Family Moulds

Sometimes I think of the family unit as a mould and its children the raw material. It is a simple analogy to describe the complexity of family relationships and influences.

My childhood moulded me in many ways. Primarily, I became a self-sufficient perfectionist. Qualities that made me ambitious and propelled me forward. But, I eventually found that these traits did not always work in my best interest displaying themselves in either a Dr. Jekyll or a Mr. Hyde persona.

It took time and reflection for me to identify Mr. Hyde's influence. I saw nothing wrong with being self-sufficient until I realized that I rarely sought out help. I know now that not everything can be accomplished alone. Life would have been easier for me if I had sought out a mentor in business and a health professional for my depression.

Being a perfectionist wasn't all it was cut out to be either. Things often didn't get finished because they were imperfect to my eyes or it took an unreasonable amount of time to complete a task when I couldn't detach myself from the details.

But among my key characteristics, I am also highly introspective. Human nature fascinates me and I am my primary subject of study.

Life is becoming easier now that I have acknowledged that it is okay to admit I don't have all the answers.

A Gift From My Mom

 

The small business can be easily identified as the neighbourhood variety store by the antique looking coca-cola sign swinging out front. A piece of cardboard covers the growing crack in the large display window. Above, are windows into the personal residence of the owner - the unintended victim of large grocery stores.

Unannounced, we pop through the front door. My mother is servicing customers from behind a weather worn counter. The moment her eyes take us in, she lights up and asks, “Are you hungry?”

In moments, kitchen aromas trigger pavlovian responses. A decadently rich meal, affectionately coined as “heart attack” food, is placed before us. Massive quantities of koldunai come smothered with a sumptuous sauce of rich flavours created by combining butter, sour cream, and bacon bits. Served along side is pan fried Kugelis – a creamy potato pudding. Empty plates and wide smiles end the meal.

We hug and kiss our goodbyes. Gone as quickly as we had arrived.

 

Today, I have made enough to feed a dozen starving guests when a mere eight are coming. My comedic husband states, “You are your mother”. I laugh giving him a squeeze. “Thanks for the compliment.”

Dearest Son, A Letter of Love

 My Dearest Son,

 

Now that you are a grown man, I often wonder if you have any inkling of how you have enriched my life by just being, or how much unconditional love I hold for you. I struggle with these feelings when my mind darkens with insecurities. Dwelling on how I treated my own parents. Asking myself, if I wasn’t a good daughter, could I be a good mother?

In the past, I may have told you and your sister that my pregnancies were accidents. Tales to provide some comedic relief. Only partially true. Yes, I was on birth control pills when you were conceived. But you were never an afterthought. Our plans changed. Apparently, yours did not.

When I was pregnant with you, I told family and friends you must be a boy. According to old wives’ tales, pregnancies are different for the sexes. I held back the part that the possibility frightened me. Having no brothers and a poor track record with male relationships, aside from your father, I felt insecure; lacking the experience one derives from life lessons.

Once you were born, I realized the flaw in my thinking. I shouldn’t label you a “boy”. You were an individual, your own person, and that’s how I needed to treat you.

I liken my fragmented recollections of your first year to a frame of mosaic tiles, each beautiful but when artistically positioned together, crafts something truly memorable. As the nurse placed you on my chest, I recall drawing your scent into my nostrils so deeply that I would know you, even with my eyes closed. You were our precious little 10 lb. 13 oz. bundle of love.

It may seem silly to you, but the first thing we did, as every parent has done for eternity, as you and your wife may one day do too, was take inventory. Gently, I checked each of your miniature appendages, reassuring myself as I noted their number and the tiniest of fingernails crowning each one. I outlined your palm lines with my own finger and wiggled my digit until you grasped it firmly within your fist. When your dad and I were satisfied, I remember releasing a breath so strongly that it surprised me, frozen in that moment. This wave of relief opened the dam gates, and a flood of joy rushed through us. We were now an example of family perfection. Two children, one girl and one boy. The dog will come later.

I think we both know that family isn’t always easy. Like individuals, no two families are alike. Belonging has its challenges. But it is forever. As your mom, this blood bond comforts me. It is the reason I know you will never be alone. It doesn’t matter whether you feel its connection. With or without your belief, it exists. I cherish it and revel in its expansion.

We remained in the hospital for a few days. I was recovering from surgery, and you spent a bit of time in an incubator. Having been delivered by Caesarean section, you were so much cuter than most newborns who could easily be mistaken for aliens if not for their human parents.

During this stay, your pediatrician came to speak with us. With the single word “problem”, the lightness of my joy dissipated as my heart sank from the weight of dread. Comforting words tried to repair the damage done. “We caught it early.” “Years ago, he may have ended up with one leg longer than the other.” “His condition can be treated.” You had a congenital problem with one of your hips. The joint hadn’t formed fully and needed to be immobilized to give it more time. Straps locked your tiny knees to your chest and restricted your movement.

Even with your legs held tightly in place, you appeared a contented baby. Perhaps you still felt the confinement of my womb.

Everything seemed easier this time around. Nursing went smoothly. You slept well, both at naptime and during the night. Your unwavering contentedness made me feel more confident as a mother. When I had only one baby, I was housebound. This round, I could take both you and your sister shopping on my own, giving me a sense of freedom, or probably more honestly, escape. Escape from your grandmother, my mother-in-law. The liberty I experienced was unexpected and welcomed. Your temperament gifted me the enjoyment of motherhood.

Something else was different this time. Your harness made diaper changes somewhat challenging. A fortuitous blessing. Unlike what I had experienced with your sister, where everyone was always snatching her out of my arms to do their cooing, they were now unsure how to handle your restrained body. In effect, they rewarded me with more you-and-me time. A warmth still flows through me as these frames of memory come into focus once again.

Looking at your baby photos, I smile back at the adorable chubbiness that was you. A side effect of your restricted movement. Eventually your Orthopedic Doctor gave us his thumbs up and my heavy heart lifted. Our baby was healthy, along with happy.

Today, at family gatherings, we joke at each instance your mannerisms or speech mirror your dad’s. Nature or nurture is still a mystery to me. The combination of genes from mother, father, and ancestors comes together uniquely resulting in imperfect beings, every one.

 

I remain your biggest fan.

 

Mom

P.S. If you ever need a pick-me-up, just imagine how my eyes and my heart see you.

 

Am I Crazy?

People often refer to writers as solitary individuals because when they are working, they often shut themselves off from the world with only their tools to keep them company. Unless, like witches of old, they have a cat. We’ll talk more about the cat later.

Readers don’t account for all the people we invite into our process who are as real to us as some of our closest companions. Many we welcome with open arms. We celebrate their successes and cry as they suffer a tragic loss or make a poor choice. Others come unwelcomed and we would prefer to just shut the door in their ugly little faces. Often these intruders still push their way in and remain far too long. No matter what, it is important that a close relationship is developed with each one.

At the moment, I’m trying to get to know Maggie - at least, that’s what it says on her name tag.

When I first met Maggie behind the counter of her cafe, she appeared quite ordinary. It wasn’t until she turned to face me straight on that my mouth opened and I stood silently, trying not to react any further. I observed that the left side of her face was severely disfigured. I wasn’t sure, but it may have been from a burn. What I was certain about, however, was there stood a troubled soul with secrets. A woman who had, in her youth, been a beauty.

Maggie is the protagonist in the novel I am currently outlining.

One of my least favourite visitors is my personal critic. What really infuriates me is that he tries to come off as an advisor, encouraging me to do better. Even when I remind him I don’t have a complete first draft yet, I can’t seem to stop him from pointing out phrases he feels must be rewritten immediately. It’s really hard for me to give him the boot because I recognize I will need him later.

These are only a couple of my visitors when I am writing these days. I am still early in preparing my outline. For the time being, I will only seek comfort from the various cats that show up when my thoughts drift to the advice presented in the book, “Save the Cat! Writes a Novel” by Brody.

So am I crazy to have so many imaginary friends?

To the Men in my Life

Ever since International Women's Day, I've been itching to post this message. I decided to wait a day or two, hoping not to be labeled insensitive. Here goes ....

To start with, I don't believe in taking one day out of the year to celebrate something or someone. Mother's Day, Father's Day, Valentine's Day, Anniversaries.... For me, I believe in cherishing people (and their rights) on a regular basis through the things I say and do. My opinion about taking one day out of the year and elevating a cause tends to demonstrate that we have not yet integrated these values into our daily behaviour.

There were a lot of thanks going out to all the wonderful, powerful women in our lives on Monday - I trust that the women in my life know that is how I feel about you everyday, notwithstanding the fact that I didn't express this on Monday (being my son's birthday).

I believe that the human race is better blended, so as a reminder of this, I would like to thank the men in my life who value my idiosyncrasies and acknowledge me as a person: my husband - who always accepted me as his equal partner; my son, - who always challenged me to think outside of the norms and values strong women in his life; my father - who raised me to be independent; my male business colleagues - who valued my contribution; and my male friends - who saw me as a person.

I have worked for all women organizations and for male dominated ones but the best have been the businesses with a blended leadership. I don't have the answers to creating equality in the world. I choose to be happy in the knowledge that I can control my own actions and my desire to live my life as an example of my ideals. 

Sharing An Opinion on Social Media

I am a person with opinions, enjoying friendly discussion on diverse topics. Many yesterdays ago, I habitually blurted out my thoughts without consideration of consequences. Today, I try to be more controlled about the “when and where” and take time and care in crafting my words.

Typically, I do not voice an opinion to a general audience. More times than not, I find it a waste of my energy. It is not my intention to change someone’s opinion, I only hope to encourage the sharing of perspectives. What I experience is something more akin to debate. There is nothing wrong with this, and it has its place, but I find it combative. When people come together with the sole intent of winning over the opinions of others because they are convinced of their own righteousness on a topic, I think we lose an opportunity for improvement.

Yesterday, I couldn’t help myself. The topic was the censorship of books, and it was like another post I had recently seen. I felt compelled to register my opinion on this forum, populated with Canadian writers, against the advice of my inner voice which was screaming, “Don’t do it!”. So far, I have not received any mean comments, but one lengthy response got me thinking; not about what the writer intended to clarify for me, but how narrow minded our responses are when wrapped up in our own biases. Naturally, I again felt compelled to respond with a better explanation of my original intent, knowing that this was also a mistake. I was now caught up in momentum that was gaining traction and would likely have no fruitful outcome.

What did I learn? Social media is not the place to voice my opinions. If my intention is to encourage discussion so that I may gain insight from a different perspective, this format is too limiting to communicate with sufficient substance and it is too easy for people to throw daggers from the shadows of anonymity.

Do you have any personal experiences related to the sharing of your opinions on open social forums?

Censorship

I don't believe that you can make enough rules (or laws) to ensure that others will only demonstrate behaviours that are acceptable to you. For this reason, I have difficulty with the concept of censorship, even if the content is hateful and/or misleading. There always has to be a judge of what is acceptable. Is it not better that we choose for ourselves?

A friend of mine shared the following post from Penguin Books covering 15 frequently banned and challenged books in Canada. I have read at least 7 and watched one as a movie.  How about you?

List of Books

Are there any books there that you find offensive?

Do You Like Weird?

I love weird.

If you are a friend of mine, don't be surprised if I think you are weird. It's a compliment. It means I find you interesting in a way that is different from other people.

In fact, I think when you really get to know somebody, you discover that quality of "weirdness" I am referring to. Perhaps "different" is a less offensive word to some, but I prefer "weird" because it catches your attention.

You might think that this makes me weird. I hope so. I never aspired to be average or just like everyone else. I value diversity, especially in the way we chose to express who we are.

Minimize Your Regrets

I refuse to live my days out in a manner that may culminate in a life depicted by the story, "Death of a Salesman". It's more amusing to think of myself singing harmony with Frank Sinatra. "Regrets. I've had a few. But then again, too few to mention."

That doesn't mean I want to live my life on the edge. Taking dangerous risks is not my idea of fun. I am too cautious for that. My goal is to remain open to new or different things. Being afraid of looking or acting the part of a fool is the biggest risk I am willing to take.

What's Coming Up Next and Do you Keep a Journal?

I just finished taking a ride down memory lane. I re-read all the original posts captured here - both the published ones and those still in draft format. It's hard to accept that time is so fleeting, evidenced by this blog.

I started writing here over a decade ago. As you can see, my content was sporadic. I struggled with my intent for posting personal insights and gave up many times. Today, I was glad I still had them to look back on.

I'm not sure exactly when I did this (maybe within the last 2 years), but I destroyed all my handwritten journals. Why? Because they were like open wounds. I was embarrassed by the thought of someone reading them and judging me - especially, my grown children or grandchildren.

As I am reading Matthew McConaughey's memoir, Greenlights, I regret my decision. I see their value now. They would have made a wonderful resource for some of the material I am writing today. As my past slips farther away from my present, I am finding it difficult to recapture some of the feelings and timing of certain events. I was blind. I could not appreciate their potential value as an emotional measure of my life.

I will not let this deter me from sharing a part of myself with others. And, I am unlikely to counsel anyone to discard their journals in the future.

Going forward, I intend to revise and publish some of the posts that have been waiting for my attention for so long. It will be interesting to see when they were started and whether my views have evolved.

Let's enjoy the ride together.

Fringe Science: How It Influenced My Thinking About Truth

Since I was a young child, I've always had an interest in fringe science. The skeptics out there, of course, would deny that this is any type of science at all, or may refer to some theories as pseudoscience. My come back has always been, and still is, ... we don't know what we don't know and there is lots that we don't know.

The problem for the lay person, like myself, lies in the questions, "Who to believe?" and "Fact or Fiction?".

Back in my twenties, I read an interesting book about Area 51. I may not be able to say to you with any conviction that aliens exist but I can tell you how you can use the dissemination of misinformation to discredit an idea. It's a form of propaganda. You simply mix truth with lies. The manner in which you weave your story together must be convincing so that people cannot discern fact from fiction. At least, not on the surface. The technique is used often - just look at all the conspiracy theories out there.

Determining truth is not always easy. It helps not to be gullible - meaning, don't believe something just because a lot of people are spreading it as fact. It is my policy not to accept or dismiss ideas based strictly on their popularity. I weigh out how an idea fits into my views and do my own homework should it be necessary.

Today, I don't see truth as black or white - unlike facts. That being said, even facts may vary from individual to individual based on a personal perception of them. But, I find that truth is more personal. Your acceptance of something as fact, is often coloured by your current beliefs.

Contrast Brings Me Clarity

Last night was my monthly book club meeting. An event I always look forward to whether I have enjoyed the selected book or not. It is my opportunity to socialize, express my thoughts, and listen to what others have to say. (Notice the order of priority here LOL).

I truly appreciate this specific group of ladies. They are both insightful and accepting. Qualities I cherish. Our conversations are always interesting. I especially enjoy moments when we express different points of view on the same subject matter. These are the conversations that I reflect on in days to come. Typically, they are the ones that teach me something - either about myself or the world we live in.

To me, these are moments of valued connection. The insightfulness of this group helps to bring clarity to the way I perceive the world around me.

Fitting It All In

Since I retired, I have resisted being organized and living my life according to a list. I compare my behaviour to those people who refuse to wear a watch - often resulting in them giving up being on time too. I am rethinking whether this strategy is beneficial to me.

Yes, it did initially seem to provide a more relaxing lifestyle; however, I am finding that, even during COVID, 24-hours is insufficient time to fit everything I want into my day.

At first it didn't seem important. If I didn't get something done today, I would get it done tomorrow. I am discovering that this approach to my day results in certain loved activities to fall way behind. You might have noticed that writing this blog seems to get missed way too often.

Don't mistaken this omission to mean that I am not writing. In fact, I am writing a lot. Just not here.

Once again, I am going to make an effort to add my thoughts to this record of my personal journey at least once a week. 

Let's see if list making will help. 😀

Remembrance Day Tribute

 I appreciate peace.

I am grateful to be living in a country that has not experienced war within its borders during my lifetime, and, I hope, never will in its future.  I wish this for all peoples.

I am also grateful for my personal freedoms.

The Value of Fun and Games

I participated in a conversation game this week that reminded me of the importance of fun and games.  I thank the people who opened themselves up and made a connection with the group by sharing something about themselves.  They contributed to my appreciation of the art of play.

As a child, I was raised under an umbrella of rules that were intended to teach me that hard work was rewarded and having fun was unproductive, or a waste of time.  My life experiences reinforced this lesson and I was proud of the accomplishments my hard work resulted in.  It wasn't till much later, as an adult, that I began to value fun for more than its ability to restore my energy.

 

At some point, I began to feel that coined phrase, "there must be more to life".  I had created a lifestyle pattern of working so hard that it took doing nothing just to rejuvenate myself.   Time was a precious commodity.  It had to be spent productively; anything else was a personal indulgence.

By the time I finally saw that the solution was a simple one, I had grown rusty at the art of play.

I love people who see humour in the little things in life.  I strive to be more like them.  If I can find the fun in the small moments of each day, I feel happier.

When I am happier, more good times come my way.

The Gift of Forgiveness May Be Acceptance

 I was recently reminded of an "aha" moment I had while grieving my mother's passing.  It had nothing to do with my mother but everything to do with my father.

Childhood resentment of my father was heavily based on my perspective that he was the polar opposite to my mother.  Whereas I saw her as kind and loving, I felt that he was cruel and cold.  I had also felt that her attributes were undervalued.  To express my feelings of loss, I wrote a poem to honour her.  It was in this act that I gained awareness of my own lack of compassion.  Let me explain.

Growing up I had felt my father's judgment upon me at all times.  I didn't feel that he saw, or accepted me for, who I was.  So, how could he love and appreciate me?  It made me feel that he wanted me to be someone else - perhaps the son he never had.

When I got to writing this stanza, I had an awakening of conscience.

Remember her,
By being accepting of others,
Not for who you want them to be,
But for "who" they choose to be.

I had complained about who my father was my entire life.  In writing these lines, I recognized it was up to me to change how I looked at him.  To see him as a man who struggled all his life to do his best.  It was time to accept him for who he was, instead of expecting him to reflect the image of a father I had wanted him to be.

My new perspective was tested at his death bed five years later.  As he lay dying, he talked about what a great father he had been.  I didn't contradict him.  I acknowledged his belief in himself and gave him the gift of a peaceful passing.

I will always respect and thank my father for providing his family with a home, food on the table and an education.  He never made me feel that being female meant I couldn't become anything I decided on.  The contrast he represented in my life experiences brought clarity to my vision of who I wanted to be and reflect back to the world.  I am grateful for these things.

Appreciate the Satisfaction in Your Baby Steps

Life is a continuum of baby steps.  It only makes sense, then, that your level of joy can be maximized by noticing the happiness you feel as you take little steps throughout your day.

This has been particularly difficult for me.  I always had my eye on the ball, the end game.  So much so, that I often didn't stop to appreciate the process of getting there.  The fear naturally becomes that you will never be truly happy unless you reach your goal(s), and once reached, what's next.

This is what I do differently now.

I look for the satisfaction in the small things I accomplish during my day.

For example:

"Got the laundry done today.  Isn't it satisfying to check something like that off your TO DO list.  I love having clean, fresh smelling clothes to put on.  It feels good to wear clothing that is freshly washed.  I appreciate looking into my closet and having my entire wardrobe to chose from.  Wearing nice clothing makes me feel good."

When I first started this practice, it felt contrived and silly.  It took a bit of focus to allow the visceral feeling of satisfaction and appreciation to surface.

If you are interested in playing along with me, do it the next time you feel satisfied.  If you want to try this out right away, look back in your experience for such a memory.  Now, milk the feeling for all its worth.  Talk about it (if only to yourself).  Keep the conversation positive.  Keep finding words that invoke the feeling of satisfaction and appreciation.  It's not enough to say that you are satisfied.  You have to use words that help you to feel satisfied.

The words we choose in life are very powerful; whether they are external or internal.  Choose carefully. 

This practice can pivot my day from feeling blah to being energized.  Let me know if this makes a difference in your daily outlook.

The Need to Express Myself

 Writing down my thoughts and feelings is something I have done since childhood.  First it was entries into a dairy, then it was writing poetry and prose (sometimes even song lyrics); this transitioned into journaling which morphed into blogging. 

Then I reached a point where I wasn't sure why I was writing.  What was the point?  There were lengthy periods when I didn't capture any of my thoughts on paper.  I know now that, even then, my mind was still sorting out what I wanted to get out of the process.  The feeling of satisfaction when I find the perfect words to express my thoughts was worth holding onto, but I needed more.

In the meantime, I found other ways to express myself.  I borrowed something from my childhood -- play.  Doing things simply for the joy they bring.  I took up golfing, gardening, cooking, sewing, cycling and reading.  I love it all.

I still haven't sorted out where my writing is taking me but I have decided to be open to what comes along.

Starting My Day Off Right

I start my day off with a cup of coffee.  A large mug with a heathy pour of 2% milk.

When I get up in the morning, I have a little routine that starts my day off right and feeling good.  I put on my housecoat, go to the washroom and head groggily down the stairs and into the kitchen.  I reach for one of my favourite mugs from either the cabinet or the dishwasher and brew a single cup in my coffee maker.

I'm not particular about the brand.  In fact, I'm not sure that I even like coffee all that much.  What I do like is the feeling of wrapping my hands around a warm mug, bringing it up to my waiting lips and slowly sipping at its contents.  The feeling is not complete until I comfortably position myself in my living room, with coffee in hand, so that I can gaze out the sliding doors into the green woods that are at the back of my house.

My husband, who is an early riser, is normally already engaged in activity while I am still wrapping myself up in the quiet comfort of my thoughts.  For me, the feeling is magic.  Taking the time to envision my day.

Life is made up of many little moments.  I am happier when I take the time to drink them in.

The Value of Creativity

 Feeling alive gives me the energy and enthusiasm to enjoy my life.

I find that when I undertake a creative endeavour, be it within the framework of writing, sewing or gardening (just to name some activities that work as my muse to awaken my creative spirit), I can feel a surge of energy stirring within me.

There is nothing that makes me feel more alive than going through the process of creating something that a moment ago was no more than an idea.  It can start with something as simple as a meal.  I see a recipe that looks interesting and ideas about how I would change it to suit my tastes begin to take form.  I look through the cupboards or go shopping for ingredients which come from the image taking shape in my mind.

Not everything works out.

This would be a disappointment if I was only interested in the goal - the finished product.  If I lose sight that I had fun during the process or that I had gained clarity about what I would do differently the next time, then certainly I would call this failure.

But as Thomas Edison said, "The light bulb was an invention with 1,000 steps."