life – Page 63 – One Woman's Quest

Excuse Me While I Unload

Excuse me, but it seems I have been carrying around an extraordinary amount of baggage for some time now and I’m thinking it’s time to unload, so pardon me but I’m going to dump them out here, and do inventory.

Wow, what a pile of stuff! I don’t know where to begin.

Black lace catches my eye. I pull it out of the pile. It’s a woman’s hat, with a black face veil. I know this one. It is the veil of self-loathing. While I try not to wear it in public, I take it everywhere with me. It keeps me humble. The veil whispers: Don’t believe what other people say about you; they’re just being kind; they really don’t know you like I do. Boy, looks like I should have done this sooner; I think I’ll just set that aside.

Ah, there’s my graduation cap; my teacher’s cap. It’s a keeper. And my mother’s apron. That can stay too. My reading glasses, my writing pen, my friendship necklace. All those parts I want to keep. Oh, and that teddy bear – all Grandmas need teddy bears – definitely carrying that around with me.

What’s this big, woolly, grey thing? It’s heavy, and to be honest, it stinks like cigarette smoke, stale alcohol, and mildew. It reeks of shame. I’m not sure this is mine, but I’ve been carrying this around forever. Wouldn’t be surprised if it stunk everything else up. This needs to go. I might even have to get a new suitcase to start fresh. I’ll just put that one out in the trash can.

Better make sure the smell hasn’t lingered. Sure enough, the lining of the case has absorbed the stench. I’d better air it out also. Wait a minute, what’s that in the lining? Something is sticking out. It’s silver and pointed. Looks like a brooch. It’ a very delicate piece: silver leaves swirling around a peridot stone. Is this mine? It’s beautiful, but I don’t recognize it. Just my taste though, I’m more silver than gold, and I love the peridot green. I wonder how long it’s been here? I should try it on, and see how it looks. No, I’m not ready for this. I don’t have anything to go with it. I’ll tuck it back away for another day.

Will you look at that! A pile of mismatched socks. So like me, to carry around odds and sods hoping to make sense of them sooner or later. Thing is, young people don’t wear socks or stockings anymore, so all these do is date me; they don’t serve any other purpose. I think it’s time to let them go.

Wow, look at that! It’s a rusty old paintbrush. I used to love art – even won the award in grade eight – but I was advised against pursuing it – not intellectual enough – so I set it aside. Could this still be in me? I’d like to know.

Oh! A feather. I know why it’s here. I tucked it in here to remind me of my spirituality. I’ll keep that too.

My cookbooks can stay. Here’s an old ship in a bottle. It’s pretty dusty, and the vessel inside is covered in cobwebs. I’m thinking whatever dream that was has long past; no point carrying that around anymore. Time for new dreams.

This is kind of fun. Can’t remember the last time I took inventory of what I’ve been carrying around. Here’s some comfy yoga pants. Those need to come out more often. I can just hear my body screaming yes, please.

Hope you don’t mind if I carry on without you. I can see a few more things I’d rather deal with in private.

What have you been carrying around?

(Image: ok-woman.com)

Acceptance

“I know what I want to give my Father.” Dee looked at me through her veil of blonde hair. Her face always bore such sweetness, yet the young girl I knew was so intense.

“Tell me.”

Dee was dying. This was her third dance with cancer, and the doctor’s said it would be her last. I visited daily, at her request, and we talked about fears, and dreams, and spirituality. Lately, it had been on her mind that if her life was to be a short one (23 years), then she had to make it purposeful.

“I have decided that the best gift I can give him is to accept that he loves me, even if he doesn’t show it the way I’d like. What do you think?”

Dee and her father had been fighting since the news came. He wanted to take her home, but she refused. She wanted to die here, in the town she had been living the past four years. He couldn’t understand her unwillingness to fight in the face of death. He wanted the doctors to do more. She wanted him to let it go, and to be more emotionally available to her. We had been discussing their relationship during my past two visits.

“I think that is an amazing gift, Dee. I am forty years old, and I haven’t even been able to do that with my own father. That’s the best gift ever.”

* * *

Dee had me thinking. What would happen if I were to accept my father, just as he was?

Dad’s 75th birthday was coming up and I hadn’t yet bought him a gift.

He had asked for my acceptance once, and I’d said no. It was the night he shared with me his awful secret. He sat the family down and told us all. He said that all he wanted was acceptance, and when he turned to me I said I couldn’t do it. I said I needed my Father, and what he asked of me was too much. I stormed out.

So, on his 75th birthday, I wrote him letter. I apologized for that girl so many years ago, and I told him that I never really understood his problem. I told him that I knew he loved me, and that I loved him too. And I said that when I got past all my self-righteous anger and frustration, I had to admit that he was probably the best teacher I ever had in life. If it hadn’t been for his struggles and the challenges they presented for all us, I might never have been the person I was. If there is a divine plan, or higher purpose for life, I wrote, then he accepted a hellish existence in order to give us the opportunity to grow and evolve.

He cried when he read it, and he called me up after, and said I had an odd way of looking at life, but that he appreciated it. He appreciated it that I was willing to accept him as he was, but he wanted to be better. Did I think it was too late?

I told him what Alan Cohen said: “Look in the mirror. If you see yourself looking back, then there’s still time.”

* * *

Dee’s father liked his present, too. His anger had broken the next time I saw him, and he even let me see him cry.

Whiskey Fights

Most evenings I would return home from work at 10:30 exhausted by my day. Juggling school, homework, and a part-time job was taxing, particularly as I worked from six to ten, four evenings a week, as well as eight hours on Saturdays. Typically, I would stop to visit with my parents before heading off to bed. It was always at these times that my father would engage me.

It started with an empty drink glass he would balance on his knee. This was to be my cue. I would ignore him.

“Ahem!” He would nod at the empty glass.

Continuing to ignore him, I would talk to my mother about the day.

Clink, clink, clink. My father would tap the glass to get my attention.

“Your legs worked fine the last time I saw them.”

He’d raise his eyebrows in displeasure. “I worked hard all day. It’s the least you could do.”

“I worked hard all day, too.” I’d object. “Get your own drink.”

My mother, the peacemaker, would take a step towards him.

“Don’t you dare, Mom! You worked equally as hard all day. He can get his own.”

“Is this the thanks I get? All I want is a simple drink, and my own daughter won’t even get up and get it for me.”

It was the point of the thing. My father was the epitome of male chauvinist pig. It was his home, his castle, and everyone and everything was expected to pander to him. It made me mad.

My mother stood by, hesitant.

‘It won’t hurt him to serve himself once in awhile.” Now I was arguing with her.

“Your not going to win,” she’d sigh. My father leered with satisfaction.

“Not if you give in.” It was a hopeless plea. My mother always gave in. Didn’t she realize I was on her side? I was doing this for all of us?

This wasn’t about the drink. It was about all the times he made her have dinner on the table the moment he walked through the door, then pushed his plate away after two bites, exclaiming disgust at her cooking; humiliating her in front of all of us. And how he always had to have the first helping of pie, and it had to be flawlessly served; no broken pieces for him. It was about how he insisted on napping in a chair beside the dinner table, forbidding us to talk even though we were busting to discuss our day. And how every time we were watching the movie of the week, he would come in just at the climax and insist on changing the channel, even though he had a TV set in his room, which only he was allowed to watch. He was the King of the Castle, he’d remind us. As if we needed reminding.

For once, I wanted to win. To prove him wrong. To see him back down. It wasn’t going to happen.

I got up and grabbed the glass. There was no winning against my father. He knew it. She knew it. I seethed inside.

(Image: www.photigy.com)

Gift of Communication

It was a Friday afternoon and I was picking up my three children from school. Within five minutes of climbing on board, the oldest had her younger brother in tears. I felt my ire rising.

By the time we got home, she was lacing into me. My first instinct was to let her know who was boss, but I was the adult, so I walked out of the room, and took a deep breath, willing myself to gain some perspective.

Calmly, I rejoined my daughter, gently placing my hand on her shoulder. “What’s wrong?” I asked. “Your brother and I weren’t around you long enough to get you this upset. What’s bothering you?”

My eleven year-old daughter’s anger melted into tears. “The kids at school are pressuring me to smoke,” she sobbed. “I told them I don’t want to, but they keep bugging me.”

I sighed with relief. Thank goodness I had not met her aggression with more aggression, shutting down any communication between us. This child needed someone to confide in, and I was so grateful I could be there for her.

That was the day my daughter taught me never to take another person’s moods personally, because when you do, you miss the possibility of greater intimacy.

(Image: www.nhs.uk)

Abuse and Money

I arrived home from school one day to find my mother sitting in a corner trembling, her face face blotched red and swollen from crying. “Mom?”

The eyes that stared back at me were distant. This was not my mother. I took stock of the situation. It was 3:15. My little sister would be home from school in half an hour. Dad would be home at 4:30 and expect dinner on the table. Nothing had been started yet. I dropped my books and got down to business.

“Mom. You need to talk to me. D is going to be home soon, and we have to get dinner on. What’s going on?”

She nodded slightly. “I can’t do it anymore. Your father……..” Her voice trailed off, but she didn’t need to say anything. I knew how brutal my father could be. I heard daily how stupid she was, and how she never cooked anything properly, even though that was her only job. I wanted her to leave him, too.

“I’ll do whatever I can, Mom. In two years, I can quit school, and get a job. I’ll support us.”

Was that a faint smile?

“We’ll make it work, Mom. We’ve got each other.”

Reaching for the pots and pans, I added, “Now what can we get started for dinner?” There would be hell to pay if dinner wasn’t on the table the moment my dad walked in.

* * *

At twelve years of age, I learned that money was what kept my mother in an abusive relationship. It never occurred to me that she had the option of getting a job; she was a stay at home mom. Five years later, we would go through a similar scenario, only then I was already living on my own, and had enough sense to get her to a lawyer. In the end, my father convinced her to stay.

Years later, I would find myself a stay at home mom, with a husband who controlled the purse strings. Like my mother, I felt powerless, and inferior. Unlike my mother, I left anyway. I braved poverty in order to find my worth. Nevertheless, I struggled, seldom able to give my children the material things they craved. I felt guilty, worthless, inadequate. After six years, I had a serious talk with God.

“God,” I said, “I want to make a difference in the world, but I can’t do it if I don’t even know where the next meal is coming from.”

I tried affirmations: All my needs are always met; there is enough for everyone.

Eventually, things turned around. Yet, my relationship with money has not yet healed. I want to be able to say the money’s the money, the way my new husband does. I want to be able to see money as a means to an end, and not the end of my means.

My attitude towards money still needs work, but I am ready for change.

(Image: empoweringparents.com)

Creativity and Self Definition

I dream that I am walking across an open field. The landscape is barren, and dry, and a wind storm is whipping up, with low menacing clouds. I am headed to the farm, where I raised my children, and where my ex-husband still lives. I am living in the city, in the basement of a raised ranch with hand-me-down furniture. While the apartment is bright, because of the high windows, it is still a basement. I am walking against the weather, despite the weather, because I want to finally settle something with my ex; call a truce. He is processing wood – putting it through a machine and creating little piles of wood chips and lots of sawdust in his large open shop. He keeps working and ignores my presence. My mother arrives in a car and has a present for him. My older sisters show up also. They are in the main house primping, and trying to show me how to make myself more attractive. I just want to clear the air, but there are too many distractions.

I always say that creativity is the process by which we define and then express ourself. In the dream, I am influenced by the women in my family, the inclement weather, and an ex-spouse who is preoccupied. I chuckle at the dream’s image of my older sisters preening, as growing up it was impossible to find a mirror that was not taken over by one of my sisters. It was part of the reason I chose to be a tomboy; it was easier than trying to get bathroom time for grooming.

In my family, women were expected to be pretty, under educated, and submissive to men. My older sisters were both beautiful, and took secretarial skills at school, leaving after grade 11, so they could get a job and find a man. I did not fit this mold. Taking after my father in looks, I had a receding chin, and wore glasses. I was also ‘gifted’ and aspired towards a university degree. I was outspoken and pro women’s lib. My mother told me daily that no one would ever love me; she worried about my future. I felt my mother’s legacy fulfilling itself, when my second, and former husband told me he had never loved me after seventeen years together. I left that marriage believing that I was unlovable.

I thought I had worked through all that. I am in a relationship now with a husband who constantly demonstrates his love for me. So why, in my dreams am I going over old territory? And what does this have to do with creativity?

Maybe the dream is reminding me that if we define ourselves within the context of our environment, then we are limited. If we are to expand our sense of self, we must be able to see beyond the landscape of our past. In terms of health, my mother has had numerous issues, including three rounds of cancer; my oldest sister suffered illness all her life; and my next older sister is debilitated by schizophrenia. None of them escaped the limitations of victimhood to experience either successful careers or relationships.

I believe that the purpose of dreams is always to bring positive movement in our lives. This one left me feeling hopeless, unwanted, unseen or heard – much like my childhood. I need to envision a new reality for myself. I need to create new possibilities instead of searching and re-searching the experiences that will never serve to define me as anything less than inadequate.

(Image: wallpapers-kid.com)

Navigating Intuitively

In 1997, the annual Therapeutic Touch conference was held in Vancouver, and to my great delight, my then husband encouraged me to attend. The conference was to be held over a weekend, but as I had a friend living on Vancouver Island, I decided to extend my stay. Two others wanted to join, and while I said they were welcome, I wanted it to be on my terms – outside of the conference, I wanted no set agendas, or schedules. I wanted to be fully open to the experience, and whatever presented itself; to let my intuition alone be the guide.

One of my teachers and mentors was also living in Vancouver at the time, and as it turned out would be on the island during our stay. Em agreed to meet up with us. We needed a place to stay. J, who lived on the island, scouted out a cottage we could rent for cheap. It was November, so very off season. She found a three bedroom that looked like it would accommodate us. We were excited.

We flew into Vancouver and rented a car. By late evening, we were in Victoria. We decided to stop for the night. S and I were up early the next morning, ready to explore.

“What does it mean to follow your intuition?” she asked as we set out on the deserted streets in search of an open coffee shop.

“Some teachings believe that Spirit speaks to us through omens and signs, but most of us miss this guidance in our day to day living, as we are too focused on schedules and obligations. I just want to see what happens when we open to guidance.” A large black bird squawked from its perch across the street. We both looked. “Like that bird, for example. What would happen if we followed it?” On cue, the bird flew a short distance, then stopped. We followed.

S and I were going into business together. She already had an established business, and I had a vision. I wanted to create an environment in which people could find help in times of need, but I didn’t want it to be clinical, or formal. We were thinking a book store, with added services. We shared ideas as we continued to follow the bird, who seemed to be enjoying the game. He would fly only within sight, and wait for us before journeying further. Eventually he stopped just outside a store front. The store was called “The Pomegranate”.

“I like it,” I exclaimed. I had just read something about pomegranates, and how some scholars believed the original apple in the Garden of Eden was actually a pomegranate. I shared this with S.

She told me in the Jewish religion, the pomegranate was a symbol of the many ways man can serve man. She said the pomegranate has multiple seeds (over 100) and that each seed was representative of a different act of service. Our discussion became lively and animated. We walked on, our harbinger forgotten.

When we returned to the hotel, L was ready to move on. We loaded up the rental vehicle, and headed north. L would drive, S would occupy the passenger seat, and I would be the backseat driver, listening for ‘signs’. With its combination of mountains, trees, rock, and water, it is difficult not to feel inspired on the island.

I tried to pay attention not only with my eyes, but also with my other senses. We hadn’t travelled far before I felt a shift in my physical perception. I asked L to pull over. My companions looked at me expectantly. Not sure what I was experiencing, I explained that I felt something different, a sensation of depletion, as if the energy was being zapped out of me. We got out and looked around. Not much to see. I pointed in the direction where I thought the sensation was coming from. There was some big machinery there; it looked like it might be the beginning of construction. We asked a passerby, who responded that the forest was being clear cut here. What a shame, we thought.

We drove on until I suddenly felt my heart begin to flutter, as if it had taken flight. “Pull over,” I announced. “I feel like soaring.” We got out and looked up. Three eagles were circling high above. We watched in speechless reverence.

Our next stop was close to the inner channel. I suddenly felt playful, bubbly. “It’s in the water!” Sure enough, it was. A lone dolphin was jumping in the waves.

“This is fun,” L said. “But I’m getting hungry. Where does your intuition say we should eat?”

“Wendy’s,” I blurted. A chorus of groans erupted. We had driven past a number of quaint towns and cute little restaurants, and fast food was the last thing on our minds.

“Surely, not.” L protested. I shrugged.

Wendy’s came into sight. Reluctantly, we pulled in. I made a beeline for the washroom, while L and S got in line to order. Inside the bathroom, I had the sensation of the earth moving. Something was here, but I had no idea what. “This is the right place.” I told the ladies when I caught up with them. They rolled their eyes. We pushed through the crowded restaurant to find a seat, and were nicely tucking into the food when I heard an unmistakeable laugh. Em was here!

Across the room, seated with her back to us, was a middle-aged woman with a long grey-black braid down her back – Em. We embraced and laughed at the serendipity of meeting in this restaurant, when all of us avoided fast food. Em was visiting friends and would be meeting up with us on Miracle beach later in the week. She travelled by motorcycle, and preferred no schedules. We would see her whenever.

We set off again, now convinced. If we make room in our lives, and open up our awareness, Spirit can speak. It was the beginning of an incredible week. Our setting was aptly named: Miracle Beach. The miracles for that week had just begun.

(Image: www.hellobc.com)

Adjusting Focus

At thirty-one, I suffered from acute anxiety depression. Translation: the amount of stress in my life overloaded my ability to function. My mind snapped, and I was reduced to a blathering blob of human jelly – trembling uncontrollably and unable to perform even the simplest of tasks. I lost all sense of self.

While incredibly frightening at the time, in retrospect this a time of breakthrough. The black abyss into which I had fallen was a wake up call to re-examine my life. Obviously, the way I had been progressing was not working for me. I needed to regain equilibrium.

In desperation, I sought inspiration. I found it in one particular quote, whose author I have long since forgotten:

I turned to God when my foundation was shaking, only to discover that God was shaking my foundation.

Prior to losing my grip on reality, my life had been externally focused.

My oldest sister was dying of cancer, and opted to die at home, which resulted in my mother and I becoming her primary caregivers. At the same time, I had returned to work full-time in order to allow my then husband the luxury of finding himself career-wise. Ideally, the plan involved swapping roles, but his search led him to uncover an insatiable love for racing, and I found myself juggling work, childcare, and homemaking.

In response to the unhappiness I was feeling, I strove to better myself by enrolling in a fourth year French course at the university, and pushing myself to become more physically active.

In short, I had taken on way too much. I like to think God pulled the plug.

Alone in the bottom of my black hole, I discovered something miraculous – my faith. I hadn’t given it much thought before, yet, there is was, like a faint beacon of hope, drawing me out of my darkness. I realized that I did believe in God, and more than that, that God believed in me. My doctor offered long term drug therapy, but I preferred to take God’s challenge, and build a new foundation from within. A spiritual dialogue began.

Twenty-three years later, with the threat of the c-word over my head, I find my equilibrium challenged once more. I have not forgotten that God uses nudges as reminders. I need to find balance again. The dialogue continues.

(Image:

Allef Vinicius)

The Beginning

An image from my dreams has been haunting me for some time, mostly due to its oddity. The image is of my chest, with nipples akimbo. Why would I dream such a thing? I could not fathom the answer, but I did become self conscious afterwards, always checking myself before going out. I saw a woman once who had nipples so misaligned that it was hard not to notice. I was afraid to ask, but judging by her general physique and character, I assumed it was a breast enhancement that went terribly wrong. That would not apply to me. I have no cosmetic surgery in my past, present, or future.

Then last night, after waking out a deep sleep with heart pounding and a burning thirst, I caught sight of myself in the mirror, and what should I see, but one nipple pointing north west and the other lost in orbit – my dream image! So was my dream a premonition? If so, what was the message?

December 13th I had a lumpectomy. In late June, my doctor sent me for a mammogram, after noticing it had been many years since the last one. Not long after the routine examination, I received a recall notice.

“Don’t worry”, the message said, “in 9 out of 10 women, it is nothing.”

I assumed it was related to the length of time since my last one. No real borderline for comparison. Re-examination day came. They wanted to do two procedures: a spot screening and an ultrasound. Unlike my first visit, which was in and out in a surprisingly short period of time, I found myself waiting and waiting after the initial procedure.

I asked if they had forgotten me. A nurse assured me they had not. Instead, she invited me into a private room and handed me a pamphlet.

“We would like to do a biopsy.”

There was something about calcification, but it was unexpected and so I didn’t ask any questions. Never a fan of needles, the thought of having my breast punctured overwhelmed me.

One of my professed philosophies is don’t worry until there is something to worry about. The threat of a sharp object invading my delicate area was real and immediate. I worried about that. The appointment was scheduled for two weeks down the road.

My daughter was due to give birth any moment. I worried about not being there for her.

A cancellation four days later, saw me headed for biopsy without the time to fret.

“Your doctor will have the results in 10 days” I was told.

Two days later, my doctor advised me I needed to see a surgeon. She said the finding were “suspicious” and the area needed to come out. I would be seeing the surgeon on October 31st. Trick or treat.

I ran into a close friend who had been going through the same thing. Her doctor said they would just monitor her more closely. I liked that solution. I decided I would be a “wait and see” also.

In the meantime, I had a beautiful new granddaughter to occupy my thoughts, and I had just started a new job, at a new school.

Then in mid October, my beloved mother-in-law suffered another in a long line of health setbacks, and did not recover. She passed away on the 23rd of October, and we held a memorial “cocktail” party in her honour the following weekend.

By the time October 31st came along, I was physically exhausted, and emotionally spent.

My ‘wait and see’ approach was met with a chorus of “Absolutely not!” from both the surgeon and her resident. Nor was I to be allowed to put it off till summer vacation. December it would be.

“Any questions?”

I couldn’t think of one. My mind was flooded with concerns for work, Christmas, and our annual trip to Mexico. What would happen to all of those?

Try as I might, anxiety got the best of me. I threw myself into planning for Christmas, finishing up work, and cooking for post-surgery. I found myself becoming irrationally temperamental, losing patience easily, and tearing up without warning.

“It’s not like having a toothache,” my husband reassured me. “With a toothache, you call the dentist, and know what will happen. There is no certain outcome here. It is fear of the unknown.”

I wear a sports bra now, 24/7. It supports the area and helps with the healing. Without adjustment, it also pushes my breasts into awkward positions and creates an image similar to my dream.

So what was that all about? Did some part of me, with some warped sense of humour, try to warn me in advance? Was the intended message that this would be the worse to fear? Or that there are worse things to worry about than whether or not your breasts line up?