nonfiction – Page 5 – One Woman's Quest

Full Circle

The day was unusually warm and sunny, and like most young people my age, I was anxious to break out of school and enjoy it. Instead of boarding the bus at my usual stop, I decided to attempt walking to the transfer point downtown. Not a seasoned driver myself – I was only nine – I knew no other way to get downtown then to follow the bus route, so I set out nonchalantly, skipping and humming happily along.

After close to an hour of walking, with nothing familiar in sight, I grew weary. Spotting an approaching bus, I made the decision to board. Finding a seat near the back, I was relieved to finally be sitting down. I glanced out the window to see if I could gauge how far I had come, and guessed I was probably close to where I would have to get off and transfer.

I glanced across the street, and was suddenly struck by a feeling of deja-vu. The building across from me was not one that I had ever noted before, and when I read the name, I didn’t recognize it, yet, something about this place seemed known to me. There was a bus stop in front of the building, but I knew I had never taken a bus from that point. A woman was looking in my direction and as our eyes met, she had a sudden look of recognition. I smiled back, but couldn’t place her either. The bus moved on.

Years passed and the incident on the bus was forgotten, until the first night I decided to record my dreams.

I had enrolled in a course at the local university that examined the relationship between visions, dreams and God. The first assignment was to record our dreams. I had fourteen dreams that night.

In one, an unseen person has hold of my hand and is flying me through the city, leading me downtown to where we stop in front of a building. It is not a building I am familiar with, although something is twigging in my mind. As I stand there, contemplating its significance, I glance across the street to where a bus has stopped to take on passengers. I lock eyes with a young girl seated on the bus, and in an instant I know where I am. My twenty-eight-year old self has circumvented time and space, and come face to face with my nine-year old self. I am the other side of my deja-vu.

A full circle.

(Image: funny-pictures.picphotos.net)

Innocence and Authenticity

I am five. Chronologically, I am five. Inside, I feel as old as I’ll ever be.

I am free of the burdens and distractions that surround me, and often, alone.

I have a sense of something I can’t quite articulate – purpose, mingled with wisdom; trust, and a connection larger than me.

I do not question whether I am wearing the right clothes for my figure, or if my hair suits my face. I do not worry about where the money for the next bill is going to come from. I seldom wonder if what I say might offend or is relevant at all.

At five, I live honestly; authentically. I am all that I’ll ever be: undefined, yet confident. I am alive for a reason. I feel it.

All I have to do is be patient and wait for life to unfold.

My true self.

Half a life time later, I still remember her: that girl with such a full future ahead of her. Such an innocent.

Like a treasure, she is buried within me, holding space. I look for her in the mirror, but her light no longer shines in my eyes. I search for her in the clutter that has become my mind, yet her clarity eludes me. In the eyes of others, I am mother, friend, teacher, lover, and adviser, but not innocence; never my true self.

So, I seek to ignite that sense of self, through the inspiration that is my granddaughter. Her smiles, her tears, her constant curiosity and unabashed response to life is a reminder: somewhere in all of us there is a simplicity of being that defies any other reality. Our true self.

Humility vs Ego

“How did you do on that calculus exam?” A tall brunette pulled a chair up to the table, directly across from me. The cafeteria was bustling with the usual suspects.

I shrugged. “Okay.” I tried to keep my voice nonchalant.

“Man, that was brutal. Who needs calculus anyways?” The blonde who joined us was slender, and preppy. I noted that several boys watched as she approached and then mumbled approvingly amongst themselves.

“I need to study more,” another classmate complained, as she dumped a pile of texts on the table. “I just don’t seem to be able to grasp the concepts.”

“Yeah, well someone in our class does. I heard one person scored 100%.” Our lunch group was growing in numbers.

“No way! That’s not possible.” A loud rumble of surprise and disapproval erupted around the table.

I kept quiet.

Then Izzy arrived. Izzy was one of my closest friends, and also my seat mate in math class. She knew the truth.

“Congratulations!” she oozed, before I could stop her. “Another 100%!”

“What?” The brunette across the table from me blurted. “You’re the one who got perfect?! How’s that possible?”

All eyes were on me.

“No offense, or anything, but you’re not all that bright.” She had always proclaimed to be the smart one, and I can see that this revelation was making her truly uncomfortable.

“Izzy’s joking,” the blonde proclaimed. “If you didn’t ace it, then there’s no way she did.”

“Well, she did!” Izzy responded. “She’s smarter than you think.”

“I don’t get it.” the brunette questioned. “If you’re so smart, why do you act so dumb?”

She had a point. I’d learned to hide my intelligence after years of bullying and beatings. But why act so dumb?

It was a question I would ponder for years to come. Not bragging about my accomplishments felt right, but my motivation for doing so was not so admirable.

How do we balance our very human need for acknowledgment with a desire to be humble?

Three Sides To A Story

My first impression of Sherry was “Stepford Wife”. A tall, thin, blonde, Sherry appeared to be the perfect wife and mother. The stones in her garden coordinated with the ruffled awning above her front door, and accented her meticulously manicured lawn and flower bed. Inside was no different: her floors shone spotlessly, despite the presence of three children; and a smell of fresh baking wafted through the air. Even though my visit was impromptu, Sherry was dressed stylishly in a crisp white blouse, and form-fitting skirt, complete with heels, and suitable accessories. I was immediately intimidated.

My next visit to her home, this time invited, revealed much the same.

Sherry’s husband, Rob, was equally as impressive. Also tall and thin, Rob was a quiet intellectual, who stayed fit by running marathons, and coaching his boys’ soccer teams. He seemed to take his wife’s efficiencies into stride, and like her, was unruffled by his rambunctious young family.

Sherry and Rob soon became part of a social circle: a group of ten couples that met once a month for dinners, cards, and sometimes, social outings. They fit right in. Once a year, we would all gather with our children for a large barbeque and fireworks. Life was good.

Then, one day, I got a phone call from a mutual friend. “Sherry is in a bad way,” she said. “Can you help?”

I knew something was wrong the minute I stepped in the door by the state of disarray in the house. Sherry’s six-year-old daughter let me in. She appeared frightened and withdrawn.

“Where’s your Mom, Sweetheart?”

She led me through the house to the kitchen, where Sherry sat crumpled in a chair, head down on the table, hair matted, and smudges of makeup streaking her face.

“Sherry?”

“He left me.” She didn’t even look up. Her voice, flat and lifeless, spoke volumes.

I spotted her two boys in the adjacent room, watching television. I could see them glancing our way anxiously. Please help! their eyes pleaded.

I reached for the kettle. “Have you eaten yet today?” Telltale signs of kids preparing their own food and abandoning the dishes suggested she hadn’t.

Sherry was slow to respond. “What?……um….I’m not hungry.”

I made her tea and toast and put it before her, and encouraged the children to go out and play. Relieved, they complied. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“He left me for another woman.”

I was stunned. “Honey, try to eat something, and let me help you.”

She sat up, staring at the offering before her with complete disinterest. She pushed the plate away, and cradling the cup, took one tiny sip, then pushed that away too. Her normally thin frame appeared gaunt.

“Back up,” I suggested. “Tell me what happened.”

Rob had had an affair three years earlier with a woman from work. When Sherry found out about it, Rob ended the affair and he and Sherry entered marriage counselling. She had tried really hard to be the perfect wife and mother, so that he would love her again, and thought everything was going well, but out of the blue, he left. He was now living with his mistress.

Sherry’s heartbreak was so intense, it threatened her life. Within weeks she was hospitalized because of severe malnutrition.

It was hard not to sympathize with her situation and write Rob off as a total jerk, but as always, there is another side to every story.

“I reached the end of my rope,” Rob explained. I love my wife, and I adore my children, but living in a constant state of perfection is exhausting. Sherry has to be the best at everything, have the best house, wear the best clothes, everything is about impressing others. There is nothing genuine about her, about us. She is incapable of authenticity. I tried to stay for the children’s sake, but I just couldn’t do it anymore. I am dying inside.”

“So you left for another woman.” I couldn’t keep the edge out of my voice. I am, after all, a woman.

“If you met her, you would understand. She’s so real! “

I wanted to understand. I wanted to know what would drive one person to put his/ her family through so much pain.

“When two people divorce,” a colleague told me, “there are always three truths: his, hers, and a truth that lies beyond their stories.”

I tried to stay impartial, but supportive, and as I did, I began to realize the wisdom in my colleague’s words. Once released from the hospital, Sherry became a woman obsessed. She stalked her husband and his new lover, both at their home, and their places of work. She was determined to get Rob back, and refused to see the folly of her actions.

On his part, Rob became more and more enraged, and retaliated with acts of violence against Sherry.

The scene was escalating out of control, until Rob’s therapist broke the pledge of confidentiality and advised Sherry her life was in danger if she didn’t back off.

Sherry did eventually let go of Rob, but only to rush head long into a tempestuous affair, with no regard for her children. Rob withdrew from his former life, avoiding his friends, and maintaining minimal contact with his children.

Who was right, and who was wrong in this tale? Like many conflicts, there are too many grey areas to tell for certain. Both his and her story made compelling arguments, but the real truth laid somewhere beyond all our comprehension.

One thing was certain, though: the real victims here were the children.

Muskoka Meditation

Closing my eyes, I imagine a body of water. In my mind’s eye I see a lake in Muskoka: a thick morning mist hovering over the surface. I breath and imagine the fog rolling back to reveal a shimmering gray surface, the sleight swells of the water reflecting shards of light. A fish jumps and distracts me, and my mind scans the surface for more life.

I breathe again, this time more deeply, slowly, holding it awhile before slowly exhaling. The waters of my lake calm…..then the dog growls, pulling me from my reverie, his insistent barking terrorizing a passerby.

Another deep breath. Where was I? I allow the heaviness of meditation to settle my body and focus again on the water’s surface. I imagine the call of a loon, beckoning me further into the reverie. I imagine I can smell the water, and the freshness of the Northern air. The early morning rays catch the ripples and sparkle. The morning mist is gone now, and the wind recedes, calming the surface of the water, and with it my mind. Ah, the beauty of stillness!

I surrender to the serenity of the moment.

(Image: flickriver.com)

Setbacks

Today is where your book begins; the rest is still unwritten. These song lyrics have run through my mind all night, keeping me from sleeping. A perfect lead in to today’s topic.

I am old enough to know that setbacks are not the end of life; they are usually just a transition point. If you have been reading along, you know that it is the stuff of my writing.

When I experienced what we used to call a mental breakdown, at the age of thirty-one, I recognized that it was a wake up call to make some changes in my life. Obviously, the way I had been living was not working for me, so I needed to learn a new way.

Losing my mind was like falling into a black hole. I felt as if I was at the bottom of a deep abyss, with no visible means of escape. Four things saved me: my faith, my children, my writing, and my friends.

I knew that if I was to survive the experience, I would have to build my own stairway out. I began with my beliefs.

Step one. I believed that God never gave us anything we couldn’t handle, so therefore, I had it within me to heal.

Step two. I believed that what happened, happened for a reason, so that there was a purpose for my suffering.

Step three. I believed that God gives us what we need, so that help would be there for me.

Don’t get me wrong, losing one’s mind is a horrible thing. In the beginning, I shook uncontrollably for most of the days, lying in a fetal position on my bed. But I knew if I was ever to get better, I had learn to “walk” again.

I set baby step goals for myself. As my children were still considerably young, I made them a priority. The first goal was to spend fifteen minutes a day of quality time with my children, without the trembling and tears. I found I was able to control the anxiety for short periods of time, when I focused on them, instead of me.

The second goal was to get out of the house everyday, even if I was only able to walk to the end of the street (driving was out of the question). This was difficult, but I knew it was important not to give into the fear and become housebound.

In between times, I wrote and wrote, processing every thought, fear, and emotion, until I reached some aha moments. I used my dreams as a guide.

When I grew a little bit stronger, I called upon trusted friends, who put together a healing circle that met once a week in support of my healing.

I learned many things from that time of darkness. Mostly, I learned that if something is not life or death, then it is not worth worrying about. I let go of my need for perfection. I learned that nothing is as precious as the relationships that sustain us. And I realized the depth of my own inner strength.

None of us would ever choose setbacks, but in retrospect, would we ever grow without them?

Fear or Legacy?

I fear illness. I grew up in a household where dis-ease was the norm. My mother had her first dance with death as a child, then suffered a broken back in her late thirties, followed by three bouts of cancer. In her elder years, she lives with constant pain and many health issues. My oldest sister had congenital heart problems all her life, and at the end, leukemia. The next sister has schizophrenia and now Parkinson’s. Diabetes, heart problems, and cancer run rampant in my mother’s family. Ten of my generation have died. My father and his siblings all died from respiratory conditions.

In other words, genetically, the promise of a long, healthy lifespan is not very bright. When disease first knocked on my door, I made drastic changes to my diet, but I wonder if it is enough.

Fear, I know, can be a self-fulfilling habit. But how do I let it go?

Years ago, I heard about a prayer for overcoming obstacles in life. It goes like this:

I cast this burden of ___________ upon the Christ within, that I may be free to ___________________ .

In my case: I cast this burden of fear upon the Christ within, that I may be free to enjoy my gift of health.

What fear gets in your way?

(Image: inspirenow.com.au)

Rage and Restraint

Thor and I have dined in a high-end restaurant, and he has gone to pay the bill. I have chosen my food carefully to watch my intake, but still do not feel satisfied. I look around and spot a dessert counter, with many cakes, pies, and sweet buns. My husband is taking a while, and I am getting anxious. On an impulse, I lunge for the cinnamon buns at the front of the counter, reaching across the cakes and pies, with no regard for social propriety. I scoff the bun quickly, before anyone, especially my husband, can see me. I needn’t worry. He is nowhere in sight. The room we were dining in is in the basement of the building, with a walkout patio. Thor headed upstairs to the cashier’s desk. Embarrassed by my actions, I decide to follow him, but I cannot see him. I catch sight of him leaving by the front door. Has he forgotten me? I run to catch up with him and encounter two teenage boys, one of whom threatens to grab my breasts. Angry with Thor for leaving without me, I am enraged by this young boy’s brazen behaviour. “Do it and I’ll beat your head in,” I warn him. He makes the grab, and I retaliate by grasping one ear and twisting it, while simultaneously poking him in the eye with other. I knee him in the groin, and as he goes down, I slam his head against the wall. “That will teach you!” I conclude. I have caught my husband’s attention now, and we walk off together.

Restraint is obviously a theme in this dream: the ability to control my eating, and the need to control my anger.

Thor and I are in week four of Weight Watchers. He has very successfully been following the plan and losing weight. I am not faring as well. It is frustrating, to say the least.

Dining out is the base of our problems. I am vegetarian and Thor is meatatarian, and rather than cook two meals, it is just easier for us to dine out. With only 26 points allowance in my day, that is a difficult task. Last night, I had a veggie stir fry with the sauce on the side (8 points). Thor, on the other hand, had a seafood linguine with garlic bread. (He has 45 points in the day.) I went to bed hungry, while he had a midnight snack. As I often do when watching my food intake, I got cranky.

I am proud of my husband, don’t get me wrong. The changes he is making to his diet and daily routine are commendable. I do, however; feel a bit like the woman in my dream: left behind.

The two teenage boys in the dream are an interesting addition to this dilemma. When I was a teenager, with new, but fully developed breasts, a boy did grab my breast as he passed me on the sidewalk one day. I was so surprised that by the time I responded, he had fled. Thus began a series of sexual harassments that continued well into my twenties. In retrospect, it wasn’t until I had my third baby, and the weight stayed on that the unwanted advances stopped coming. This is an aha moment.

Could the anger that I feel when dieting be related to inappropriate attention? I clearly remember thinking, just yesterday, that the nice thing about being older is that you can be unattractive and get away with it.

I never felt attractive. One of four girls, I thought of myself as the dumpy one. I had reached full height in elementary school, and filled out way ahead of my older sisters, earning the nicknames ‘Moose’ and ‘Linebacker’. Whenever my sisters and I went anywhere together, everyone assumed I was the oldest, even though there were several years between us. While they received endless attention for their beauty, I was the goofy looking one. When I did bring boys home, I lost them once they caught sight of my siblings.

Despite my lack of self-esteem, or maybe because of it, I was always finding myself inappropriately propositioned. Fathers of children I babysat, employers, boys I went to school with, and later colleagues, as well as friends of my then husband. And, there was the rape. I was targeted out of a whole gathering of schoolgirls. I never understood it, but the more it happened, the angrier I became. Occasionally, I did retaliate physically, but mostly I internalized it. “Boys will be boys,” my mother would say. “It’s up to the woman to deter it.” Like my mother, I learned to be a victim.

Why would I want to lose weight only to make myself vulnerable again, must be the question running through my subconscious. No wonder I am cranky. Being overweight is not desirable, but neither is being desirable, literally! Maybe, I need to have a little talk with myself, and remind my inner young woman that I am a lot older now, and have learned to ward off unwanted advances, and protect myself.

Who knew losing weight was this complicated.

A little restraint please!

Accepting Success

My husband always tells me that I am failing my way through life with an A+.

It started when I returned to university to upgrade my degree. I would sweat over every assignment, proclaiming uncertainty about the expectations and certainty that my efforts would fall short. I would get the paper back with a mark in the nineties.

Despite my high marks, the insecurity persisted. When I graduated from the Faculty of Education, I didn’t even notice that it was with distinction until my stepdaughter asked me what that meant. Surprised, I responded: “It probably means that I was the oldest.”

The assumption behind all this angst is that I am not capable, and that every task is designed to trip me up. Of course, this is nonsense, and when I spell it out like that, my rational mind can see that it is. Yet, somewhere inside me is an insecurity that my success is phony; that I am a fraud.

I am working on moving towards an easier approach to life. I am trying to be consciously aware of how I complicate things with insecurity, and replace those thoughts with simplicity. I’m trying to take a step back before responding. Reassessing a situation usually does reveal a simpler solution.

On Suffering

“All I need is to win the lottery,” Mae often proclaims.

“That’s not true,” I tell her.

“But if I had enough money, my problems would all be solved.”

“No. If you had lots of money, you would still be schizophrenic.”

She takes this in and nods solemnly. Then she laughs. “You’re so funny.”

“I am studying the dictionary, though. If I can get smarter then I’ll be better, don’t you think so?” (Mae finished nursing school with 96%).

“Schizophrenia has nothing to do with intelligence, it’s a chemical imbalance. You are smart already.”

The conversation is redundant. We will revisit it many times.

Mae, like many people, just wants an end to her suffering.

As a student of alternative health care techniques, and a caregiver, I too have looked for answers to the riddle of why suffering exists in the world. I have witnessed parents watching their infant die, and young children sitting at their dying mother’s bedside. I have met those whose disease has debilitated them to a point of total dependency; and others whose lives have changed in an instant due to an accident or violence. And I have met many, like Mae, who are born into suffering, with no hope for a cure. Void of answers, I am only left with more questions.

What I have come away with, though, is a sense of awe for the spirit that drives each and everyone of these people. In the midst of so much tragedy, I have encountered strength, willingness, compassion, and incredible resilience.

I don’t believe, as some do, that suffering is a choice; I believe it is inevitable. And in some instances, I believe that suffering can open the doors for much discovery.