

I was happily painting, living in my own world of no thoughts. 

A text..."are you coming?"

I smile.

"Oh yea. I was going to go meet someone tonight." I remind myself and glance down at my work. Torn between staying in my space of no thought and entering the world of socializing.

With a sigh, I made the choice to leave what I was doing to dry, and slip out for a bit to have a drink and chat. 

Throwing on a clean sweater and socks, I laced up my boots and walked out the door. With my earbuds in, I walked into the darkness humming along with the song. 

Peaceful, happy, content with the world and my place in it.

A hug of greeting for all the smiling faces. Light chatter and my mind far off trying to decide what colour I would use in the next layer of my painting that was waiting for me.

The buzz of conversation, and I found myself being slowly pulled into this reality. The one where things happen and people have troubles. Yet I was still quite far away, hovering above any feeling. Dancing around the edges of disappointment by being let down by someone who said they would have time for me and interest in the stories that were unfolding.

Between laughter and conversation, I was met with some news. 

The floor dropped out. My chest caved in. Blood pounding in my ears and red spots flashing in front of my eyes. 

How could you?

How dare you?

Why?

If not in a crowd, I would have folded over and cried. But instead, rage brimmed up and all that serenity and calm detachment; all thoughts of my painting and accepting what is...gone. 

This is how we forget to love.

This is where the silence and connection to all humanity snaps shut with a bang.

This is zero to bi-polar.

While raging in a storm, I forget to not judge. I forget that I have wronged people. I become broken, weak, mean. My inner well of pent up years, where stories swirl and razor-edged betrayal lurks to tell me how useless I really am; comes dangerously close to exploding. 

I didn't walk away.

I didn't return to my painting, where peace and letting go laid waiting. 

So, once over. As my 10 subsides to a 2, I look around through tears I finally let fall. How silly, my humanity. 

I realize that this is how it looks.

Taking things personally. Judging quickly. Allowing the actions of another to effect my mood, my peace, my sense of well being.

I realize that the issues I am facing have to do with how I take certain events. How I deal with them. How I react.

I can apologize. 

But really, I take a few moments to send out love. I take a moment to be thankful, to be gentle with my bi-polar self. 

It's no ones fault for the choices I make, or how I react to the choices they make. It is just a part of life, and like everyone else on this planet, I'm learning to love my way through it.

Little Broken Hearts

"Your dad took one look at you and went running in the other direction!"

The sting of tears jumping to my eyes and the sticky lump in my childish throat caused me to send an unsuccessful foot in the direction of my tormenting cousin. His quick side-step making my body tilt askew, knee twisting with the force of my missed kick.

"He did not!" I cried, off balance and fingers twisting around the doll I held tight to my chest.

"Yea he did. You're annoying and ugly and no one loves you!" My cousins' hand shot out to shove me backwards, slamming against my right shoulder and sending me tumbling with a butt-smacking lurch. Gravel shooting a dozen bee stings across my back and arms and digging grooves. "Just go away Bit" he spat at me, towering over and blocking out the sun for a moment before turning his back on my crumbling face.

 He kicked some loose stones that thudded hollowly against my knees and left arm.

That was the first time my tiny heart broke.

I actually didn't know why my dad wasn't around. I didn't really question it because neither was my brothers dad. It wasn't something that was talked about. I knew other kids had mums and dads. My mum had a boyfriend, my Grandpa was around and my Uncle Colin and there were lots of guys at church and in our apartment building who I played with.

That was the first time it have ever crossed my mind to wonder about someone who was "my dad".

My little mind conjured up the scene of a "dad", looking at tiny, wrinkled, baby me- the face in the picture my mum had from when I was first born- and sticking out his tongue. "Ew" he might have said. Maybe he handed me back to mum and said, "I don't want that." 

Or maybe he had never even held me. Maybe he had just looked and saw how awful I was and ran out of the hospital screaming like Animal from the muppets. 

I wanted to ask someone. Maybe my mum or my brother. But then I thought, what if it's true? My brother sometimes said I was a cry baby, so he might not tell me because then I would just make that awful noise he hated. And maybe that's why mum didn't talk about a dad. She would tell us not to say mean things, and that would be a mean thing. 

I hugged my doll, Annie tighter. With determination, I wiped my teary face and stood up off the rocky driveway. Sniffling and looking around to see if any of my other cousins were close by. I didn't want them to see me acting like a baby.

If my own dad thought I was ugly, maybe I should just run away, I thought. My legs, back and bum were throbbing and stinging from the fall, but I set my lips in a tight line and snuggled Annie up under my chin. I headed off in the direction of the bush. Past the house, down the hill and around the giant rock that marked the entrance of the forest.

My memories of that day from the point of leaving my grandmothers yard are quite fantastical and dream like. My adult mind questions the validity of sitting on the rotting soft wood of a stump at the edge of a swampy clump of rotting leaves and talking to a yoda-like creature. The trees most likely did not guide me or brush their limb-fingers through my hair to comfort me. I certainly could not have heard a rabbit tell me it was time to go home or watched as mushrooms sprouted out of the ground leading me to the road.

What I do know for sure is I was gone all day. It was almost dark when I made my way into the small town at the end of the island and a lady recognized me and called my grandma. I remember falling asleep to the sound of grown-ups talking about what a bold little shitty-pie I was. I didn't know what "independent streak" was, but I could hear the proud tone in my grandmas' voice, and with Annie tucked snugly under my chin, I slipped into an exhausted sleep.

It would be years before I discovered that my mum had left my father long before I was born, and that he had never, in fact, looked at my infant face. Meeting him in my teenage years helped solidify my belief that he had never, nor would have ever, said anything close to my cousins' claim. 

But words are powerful things. Hearts are hard to heal. 

One thing I know about my character is that I am as quick now as I was back then to run. Protect self. Fantasy or real, my first reaction is to pull back, resist, run and disappear. As soon as my heart starts to hurt, my fearful reaction is to put as much distance between me and whatever I think is going to cause pain.

Yet...

I have been learning. Slowly but surely, that it's okay. 

It's okay to hurt and I don't need to run back to my forest. 

I'm bringing this part of my journey out into the light because I'm pretty sure we all have some piece of us, some part of our psyche, that is still reacting to things; real or perceived, the exact same way we did when we were little. That first time our trust was broken or our faith was rocked, or we felt alone and lost and unworthy. It set us up to always resort back to that same feeling.

Maybe our outwards actions have grown up a little, but the knee-jerk emotional response is still that little broken heart.

I want to say it's okay, and maybe it's time to remember what caused it. Maybe it's time to put that memory in the palm of our hand, crush it like a brittle leaf and blow it away. 

Because people will break promises, hurt you, leave you, say mean things, be angry and confuse you, do all sorts of things that you can't explain or protect yourself from.

But bottom line, at the end of the day, you're gonna be okay. I promise.

Eaten Alive

Isn't it easy to take things for granted?

I think so...when becoming complaisant, it's a slippery slope to the bottom of the hill.

I think to myself, I shouldn't let things bother me half way down. But somewhere along the line, I hit that inevitable rock that lets me know how insignificant I am in this great big world.

It's something simple generally. 

I notice that I'm only as good as I'm useful and anything more then that is me-hands out-begging to be accepted.

By the time I'm there, it's really too late to take it back. The only real way of climbing back up is taking a good look around, gathering my strength with a deep breath, and starting the trek.

The world will eat you alive if you let it.

I prefer to not.

I prefer to suck it up and sigh.... Whatever.

Because if the world was a great big person, and I was getting stuck in it, I'd probably be the one climbing back out half-eaten.

 I don't accept being leftovers. I hear the call of an undying dream and the passion of a heart that refuses to stop beating. And all the passing fancies fade to nothing as I claw and scratch, bite and bleed, to do what I need to.

I will feel pain. I will get angry. I will make mistakes and hurt people and it will be ugly. I will have those times when giving up seems easier.

But...

That isn't the end of the story.

Because, 

I will feel ecstasy. I will become elated. I will succeed and help people and it will be beautiful. I will have those times when not giving up will pay off, and I will be thankful.

So-

Up or down.

Black or white.

Good or bad.

Sorrow or joy...

It is all worth it.

If you're looking for me, I'm in the middle of climbing back up that hill.

Lost Ones

I was quite young when it happened, my hazy memory a fog of snippets that I have not thought about or cared to recall.

I would have been 8 or 9 I think, for some reason the memory time-frame overlaps with my vivid recollection of Erin Burkholder, a childhood friend of mine that was murdered. 

In a musty smelling laundromat. My mother folding laundry on the end of a puke-orange yellowing table. The hum of dryers and ka-chunk, ka-chunk of washing machines. A tinkle as the back door swings open, the form of a man pushing through with a child in his arms. "If a woman comes in I'm not here." He says as he sets a little boy on the edge of the table.

I remember the smell of dryer sheets, the look of lazy confusion in the little boys' big eyes. The way his little hand wrapped around the mans jacket. The goose bumps on my neck and the icy shock of adrenaline.

He spoke with my mother, words I can't recall in the crumpled, faded memory. But the feeling I conjured back was one of a lesson...he was teaching someone a lesson by taking that little boy...someone had left him in a car and the man wanted them to be scared.

Many years after that, my two boys were abducted by their estranged father. Fresh from jail and angry that the courts had placed a restraining order on him, their father went to the person who was taking care of them and disappeared. I was at work when I got the call, and by the time I knew what was happening, he had caught a ferry to the mainland and my boys were gone.

Six weeks later, my boys came home to me.

Six weeks of panic, police, RCMP and cross provincial battles.

Six weeks of sleepless nights, innumerable tears, guilt, anger, anxiety attacks, frustration and fear.

This was a story I lived through, yet try to not think of. That time was one of the most defining and guilt-heavy periods of my life...

Because why did I let it happen?

What could I have done differently?

What happened to my babies when they were gone?

What did it say about my ability to parent and protect?

The things that were said about me, my mothering capabilities and my character were harsh, crippling, horrific. Things you wouldn't even think to say about someone you abhor. Yet I took it all, quietly, internally, and once my babies came home, I made my earliest escape possible, with the help of family from 3 provinces away.

Did my boy's father teach me a lesson...?

Yes, I suppose he really did.

Now and then something happens in the current time to peel open wounds such as these. Memories almost forgotten, or buried, get pulled to the surface so I can examine my perceptions, my fears. I get lost in how to deal with it, and think myself irrational for having an overwhelming reaction. I think I am not alone in this. However, due to the way I function, I don't want my personal crap overflowing on a situation that has nothing to do with me.

So this is me sharing a piece of my story. This is me dealing without oozing emotion and allowing myself to wallow in history. 

Not all stories end with "and then they came home." So I'm thankful for those that do. 

Perhaps the moral of all this is lost ones create ripples in our lives. Whether it is a momentary panic that ends well, a prolonged story or a permanent loss...

Whether it is our own, or our loved ones', or even just a knowing of someone else's' loss...

Lost Ones bring a lesson to us.

I can't say I'm grateful for this, not yet any way...

But I can say I am aware.