Uncategorized – Page 14 – One Woman's Quest

Day 169 “Intention and Results”

Every so often, life has a way of taking over, and sending me spinning off balance. These are the times where I reset goals in an attempt to regain equilibrium.

Now would be one of those times.

So I take inventory and line up my priorities once again:

1. To work 90 minutes per day. (Even though I am still technically on holidays, a teacher’s workload is intense, so I can always work. Here, I am trying to minimize it so it doesn’t take over.)

2. To spend 60 minutes per day writing. ( I see writing as a luxury because I do it mostly for self-serving reasons, therefore; I tend to undervalue it and it is the first to go.)

3. 30 minutes of exercise per day.

4. Choosing to eat healthy foods that support my well-being.

Number four is the clincher. I have some food allergies and a lot of sensitivities, so eating properly becomes really important for my health. Why then, is this goal so difficult to keep?

The intent is good, but what is it about food that makes it so difficult to control? If I had the answer, I would be rich, especially in this age of health and weight consciousness.

Yesterday, for example, I ate a healthy breakfast, and an equally satisfying lunch, and had planned my dinner ahead of time. I ended up being out longer than I expected, and felt the temptation to grab something “snackish” to fill in the gap, but I managed to hang on till dinner. Then the cravings started. I wanted something sweet to compliment dinner – a habit that dates back to childhood. So I ate the remainder of a chocolate loaf. I didn’t stop there. I had an errand to run and thought about stopping to pick up a chai tea latte, overlooking the fact that I had eaten dessert. I talked to myself about my goal, and settled on coming home and making a low-fat latte. I enjoyed my treat, and felt sated, but then remembered that there were potato chips in the cupboard. I convinced myself that a bowl of chips was better than eating from the bag, but of course, I wanted more. I was far from hungry at this point.

The resulting indigestion and inability to settle down for a good night’s sleep was not a new experience. Neither was telling myself that I won’t do that again!

The results speak for themselves. As much as I want to think I am conscientious about what I eat, I remain overweight.

What is the food replacing? I ask myself. What function is it serving?

A number of things come to mind. First, I am an emotional eater. I eat when I am upset, but I also eat when I am happy, especially if I have accomplished something and am proud of myself, such as keeping on track for an entire day. It is easy to see where this habit derives from by watching my grandchildren. Food is an easy way to console and celebrate. I have no doubt that is how my mother handled me.

Sometimes I eat to suppress needs. Now this is getting personal, but because of Thor’s condition, there has been no sexual intimacy for some time, yet the urge remains for me. Potato chips have been my go to food when feeling lonely for a long time. I know it, but still go there.

Overeating creates a cycle that is difficult to break. I feel good about myself, I self sabotage, I eat junk, I feel bad and indulge more.

There is also the problem I wrote about the other day: instant gratification vs long-term gain.

I have no self-control in the instant. If there are no chips in the house, I can usually talk myself out of the need for them, but if they are on hand, I have no self-control.

Why is it so difficult to shift my focus to long-term gain? Herein lies the complication. In order to be able to commit to something in the distance, I have to be able to believe in the future. (Boy, this is tough stuff!) Truth is I stopped believing in the future a long time ago. I have chosen, instead, to live for the moment. That way, I have convinced myself, I won’t have as many disappointments.

As a child of parents who were never able to follow through with promises, I first learned the pain of disappointment, but it didn’t end when I left home. I chose partners and built relationships that repeated the pattern. And then I took over. I proved again and again to myself that there is no gain in setting my sights on the future. The future is too intangible and unpredictable.

What I failed to tell myself is that not all of the future is foreseeable or predictable, but planning ahead (in the moment) can help prepare the way. Choosing not to eat those chips in each moment helps secure a healthier self in the long run. Eating the chips, conversely, will ensure that my goal is never met.

If I ever hope to see results from my intentions, I will need a new, and responsible attitude.

Day 168 “Hidden Messages”

“I’m not as smart as you. I’d probably be okay if I was smarter.”

“That’s not true, Mai! You are very smart.”

“Do you really think so?”

My sister and I were doing dishes after supper. I had come to visit parents and Mai, who lived just upstairs from my parents’ apartment, joined us. Mai is paranoid schizophrenic.

“You got 96% in your nursing program. Intelligence is not your problem. You have a mental illness. That is different.”

“I did, didn’t I? I used to be a good nurse.”

“I’m sure you were.”

Mai would attempt to take her life at least once a year, resulting in the eventual loss of her job, and much of her independence.

“Do you want me to do the washing? You must be tired.” Mai set down her dishtowel and backed away from the sink.

“I am just fine. We are almost done.”
“You’re probably just tired.” Mai removed herself from the kitchen area of the apartment and sat down.

I realized in the that moment that it was actually Mai who was tired, but somehow, she was unable to articulate that, so she projected her feelings onto me. It was an aha moment for me, and explained much of Mai’s behaviour. I would notice it when we went out together. If she would suggest that I was hungry, cold, or whatever, it really meant that she was.

“Mai is unable to speak directly to whatever is bothering her,” I explained to my Mother later on. “So we can’t take what she says at face value.”

“It must be part of her illness,” my Mother deduced.

I agreed at the time, but then it became apparent to me that my Mother did the same thing. Her hidden messages were not as easy to detect.

“How can you keep a husband and work full-time?” she might ask me, which I would take as criticism. Or, she would say: “You were out having lunch with a friend, what about your husband and children? What did they do for lunch?” Such statements would grate on my nerves, until I decided not to take them personally and investigate what she was really saying.

“Did you ever want to work outside the home, Mom?”

“Oh, I would have loved to, but your father wouldn’t let me. A woman’s place is in the home. When I did go to work, it was only after I threatened to leave, but he never liked it.”

My Mother’s seemingly judgmental comments were actually expressions of regret for the limitations she felt in her own life. Apart from not being allowed to work outside the home, my Mother also didn’t cultivate any personal friendships. “My children are all I need,” she would say.

My family, I came to understand, are masters at hiding the truth. It warranted a look at my own behaviours and communications.

I am highly skilled in convincing myself that immediate gratification far outweighs longterm gain, thus my ongoing issues with weight (or should I spell that wait?). Put a high calorie, non-nutritious snack in front of me, and I will go for it everytime – hungry or not. I convince myself that I deserve this, or I’ll be good tomorrow, or that it’s just this one time, all of which are lies. Thor is my co-consipirator in this process. We support each other’s need to overindulge.

So what, I have ask myself, is the hidden message behind this behaviour? And if I am to get honest with myself, what will that look like?

Clearly, I have work to do.

Day 167 “We are one”

My first journal was a flip-the-page, week-at-a-glance calendar that my father gave me when I visited his office. I kept it hidden under my mattress and wrote while huddled in my safe spot, between my bed and the wall. I must have been six or seven because the sentences are very basic and I hadn’t learned cursive writing yet. Most entries are one sentence: Dad mad at mom. Got an A on spelling. Visited cousins today.

This rudimentary diary was enough to get me hooked, and then I started asking for proper ones. Ones with little keys that I could lock, to safeguard my thoughts.

As the length of my entries grew, so too did my emotional expression. At eight, I wrote about unfairness, and my growing anger at injustice. Mostly, it was expressed like this: Tommy said girls can’t play baseball. Beat him up. Got to play. Leslie always gets picked first for everything. Told the teacher that wasn’t right. She let me go first.

The pattern that emerges through those young years is one of increasing isolation, as I discovered that I really didn’t fit in the world. Time spent alone, and writing, increases.

At twelve, I get excused from regular English lessons to work on a novel. Writing overtakes my life, and becomes such an intimate companion that I let go of the need for external friends. I have stopped trying to fight my way into acceptance, and resigned myself to the fact that few people want to be friends with a nerd like me.

The summer of my fourteenth birthday, I learn that my father is a cross-dresser, and somehow I think that the world can tell by looking at me. I start sitting at the back of the classroom, and journaling instead of taking notes. My grades slide, but I discover the power of poetic expression. I am a loner.

I never speak of what I have learned, but trying to process the information will be the topic of many entries for years to come. Into adulthood, my daily writing consumes pages and pages, and I have now switched to three ring notebooks. I have boxes of notebooks, labelled “Mom’s Crap” by my children. I take them with me on every move: a piece of my soul not yet revealed.

It has only been in the past year and a half that I have ventured to share my writing with an audience, albeit unknown, through blogging. Recently, I have received responses, and visited other blog sites, and to my delight, I have discovered that I am not alone. There is a whole community of therapeutic writers like myself. We write because we have to, because it is our passion, and our lifeline.

The internet has given us the opportunity to break through the barriers of our self-imposed isolation and helped us uncover commonality.

In the greater scheme of things, we are, after all, all one.

Day 164 “Standing on Tiptoes”

Julie Ann was born with one notable gift and one equally notable (to her, at least) flaw: she could sing like an angel and she had a wandering eye. Unable to care for her too numerous children, Julie Ann’s mother sent her to live with her parents. Other siblings were farmed out to other relatives, until Julie Ann’s mother could get her life back on track. Singing was the one thing that brought Julie Ann, and those around her, joy. She joined the church choir, and the school choir, and entered little talent contests here and there, and everyone said the same thing: “This girl is destined for fame.”

But Julie Ann didn’t think so. Every time she looked in the mirror, all she could see was her hideous lazy eye. Her grandparents had taken her to the doctor and they did give her corrective glasses, which she wore for awhile, but threw away when the children at school teased her so much, she couldn’t stand it anymore. Instead, she decided to grow her hair long and wear it draped over that eye, so no one could see it.

Julie Ann grew tall, and despite her odd eye, stunningly beautiful. Her long black hair fell in natural waves over her slender body, and she soon discovered that men found her quite attractive. A pair of high-heeled stilettos worn with a short, tight skirt, made her legs appear to go on forever and effectively detracted from what was hidden behind the curtain of hair across her face. At sixteen, men were falling over themselves to buy her drinks at the bars she attended, underage.

Julie Ann couldn’t get enough of the attention she was receiving. She didn’t care how many women glared at her, or confronted her about luring their men, she felt powerful and no one was going to stop her. Soon, she started flirting her way onto the stage, and here she really began to shine. When Julie Ann opened her mouth to sing, rooms went quiet. There was magic in her voice and an undeniable talent that would propel her upward. At seventeen, she was the headliner performing in night clubs, and a couple of years later she was offered a recording contract.

She was on her way to stardom.

The little girl, whose mama had cast aside, was becoming a sensation.

Along the way, she had surgery to repair her eye. Then she noticed that her breasts were a little small, and she had surgery to increase those. Money was never an issue, because there was always some man eager to take up her cause. A little enhancement to her buttocks increased her shapeliness, and then she discovered botox. It seemed the ways in which she could improve her image were endless.

And all the while, she wore her trademark stilettos: to the grocery store, the night clubs, even the gym. No one would see her without them. She traveled through life on tiptoes. She aspired to be a super model.

Julie Ann’s obsession with her looks and sexual prowess soon overpowered her ability to sing. In her own mind, it was her physical appearance, and not her singing ability that helped her gain fame. She grew impatient when people asked her to sing. She disregarded her agent’s advice that she needed to focus on her singing more, and refused to do benefit concerts or charity events. She lost her footing on the hit parade. Other, younger, stars were willing to work hard to keep climbing. They soon surpassed her.

Julie Ann didn’t seem to notice.

It wasn’t long before she was only singing for family again, and even then, she had to be goaded over and over before she would relent. The pleasure was gone, and those who knew her well were saddened by what she had become.

Julie Ann showed up at my door one night, in the middle of a storm. I didn’t recognize her at first. The woman who stood outside, in the darkness, was shorter than me, with straight black hair that hung down to her waist. She was wearing a simple housecoat and flats. Her face was not made up and quite frankly, she looked like a lost little child.

“I’m sorry,” I stumbled to recuperate. “I didn’t recognize you.”

“I know,” she said flatly. “This is the real me. Pathetic, isn’t it?”

“Not at all,” I reassured her. Not at all.

“How do you do it?” she asked, getting right down to business. “You don’t wear a lot of makeup, you could care less about your hair, and you never wear heels, but people still look up to you.”

I had to stifle a laugh.

“I guess that’s what makes us different,” I offered.

“I want to be more like you.”

“Julie Ann, you are a very beautiful and talented woman. I will never be either of those things. I poured my energy into education, reading, and helping others. Stardom was never in my cards.”

She plopped down on the bed and started to cry.

“People admire you. People are jealous of me, or hate me for being better than them, but no one admires me. No one wants to be like me.”

“I’m sure that’s not true” Actually, secretly, I suspected she was right. There is nothing warm and appealing about a self-centered woman.

“How much money do you spend a month on makeup and clothes?” she asked scanning my hotel room for answers.

“I don’t know. How much do you spend?”

“I spend four hundred on makeup alone.”

“Holy Cow, Julie Ann. I wouldn’t spend that in a year!”

“Don’t you care?”

“It’s just not my priority.”

“No one sees me like this, you know.”

“Why is that, Julie Ann? What are you afraid of?”

“Everyone expects me to be glamourous. They only know me this way.”

“How much time do you spend each day getting ready?”

“Three hours. It takes three hours to do my hair and makeup. Sometimes, I do it twice a day.”

“What would you do with your time, if you didn’t have that routine? Three hours is a lot.” I rattled off all the things I did with three hours being a mother of three. Julie Ann had a young son; I couldn’t help but wonder what he did during her coiffing.

“Easy for you to say,” she stormed. “Your career doesn’t depend on it.”

I don’t know what Julie Ann expected to gain from me that evening, but it seemed to me that we got nowhere. I gleaned an insight into her bizarre daily rituals, and she seemed to convince herself that she was more important than me, and therefore, justified in her life choices.

When she left, she swore me to secrecy about what she really looked like. “I don’t want anyone to know I’m this short.”

Julie Ann is an enigma to me. She is gifted with the most incredible voice, and the physical beauty to match it. As an outsider, I would say she had it all. Until that night that she graced my doorstep, I would have thought that Julie Ann was above me; superior in so many ways. Our moment of intimacy shattered that illusion. Maybe Julie Ann just needed the opportunity to rediscover herself. Maybe she saw in me the inspiration to be different. Maybe she was considering what life would be like if she wasn’t always standing on tiptoes.

Whatever her reasoning, Julie Ann did not leave empty handed that night. At some point during our brief exchange, she had managed to “pocket” something of mine. I wouldn’t discover the loss until later that next morning, as I went to leave.

Julie Ann had taken my shoes. My practical, sensible, comfortable flat-soled, shoes.

Day 163 “Time Travel”

My granddaughter’s arms reach up above her head, her tiny hands each grasping one of my fingers. She takes a wobbly step forward and then pauses to gaze in the glass counter beside us.

“Buh”, she says.

“Pretty” I respond. The cabinet showcases an array of colourful china cups. “Keep going.”

She takes a few more precarious steps and stops again. Thus we entertain ourselves while her mother and aunt shop for antiques. My girls arranged this little getaway as a celebration of my fifty-fifth birthday. Their brother would be joining us later for dinner. The site of our gathering is a quaint, tourist attraction, noted for its shops and market. I am amused at some of the items on display: mementos of bygone days. Hard for me to see the value in what was once common place, and overdone. I mean, really, could blue mountain pottery be making a comeback?

Annie stumbles and I catch her up in my arms, wanting to move on from this aisle where everything is breakable. That’s when I hear a familiar voice – one I haven’t heard for years. I turn and catch site of a childhood friend.

“Beth!”

We embrace, and I call in my children to share in the encounter, proudly introducing the newest member of the family. Beth and her husband join our little entourage and we wander out into the street in search of a place where we can catch up.

Our conversation comes so easily, as if there has been no separation of years.

Annie, close to needing feeding, cries out for her mother. Beth and I simultaneously remember another time, when Annie’s mother was a baby, and would accept comfort from no one but me. Beth’s husband makes a comment about my nature, a dig rooted in our teenage years when he teased me constantly. I feel like I am fourteen again.

It is a surreal moment. I have journeyed down many paths and crossed many bridges in my life, and in an instance I travel back forty years.

The meeting lingers with me for the rest of the day. So many thoughts and emotions swirling inside.

I always loved Beth. Her gentle nature and practical approach to life balanced my dramatic, frantic self. There had been three of us in those teenage years, and despite our hopes and dreams, I was the only one to go on and have a family. Beth and her husband chose not to have children, and our third friend never even married. None of us could see back then how things would turn out.

I kept in touch with Beth in the early years of marriage and children, visiting every six months or so, but as my children grew and our lives became more complicated, I let the relationship go. As I did with many of my close friendships, I created a distance that would protect me from rejection. Today’s encounter reminded me that the people who know me best don’t care about my faults and failings. I have worried for nothing.

A chance meeting today propelled me back in time, looking at my life from a new perspective. Yes, there has been strife and regrets, but there has been so much more. My family is a testament to that.

Time travel: it’s good for the soul.

Day 162 “Competitive Communication”

The sound of tinkling glass alerted me to an incoming text and despite the company around me, I had to look.

“A new video of the baby!” I exclaimed, hitting play before anyone could protest. (As if that would stop me anyway.)

“Look at how tiny she is,” my friend noted. “My granddaughter is twice her size.”

“Does she have any teeth? My grandson has a full set of teeth.”

“Just got her first one. She is late on that, but so was my other granddaughter. She’s not talking, either.”

“Neither is my granddaughter, but she being walking for awhile.”

Cellphones emerged from purses and pictures were passed all around. We all basked in the grandmother’s right to brag, completely oblivious of Sue, who sat quietly throughout the process. Sue’s children had not produced offspring, nor did it look like they might be close to doing so.

Thor came limping through and I passed him the phone. “Here’s the latest.”

“How are you doing?” my friend inquired of Thor.

“Better. On the mend. Still frustrated with this leg brace.”

“My cousin’s husband is going through the same thing. He’s been a year though and it looks like he might lose the leg.”

“I work with a woman who lost her leg. I hear it’s more common that we think. Good thing you’re on the mend, Thor.”

Thor had exited the room.

“He’s doing better though, right?”

“Way better! It has been quite the year. Wouldn’t want to go through that again.”

Sue remains quiet. Her husband has been ill for many years, dependent on her.

“What a lot of noise!” he expressed to me later. “Do you even hear each other?”

He makes a good point. In our excitement to “catch up”, my old friends and I talk at each other, competing for air time, but nothing is really said. In fact, in our need to get a word in, we may have inadvertently created rifts.

I hate this about myself, this need to compete in the conversation. Someone always gets left out and overlooked, and an opportunity for authentic communication is missed.

Next time, I will remind myself to listen and observe, before jumping in so aggressively.

Day 161 “Fundamental Questions”

“Uncanny.” The nurse glances at my arrival over her shoulder, her tiny charge cradled in one arm, the other administering treatment. “I can tell you have entered the unit even before I see you – the baby’s vitals stabilize every time.”

A young, dark-haired woman smiles up at me. She is the baby’s mother.

“How is she today?” I ask.

Chloe is only two months old, and has never seen the outside of this pediatric unit. Her naked, white body, wriggles, the many tubes and attachments dancing with each movement. Born with a rare genetic disorder, she will not live much longer. I have come at the family’s request to perform therapeutic touch.

“I don’t understand it,” the nurse continues. “Quite frankly, I think it’s all hocus pocus, but the monitors don’t lie.” She gently places the baby back into the incubator. “I’ll be finished here shortly, and then you can do your thing.”

“I’m going to go get a coffee,” the mother says, excusing herself.

Alone with the baby, I pull up a chair and start the process, gently running my fingers over her tiny field. I marvel at this miracle of life and wonder what it all means. What is the point of this birth, so troubled from the outset, destined to die? There is not much for me to do here – the baby is so fragile that my effort must be a whisper, imperceptible; yet, I see that what the nurse says is true – Chloe’s breathing has relaxed, she is responding.

I offer her a finger and her tiny hand grasps it. Her gaze meets mine. My heart swells with the connection. Life, all life, is so precious.

Another nurse stops by. She is older than the first, and has undoubtedly seen her share of suffering. “It is good that you come,” she offers. “It means a lot to the family. I hope you don’t take to heart what some of the staff say.”

“I don’t.”

“If you ask me, they are the ones who should be questioned,” she continues. “Do you know that two of the nurses have refused to take the baby’s case because of what you are doing?”

I hadn’t known. I looked down at the little innocent still clutching my finger. “How could anyone refuse to care for her?”

“Exactly! They say that it is contrary to their religious beliefs.”

I am not practicing religion, I think to myself, but the argument is not worth stating. I have come up against this wall before. “I am sorry if my presence has caused this family added strife.”

“Not your fault,” the older woman patted my shoulder. “Keep on doing what you’re doing.”

“You and I are causing controversy,” I whisper to my little friend. Her body wriggles and she emits a cooing noise. “I agree,” I chuckle. “Not a lot of controversy here….just two people sharing a little love.”

I leave the unit as unobtrusively as I arrived. My heart is feeling conflicted emotions: warmth and gratitude for the opportunity to share in this little life, and outrage at the close-mindedness of some people.

What is this all about? I wonder.

There are some questions that life will never answer. Chloe’s life is one of those.

She will not live to see her third month, but the impact of her existence will remain ever etched in my heart.

Day 160 “Nature Everywhere”

my heart is a caged bird
whom I guard
as if her very existence
sustains me
oblivious to her beauty
to her suffering
I keep her in a jewelled cage
of golden bars
and convince myself that
her satin pillows suffice
to bring her comfort
and still she wanes
and I do not understand
i have protected her well
and cared for her
like a child,
my child,
my inner child
that no one saw
or loved
she is a simple bird
plain really.
she sings so rarely now
that sometimes i forget to feed her
an oversight, I assure her
no harm done,
i hope.

I am a foolish woman, I realize
Aging
No one values what i feel and think
It is a young’s person world
And this little bird is really insignificant
not the jewel i once thought.
all she has is her song
and i have smothered it out of her
keeping her for false purposes
my head filled with ideals.

I opened the cage today
and an amazing thing happened
my little bird pulsed with new life
and plumped herself up
and sang and sang
before she took flight

and my heart,
with its open gilded cage
breaths in the freedom
and smiles

what a foolish woman i have been.

I think I’ll try and plant a flower instead.

Day 159 “The Tao of Compassion”

Compassion did not come easily for me during my father’s dying years. Instead, I felt an ending to the years of tyranny, and a lessening of the tension between us. The former six foot plus commando had lost his strength and ability to intimidate. I felt sympathy for him, and an incliniation that maybe this was karma at work: a man who had caused so much pain in his life, was now suffering with his own.

Then I had a dream.

It is the thickness of the air that first accosts me: the damp acrid smell of stale tobacco, wet camel wool, and the pungent smell of rubber. I am huddled in the dark corner of the stairwell closet, trying desperately to camouflage myself behind my father’s wellingtons and the coats that hang there. A tiny thread of light, seeping through the bottom of the door, accents the dinginess of my surroundings. “Why God? Why me?” I cry into my sleeve, muffling any sound I might make. I hear the front door open, and my father’s heavy steps in the hall. “Where is he!” It is more of a command than a question. I can feel his tension through the wall that separates us. I know it well. He has been drinking.
“The child has gone to bed, Father. Come in and have your tea.” The pitch of my mother’s voice tells me she is nervous too. Never a good sign.
“I’ll be having a piece of the boy first!”
The closet door opens and my heart stops, but it is only my mother’s arms reaching in to hang up his coat. She doesn’t even glance at me – we both know that is too big a risk. The muffling of their voices tell me that they have moved away and I let my body relax a little, heart still pounding.

I wake up, instantly knowing who the tiny boy is in my dream. When I share it with my father, he says it started when he was four. One of seven children, he became the whipping boy for the family, taking the brunt of all his father’s wrath.”It was the custom,” he explained with an accepting sigh. “And why I ran away from home at fifteen.”

There were so many things I didn’t know about my father, but I was beginning to see him in a new light. I realized that all his life he had been running, not just from the violence of his childhood home, but from his own inner turmoil. He harboured a deep secret, which burdened us all over the years, and his accompanying addictions and impulsive, and sometimes violent behaviour didn’t add to our empathy for him.

Was it possible we were all victims? I wondered.

When he finally succumbed to death, all I could think was: Good for you, Dad. You made it. I hoped peace had now embraced him.

That was several years ago. My mother has since remarried, and when we speak of my father, it is ofter with a sense of relief that that chapter of our lives is closed.

The compassion my father deserved still had not fully surfaced.

It came a few months back, while attending a workshop hosted by Egale, an organization committed to human rights, specifically as related to the LGBTQ* community. I was attending as an educator, hoping to gain some insight into helping students experiencing gender issues.

The morning session was dedicated to understanding the language specific to gender identity and orientation. We learned that biology dictates how an individual presents, and that the concepts of male and female are actually polarities which describe rarities, rather than norms. Most individuals fall within a sliding scale.

Armed with this information, we were asked to think of someone we knew within the LGBTQ community, and step into their shoes for a moment. We were given a coloured star and as the person we were representing, asked to fill out the points of the star with each of the following: closest relative, closest friend, community associations, work, and aspirations. I thought of my aunt, who all her life was a closet lesbian. I could only imagine how hard it must have been for her.

Instead, I chose to step in my father’s shoes.

Silently, we all carried our stars into a circle and sworn to silence to honour each person’s process, we began the exercise.

The facilitator read from a script. She began by suggesting that as our individual we had just decided to come out to our closest family member. If we held a blue star (which I did) our family member was already aware of our preferences and willing to support us. Orange and pink star holders, while meeting with some initial resistance, would eventually gain support. They were instructed to fold the point of their star in. Red star holders would be denied acceptance from the person whose opinion they valued most. Their point was to be torn off and discarded.

The pain of grief tore through my heart. I felt the room reel, but struggled for composure. I was my father’s firt-born child and the light of his life. I was that person dearest to his heart who had rejected him when he came out to me.

The rest of the exercise passed in a blur as I felt each corner of my father’s star drop to the floor, understanding for the first time in my life that he had no hope for acceptance, and no support in his life, and that turning to alcohol and work was his only viable way of coping. No wonder he never fulfilled his aspirations: nothing in his life held him up to do so.

When the heart opens, compassion will appear. Too late for my father and I on this mortal soil, but I hope that from the other side he is looking down on me and catching a bittersweet moment of solace.

I never understood you, Dad, and in my own self-centered, self-righteous manner, I missed a golden opportunity. I have to think we were both destined for so much more.

Today, I am committing to the undoing of the pain that broke us all and pushing through to new understanding. It was biology, and not addiction (as was explained to us in the 1960’s) that caused you to identify as a woman and cross dress. That you were also attracted to females sexually, I now understand to have been part of your norm.

Imagine how much better we would have all been, had compassion, instead of self-defense, guided us. But we were ignorant.

It is my birthday today, Dad, and I wish you were here that I might share this gift with you, but you are not. We might have dressed up and gone for dinner, like we used to do when I was little. Just you and I. And you could wear your favourite dress. And I would be proud of my father who fought so hard to be in a world that could not conceive of him.

I hope this gift of compassion that has come to me late in life, will pay its way forward. In honour of us both.

*Lesbian, Gay, Bi-sexual, Transgendered and Two Spirited, and Questioning.

Day 158 “The Meditative Walk”

Just steps away from the car park there is a big old oak tree whose branches extend over the river. I start here, releasing any stress from the day, and saying a prayer of invocation.

When I am ready I start my walk, first along the path through the woods and then circling back by the river, and eventually stopping at a bench overlooking the flowing water where I can contemplate further.

On this day, I have brought my ten-year-old son.

I explain my ritual and invite him to join in my initial clearing and prayer. As we walk, I advise him to be open to whatever thoughts, emotions, or sensations present themselves, but caution him to keep his mind clear, grounding himself by concentrating on his feet on the earth if he has to.

“Could we see signs along the way, Mom?”

“Like what?”

“Like that hawk sitting in that tree over there?”

“Possibly. It could also just be a hawk sitting in a tree. I don’t usually pay too much attention, unless the sign recurs. But it is definitely okay to appreciate nature; he is a beauty.”

We walk on in silence. The woods offer a plethora of wildlife and I can see that John is alert and on the outlook. So serious for such a young man.

We reach a fork in the path, and I point us towards the river. This is my favourite part of the walk, where the graceful old trees line the riverbank, and magnificent homes stand guard across the way. It is a hot day, with little breeze, and the river is peaceful.

John points at two more hawks resting in the treetops.

“A good sign?” I ask him.

“I think so.”

It has been six months since our family was torn apart by separation, and while John seems to be doing well, I often wonder. He is an old soul; to worried about his mother for his own good. I am happy that he came along with me today, on what he calls my ‘finding inner peace’ walks.

I steer us off the path and across a grassy patch to a bench. “I like to sit here at the end,” I explain, “and just think about the walk, and anything else I might need to experience for healing today.”

I direct him to sit up straight with his feet touching the earth. He has to sit forward. Then I suggest he closes his eyes, and breaths deeply, releasing each breath slowly and fully.

“Feel the earth beneath your feet and around you, and as you breath, let go of your separateness.”

“What does that mean?”

“Try to experience yourself as a part of the surroundings. When you breath, for instance, imagine your awareness expanding beyond your physical self and becoming just part of the flow, so that the river feels like it is moving through you, and that bird’s song is inside you. Do you understand what I mean?”

“I think so.” Then after a few minutes. “Why doesn’t everyone do this, Mom?”

“It would be good. What are you feeling?”

“Like I totally let go of anger. I can’t hold onto it when I’m in this place.”

“Now you know why I come here.”

From the corner of my eye, I can see that others were approaching, so I suggest we move on. As we walk back towards the car, John, who had fallen quiet again, says: “You know how they say seeing is believing?”

“Yes?”

“Well I think it is actually the other way around. If you believe it, you can see it, but you have to believe it first.”

“You may be right.”

I don’t often share my meditative walks with another person, but it occurs to me as I write this that John and I are due for another.