Mother?

Have you ever read that book, I think it's called, "Are You My Mother?" where this little bird gets separated from its mother and then he searches around desperately for her, mistaking her for all these other sorts of things such as a bulldozer, and a cat, and shit like that. It gets me a bit panicky and quite empathetic for the sweet little tuft of feathers, but then he finds his real mother at the end of the book and all is well. Phew.

You know what happened to me when I became a mother? I became less self-absorbed, which I like to think happens to most people when they become parents. I cared more about the temperature at which water boils so as to sanitize soothers than I did matching my socks together. Three consecutive hours of sleep and an uninterrupted poo was like, something worthy of scrapbooking (I tried scrapbooking, but I have zero patience for cutting and gluing and drawing letters with curly cues--I came close to lighting everything on fire, several times). I'd twist my formerly perfect spine into an "S" shape to drape one of my boobs over the edge of the crib so I could feed the baby without having to move him. Mashing up steamed sweet potatoes and freezing the mush in little cubes took precedence over running, and my ever enlarging ass was the incriminating evidence.

But it was all, it IS all, worth it. Because when my little tuft of feathers lose their way, they'll know who to look for because they will have memorized my constant presence in their lives. They'll follow the sound of my laughter as I tell stories of how the fire department came... twice... because I left the rubber bottles and breast pumps boiling on the stove. They'll know that when they wander off and lose their way that I'll be right there to hold them when they need the comfort of home.

The Love Chapter, Re-Visited

In the Bible, in the New Testament (the book that Christians read and hope to follow), there's a chapter nicknamed, "The Love Chapter" because the writer (his name was Paul) basically made a list of what love is, and what love isn't. This is one of the official translations  (italicized) of this chapter:

"If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give all I posess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing."

So what is love? Paul goes on to tell the reader:

"Love is patient, love is kind, It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. Love never fails."

And this is how I would apply the love chapter to my life in a way that makes sense to me:

If I can make myself sound like I give a shit but I really don't, then I belong alone in a cave with a bear. If I have a university degree and can write a really good essay but I work at Starbucks, then I will probably gain 5lb from eating broken pastries. If I believe that the 5lb looks awesome on me but in reality my muffin top is spilling over my too-tight pants, then I should probably re-think the consumption of broken pastries. If I give all of my second-hand furniture to someone who needs it and then whine about having nothing to sit on, then the extra 5lb will probably come in handy from having to sit on the cold cement floor for the rest of my life.

So what is love? This is my take:

Love untangles Christmas lights and puts together Ikea furniture... anonymously. Love takes anger for a run and leaves it on the road. Love is happy when my best friend has a great hair night. Love is more love when I am happy that someone I don't like has a great hair night. Love is telling the most popular kid to stop being a bully, even when I know that I just became a target. Love knows that when I come home with a scar on my face, he will see only beauty. Love doesn't only exist on date night but in spite of date night.  Love is made on the cold cement floor. Love is.

Spare a Square

I ran past a guy without an arm today. He was walking arm in arm (the other one, obviously) with whom I assume is his girlfriend. The brain-static that followed went (embarrassingly) like this:

"I wonder how he lost his arm? How would losing an arm affect me? I guess I'd have a hard time grabbing things. I think it would affect my personality more than I realize. I'd have to be nicer because I'd need people to be nicer to me (I'd need more help than the average two-armed person) and they're not going to be nice to me if I'm mean, unless they're being sympathy-nice and that's gross. So then would I really be true to myself if I forced myself to be nicer just because I needed to be?"

And then I realized that losing an arm would be representative of any type of adversity any of us have ever faced, and that we all carry (sorry) our cripple in some form or another whether it be seen or hidden. And that we all need to be nicer to people because we need them to be nice to us for peace to exist and for love to prevail and for the sake of chocolate chip cookies and all things warm and filling.

Or, we could always be resentful, and use our cripple as an excuse to be mean and I suppose that's just a choice we make. Or, we could not be mean, but at the same time refuse help for the sake of our pride and just accomplish everything we need to accomplish plus some just to prove the point that we don't need anybody's help. But don't we? Complete isolation and prideful independence isn't really all that admirable, unless you're a tree.

Whether we're stuck in a bathroom stall with no toilet paper or trying to get our double-wide stroller through the Starbucks door, at one point or another, we will need a hand from our fellow humans. We can either humbly and kindly ask for help and therefore join in on the goodness, or we can stay stuck outside the glass walls in the cold while everyone sips their coffees inside where it's warm. We can either wipe with a spared square or we can drip dry, which always ends poorly. We have a choice: to link up our good arms and walk in community or we can, like my dad always says, "make like a tree and leave."

Heads Up

As I get older and grow in maturity and strength (HA!), I notice that I am able to control my thought patterns a bit more than I used to. Where I would once spiral into an anxiety-ridden mess, I now rein it in and keep my footing.

I had that medical procedure done last week and now I have to wait for the results. While I was running this morning I started to worry about what might be wrong with me and thirty seconds later I was taking mental notes of where my friends and family would sit at my funeral. What kind of food will they serve? There will be a chocolate fountain, for sure, and a giant bowl of ketchup chips beside the guest book. Everyone will sign their names in rainbow-coloured scented felt pens. As you can see, I lost my footing a bit this morning.

Remember that scene from Tommy Boy where Chris Farley is doing the lifesaver demo on the airplane? He puts the inflatable thingie around his neck and blows it up while David Spade informs everyone that "there's no point in learning how to use one of these because if the plane is going to crash into anything, it's going to be a mountain." And everyone gasps in horror.

That's what I was doing this morning--I was focusing on the wrong thing! If I'm going to die anytime soon, chances are it will be from being nailed by a truck while I'm running along the side of the road. But even so, why would I spend my energy worrying about death when I could spend that energy actually living?

I may lose my footing from time to time, for sure. And I really hope that there isn't an open mike at my funeral. But as long as I keep getting up and moving forward, keeping my focus on living and loving fully, then chances are, I won't hit a mountain.

Doing the Deed Alone

I love this quote: "Integrity is doing the right thing when nobody is watching."

My dad taught me the importance of doing good deeds and not telling a single soul that you did them. Do you know how impossible this is? Not only can I not brag about my sainthood but I can't even look up with the pleading "LOOK AT ME DOING AWESOME STUFF!" eyes while I'm picking up the garbage/helping the lady across the street. For the youngest child, attention-seeker, it's pure torture. Try it--you'll see what I mean.

Most of my close friends and family know this story: A few years back during a particular messed up time in my life, I was driving along River Road in Fort Langley and I pitched a full McDonalds cup of Diet Coke out the window of my van. Just like, littered the mutherfucker out all over the road, just like that. And as soon as the cup left my hands, something inside of me woke up, and it wasn't pretty.

I knew in that moment that my heart had gone cold, and throwing my litter out the window, although a smaller crime along the grand scale of life's fuckups, was a direct result of an unhealthy heart. That cup became a symbol, as it were, of my mess. My issues. My shit.

I was staring head-on into the darkest part of myself and I was filled with remorse, which thankfully, was soon replaced by a strong desire to change. It's easier to do the right thing when everyone is watching, but it's even easier to do the wrong thing when we know that nobody can see us.

Each cup that we litter brings our integrity down a notch and although it seems like a slow fade, you'll notice that one day you'll wake up and the symbol of the mess won't be something as small as a littered cup. It will be much bigger, and it will hurt much more.

Not out of paying penance for my crime but out of a true desire to become a better human being, I began to do the right things when nobody was watching and guess what? The peaceful feeling (go, Eagles!) at the end of the night is more satisfying than standing on a stage having a million people chant my name. Because I know it makes me a full, loving Suzy... not an empty, needy girl.

And that's something I can drink (Diet Coke) to.

Hold On

I recently reconnected with a friend from elementary school and he wrote: "I can't wait to hear about your life! I hope it has been as happy as I remember you to be! You were always so happy and funny!" And when I read that, I broke out into this huge grin and my eyes got all watery. I want to hold onto that little girl inside of me, you know? That happy and funny kid. I really don't ever want to lose her.

What were you guys like as kids? What were you known for? Do you have the same attributes and character traits now as you did back then?

In grade six I wore Ocean Pacific tee shirts and jogging pants. I had zero boobs, and didn't give a shit about boys unless they could match me in a running race. I played with My Little Ponies past a socially acceptable age, and my report cards, although peppered with "A's" were filled with pleadings by my teachers to get Suzy to stop talking to her peers and do her work already.

My grade one and two teacher's name was Miss Junk, and my grade five teacher was Mr. Wood. It was in fifth grade that I threw a boy's pants into a pile of sawdust-covered vomit in the hallway for calling my bff a bad name. And you know who that boy was? The one who just asked me if my life is as happy as he remembers me to be. I guess he forgives me.

Life deals us cards, and we roll with the punches, but I won't be purging my happy and funny. I'd like to keep them both, thanks.

Enjoy the Show

I'm working super hard on my entry for the writing contest. I'm finished the meat and potatoes of it all and now I'm in the process of whoring it out to all my friends and family for editing, input, criticism, and encouragement. I have a post for this blog that I've started and stopped about a million times which I'll get to publishing as soon as I get my shit together. But for now? Here's a special little bit that I get to share with you, compliments of my dad (he had emailed this to me about a week or so ago). He's a kickass human being and an excellent writer:

As I left Guildford library yesterday, at the last moment I grabbed a movie called “Moneyball”, starring Brad Pitt, based on a true baseball story about a former player, now baseball manager named Billy Beane.  Because I have never been fond of “true story” type movies, I hadn’t considered this movie before.  I watched it this morning, and it ranks right up there with one of the best and most inspirational movies I’ve ever watched.  If you ever get to a stage in life where you’re a bit down, just watch this movie.  It will help.

 

There’s a line from a song in the movie that says “I’ve got to let it go, and just enjoy the show”, and the movie ends with Billy Beane’s daughter singing this song. 

 

It reminded me of my own shattered sports dreams.  As a youngster and teenager, I participated in every type of sport possible.  I had the heart of a lion, and the talent of a stone.  I played baseball in Little League in Yellowknife, but once I started to face the fast balls of 140 pound 13 year olds, I recognized that I would never be able to connect my brain knowledge with my swing ability.  The same proved true for all other sports, including hockey, football, and golf.  Over the years, I played a lot of golf; I even took lessons from a pro for a while.  I don’t believe I ever broke 100, although my scores may have occasionally suggested that I did.  Eventually in frustration I quit golfing and took up fishing, and have been a much happier person for it.  And I have maintained my “heart of a lion” attitude as I continue to support the Canucks through thick and thin.

 

But the movie reminded me that I did “succeed” once in sports, as a teen ager in the “sport” of long distance running.  I trained my buns off, running almost daily for 2 or 3 years.  I ran in interschool track meets on Vancouver Island, and until my final high school race, never finishing higher than 12th.  I enjoyed running because it didn’t require any athletic coordination skills; I just had to move my legs and feet. 

 

Then one day, while I was in Grade 12 in Nanaimo, it was announced that there would be a major Vancouver Island track meet, including schools from up and down the entire island, and it would feature a 14 mile cross country race, which was the longest distance ever used in a school track meet that I had ever heard of at the time.  I determined that I would practise for that distance, and practise I did.  I knew I had no hope of winning, but I also knew that this would be my last high school race, and I wanted to know, beyond doubt, that wherever I did finish, it would be the very best race that I could have possibly run.

 

There must have been 100 or more entrants in that race, and when it started, there was the usual jostling and bumping for the first half mile, and since I knew I was a real “plodder”, I just set my own 14 mile pace and didn’t join the maddening throngs up front.  As I plodded along, mile after mile, and particularly during the last half of the race, I realized I was slowly passing runner after runner, but I didn’t give any thought to it really.  I just kept my pace.  As I approached the last half mile or so, I realized that there was a runner quite far ahead who I couldn’t catch, but nobody visibly behind me.  I was running out of gas, but I increased my pace as best I could, and finished the race ahead of a pack of runners breathing down my neck.  The minute I crossed the line, I knew that I had completed the race in the best time that I could have possibly done.  I figured I had again finished somewhere in the top 20 or so, which would have been just fine.  But when I was told that I had finished second, I was overwhelmed with joy.  Never once did I regret not finishing first, because I always knew inside that I had done my very best possible.

 

I know that my running tale is awfully hokey, but I’m glad that this movie reminded me of it, because for health reasons, I’ve been a bit down lately.  I just needed that little song to remind me that “I’ve got to let it go, and just enjoy the show”.

 

So I’m going to go do something that I’m physically capable of doing, which is getting on my motorcycle and riding up the roads along the Fraser River.  And practise my gratitude a little while I’m doing that.