Held Back

Freddy got diagnosed with a blood disorder when he was just over one year old. He got a cold, which turned into a cough which turned into pneumonia and his little body was working too hard making red blood cells to even remotely fight the pneumonia. It's a rare hereditary blood disorder, and I'm so thankful that it hasn't affected his life too much. Once in a while when his body can't keep up with the rapid rate of red blood cell destruction, we bring him to the hospital for blood work and if need be, transfusions.

There's this image in my mind. No, it's in not just in my mind, it's in the gap between my skin and memory, my senses and instincts. That space that juts out into our lives whether we want it to or not like a sharp rock between here and there, a space where we can either stand upon or lose ourselves on. And it's of Freddy's tiny toddler body, bound in a hospital bed sheet in a way that kept him still enough to give blood for tests. He was too young to understand that we bound him to help him. He fought hard against us, against the binding force, his iron will flexing and pushing, the angst inside his body practically bursting through his skin and all I could do was stand there and helplessly watch him fight.

I've seen this scene manifest in different ways with each child. It's not a hospital sheet, in an emergency room. It's on a couch. It's in the backseat of the van. It's in a restaurant, it's at home. It's here and there and everywhere in between but to me, it looks the same, that my child's angst is practically bursting through their skin and all I can do is stand there and helplessly watch them fight.

I want to unzip the gap, gather my babies in my arms and duck us all down beneath the great divide between here and there, stand upon that rock, and know peace. And know peace. To close up the unknown and lie still in the safety of love where there is no pain, there is no fight, there is no angst.

But then we wouldn't move forward.

BFF: Wobble

Having children spread out from the ages of fourteen to infant presents all sorts of challenges (and opportunities, depending on the mood du jour and whether or not we have any Coronas in the fridge). As you can imagine, it's a huge transition for our older kids to have a baby brother come along later in life after all the other changes they've been through: divorce, remarriage, and moving (houses, cities, schools). While they all love him to bits and fight over who gets to hold him and give him kisses, it hasn't always been easy. Never mind the fact that my body feels one hundred years old compared to how I felt when I had Jake at twenty-two.

Parenting a baby and a fourteen year-old and all the ages in between can be a juggling act at best (an all-out circus act most days, but without the beer tents and bikinis). However, despite the age gaps there are a lot of parallels. Callum is learning how to stand on his own, which is super cute. His chubber legs weeble and wobble and he ever so slowly loosens his grip on my fingers and lets go. When I hold onto him he almost swats at me, batting me away from his independence. Go away, mom. I've got this. But when he stumbles, I catch him. When he hurts, I hold him.

The older kids are the same way as their emotions jerk and sway through this huge world. They wear shirts with bikini babes printed on the front. They dye their hair green, practice the "F" word, and tell each other to shut up. Jake is literally sitting beside me right now begging for thirty British pounds to buy a membership to the Iron Maiden fan club. I seriously think they wake up each day for the sole purpose of halting our circulatory systems.

They ever so slowly loosen their grip on our fingers and let go. When I hold onto them, they almost swat at me, batting me away from their independence. Go away, mom. We've got this. But when they stumble, I catch them. When they hurt, I hold them.

Crackerjacks

When I was a little girl my mom and dad would take me to the Vancouver Canadiens baseball games and there, during particularly tense moments I'd hunch over, my tailbone digging into the plastic chair and I'd focus on my thumbnail, of all things. I'd lose myself inside of it, envisioning the pitcher whipping one right down the chute and then the batter whacking it out of the park. Weird, eh? Ya.

I have a strong will. I've always figured that if I wanted something bad enough that I would just get it. If I could only draw up every last drop of internal energy and squeeeeeeze it out as magic potion into whatever situation that needed it then I would be able to save it all, steering the wheel of the ship away from its demise. From time to time it would work as I envisioned it inside of my thumbnail; the good guys would hit a home run and win the game. But most of the time I have to face reality: I'm not God. And that sucks.

I'd like to say that if I was God, I'd run a perfectly painless world. But we all know that beauty comes out of ashes, flowers grow where dirt once was, and grace grows in the cracks. Right? A lot of the treasures in our lives exist because of the mistakes we first made. Our present situations, although at times uncomfortable, can be redeemed with Love. So maybe, just maybe, I could stop looking down at my own strong will and instead look up and just enjoy the game. Plus, I'm sure the people sitting closest to me would appreciate it if I stopped focusing on my thumbnail and passed the popcorn already.

I Will

I will never be drunk enough for this, for these nights, the ones that shove me forward, my toes on the brink of the fall. There's nothing that can take the edge off the burning in my body, the muscles of my will to survive shaking in exhaustion, digging themselves into the earth. There's no respite, only sharp sobriety.

Anne Lamott is one of my most treasured writers and she taught me how to feel each moment, really drink it in and wait, wait long enough for the moment to reach my extremities. Our tendency is to fight it, to stuff it, to will it away. If I don't let myself feel the pain then maybe I can trick myself into thinking that it's not really painful.

The same theory applies to the pains of childbirth. The more we fight the contractions, the worse they feel and the slower our progression. As each wave hits, if we make our bodies rigid, clenching our teeth in rebellion and fear, we will literally be pushing against Nature in an attempt to win a losing battle. But what does it look like when we let go? Our bodies become vessels of that power, rocking through the waves, delivering love. We move around, roll our heads, sway our hips. Each wave, starting at the centre of Creation radiates freely through our bodies, unhindered by fear, untamed by control. It reaches outward, and is released. And just like that, as we let go, our love is birthed, and we can begin to heal.

I will hold my position on the edge, I will feel the burn of my will to keep going, to hold strong. I will ride each wave as it hits, I will resist the urge to fight it and instead let it move me, let it rock and roll me. Love prevails, and I will let go.

Break Out

When I was a teenager, I dealt with zits. But they weren't the nice polite little red dots, easily squeezed and then dried up with special cream promoted by cute models on TV. No. I had something called cystic acne, otherwise known as "under-the-skin zits."

Under-the-skin zits are these hot and infected mounds of ouch that grow beneath the surface of the skin. They cannot be squeezed and if a squeeze is attempted, all that comes out is this clear liquid leaving behind a lump 100 times the original size. I once had one between my eyebrows and ended up walking out of the bathroom looking like one of the characters from Star Trek.

My mom was one of those parents that let me stay home from school when The Zits were really really bad. I recall one day in grade eleven, I had six under-the-skin zits on my face at once. My friends were heading up to Seymour to go snowboarding and I stayed at home reapplying antibacterial cream to my war wounds.

Eventually my mom got sick of me whining about my appearance and one day when I was begging her to stay at home, she told me something I'll never forget. A bit cross with me, she said, "Suzy, you're thinking much too highly of yourself to think that everyone is looking at you and your zits." She was annoyed. She was harsh. But she was right.

I often remember her words when I get my feet stuck in my own ego. We can't really engage in life when we're worried about what everyone else will think of us. The land of worry has high electric fences around the perimeter.

But I say we break out of our prison of worry to explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life and new civilizations, to boldly go where no man has gone before. Even if we do look like a Vulcan.

Bring it Home

My chest wrings its muscles in angst, my eyes are flecked with worried wet and it's all I can do to tame it, hold it back, rein it in until I get there. I do all the right things: I shoulder check, signal, calmly pull into my spot with my jaw flexed into a peace-forced half-smile while my muscles twitch with emotional overload.

Collecting myself, adjusting the tongue of my shoes, I set my eyes on the path ahead and take names. One step to start, two to keep me going, and then it's no turning back. Not for a while. Not until I'm finished pouring myself out, fertilizing the forest with my heart.

A burn pile's smoke pulls my gaze to the right, interrupting my rhythmic breath for a moment while I draw it slowly in and up! An eagle! Chest out and proud. I lift my own in hopes that I too might be recognized as supreme and then a second later I trip on a root and instead, promptly remember my humility.

My humble feet take me to places in my heart that not even flight could bring.

I run and I run and I run and when I find what I'm looking for, I don't stop and turn around. No. I hold it close. I let it in and turn it 'round until it warms and molds to who I am, becoming a part of me, and then I carry it home.

It's a bit heavier, but I'm a bit stronger. So it all evens out.

Expectation

We saw the specialist yesterday and he showed us on his portable ultrasound machine where the blood clot still resides. The star of the show was moving about, opening and closing its mouth and flexing its wee little toes. The doctor flicked off the machine, leaned back in his chair and smiled at us. The panic in my chest certainly did not match his calm demeanor.

Andrew and I tag-teamed him with a gunfire of questions and concerns and his response can be summed up like this:

1) The baby is healthy and safe in its amniotic sac, and so we have nothing to grieve.

2) While most women with subchorionic hematomas (blood clots) go on to deliver full-term healthy babies, some do not. The blood can irritate the uterus and sometimes deliver the baby much too early.

3) There is nothing that we can do to control the blood clot (besides take obvious precautions). He looked at us in the eyes and told us to "let go." To stay connected to our baby just as we are connected to our other children, but to let go of the control that we really don't have. And to stop grieving something that hasn't even happened yet.

I guess they use the term "expecting" for pregnancy for a reason: we carry the baby and grow it and our accompanying body to gargantuan proportions until the baby is ready to breathe on its own. We expect these things, because this is how life most often plays out. Yes, there is tragedy, but it's not what *usually* happens. We don't cry in our cereal every morning, fearing the death of our 13, 11, 10, 8 and 7 year-olds (dear lord, that's a lot of kids), so why would we mourn the healthy person inside of me?

We shouldn't. We have our moments when our knees buckle in fear but we vow to hold on to the expectation that all six of our children will live, and be filled with our love.

"Love has nothing to do with what you are expecting to get - only with what you're expecting to give - which is everything."

Katharine Hepburn

Hold On

One lazy teenage summer, a group of us packed into a boat and took turns pulling each other around the lake on an inner tube. With our bellies full of ketchup chips and toaster strudels, one by one, we hopped onto the tube and trusted the driver with our lives for five minutes of delicious torture. Tyler was in charge of my ride and he spared no wave. He showed no mercy. Screaming, I spent every second in that tube debating which was worse: letting go to signal him to stop (and most assuredly causing him to speed up in malicious rebellion) or holding on for dear life until the spine-twisting, spleen-chattering ride was over.

I didn't have to wait too long because I was quickly cartwheeled over the edge of the tube and into the cold water at lightening-speed. Unfortunately, I hit the water in such a compromising position that water was forced into places where it should not be. I climbed back into the boat, eyes burning with tears. I punched Ty in the shoulder and sunk down into my seat and vowed to forgive him never.

On Saturday, we almost lost our baby. I stood between Freddy and Andrew while we watched Kylah's soccer game, and I started hemorrhaging. One second I was fine, the next I had blood pooling into my running shoes. As I waited on the ground for the ambulance, Freddy sat beside my head and I held his hand. With the very same strength that was birthed at each child's conception, I faced him and told him that I will be okay. That the baby probably won't be okay (Freddy nodded...he understood) but that I wasn't going anywhere. He hopped into the back of the ambulance with me and for the second time in his 11 years of life, we listened to the scream of the siren and road the ambulance together.

Despite the rocking boat and tumultuous waves, this baby in my womb remained safe and warm, healthy and vigorous. We rejoiced through sobs of relief. We were confused and sore, but this baby lived. And not only lived, but lived well.

We never really seem to know what kind of ride we're jumping on, do we? Until we're pulled along. We hold onto each other for dear life when the waves are hitting hard and then when we're deposited onto the beach, crumpled and compromised, we look up and squeeze the people we love, who have chosen to ride it out with us.

I'm thankful for my best friend, a man whom I didn't think I could ever love more deeply but do. Oh, I do. For our children, who give us a strength that we would never be able to construct on our own. For our friends and family who held us and cried with us. And for this baby, who is teaching me all over again, about love and letting go.

Sometimes it seems the smaller the gift, the more powerful the message.

Hey, How's it Going?

I went through this phase in University where I put a huge emphasis on authenticity to the point where I sacrificed manners and social skills in the name of "being real." One of the things I hated was when people used the question "how's it going?" as a greeting rather than an honest inquiry. And so I rebelled against it and whenever someone would ask me that, I'd stop and just start totally going into my life story to see their reaction. They'd get all squirmy and I'd get all smug, as if I taught them some sort of lesson in authenticity.

However, I've since matured, partly because I found myself without a whole lot of friends but mostly because it didn't feel good to not care. Don't get me wrong--I value sincerity. I recognize the goodness of being real, of acknowledging and giving validity to our feelings and moods as they ebb and flow through our days. But sometimes, just sometimes, we need to get over ourselves and give a fuck about someone else.

Being human means to be absorbed with Self. Exercising the muscle of Other is exactly that: an exercise. It doesn't come naturally. It's work. It makes us sweat and it often smarts. And sometimes the very last thing on earth that I ever want to do is care about whatever person is in my face in that moment and it takes every ounce of my energy to lift that weight and care. But each time I do, (and I often don't!) I feel better.

When I was younger, I'd whine to my mom about not wanting to go to church that day and my mom would always tell me that this is the best time to go--when I don't feel like it. That I will be doubly rewarded (an extra cookie in Sunday School?) if I forced myself to go. I'm not sure if this ideology deemed true each time but there's something to be said about doing things that you don't feel like doing.

Statistically, a smile, even if it's forced, produces happy chemicals in the brain and our bodies can't help but feel a bit happier! Maybe if we forced ourselves to look up and smile, even when we don't feel like it, we'd find our emotional muscles to be stronger and more efficient.

I'm sure you're angry and resentful and have every good and valid reason to unleash your assholery on the cashier/son/daughter/ex/dog/annoyingpersontalkingtooloudontheircellinthestarbucksline, and God knows they have no idea how hard your life has been and they most certainly haven't ever had a struggle in their lives. But just keep doing what you're doing. Leave the bar of Other on the ground in the weight room and see what happens. If it's the same thing that happened to me, you'll look up in the gym mirror and see nobody around you and your heart will be small and cold and flabby. Or, you can let go of Self and pick up the Other bar and join the rest of the world in all our glorious messes.

Because where there are messes, there are people. And where there are people, there is Love.

Blend Into the Wicker

When I was a teenager, about 16 years old, my parents would call these family meetings where they'd sit me down in the family room, my dad on my left on the sofa and my mom on my right in her soft blue wing-armed chair, and they'd talk to me as I sat across from them on the loveseat. In between us stood an expensive glass-topped white wicker coffee table, and when the family meeting got uncomfortable, I'd sink my gaze into the twirling wooden twine of wicker that licked the edge of the blue-green glass and I would "blend into the wicker" in some feeble attempt of escape. I would enter myself into the white wood, bending and sliding along, filling my senses with anything but the discomfort of conflict.

I had my share of tumultuous teen years and I can imagine it was difficult for my parents to watch. They wanted to save me, I could tell, but all I really needed to do was just plow through it all and let the discomfort strengthen me and teach me.

There are moments still, where I find myself blending into the wicker. I love running along the dyke out by Andrew's place because it's where water meets mountain, where the leaves of each branch on every tree seem to curl their fingers into me and sweep me up and away from the mire. Last week I stood along the edge of the river and faced myself squarely into the mountain and, from the depth of my hurt, riding on the coattails of my ever-growing strength, I sang as hard as I could into the open air.

It's not always me-against-world, but sometimes, when it feels like I am alone, I let myself be cradled by the salve of peace and then I know in that moment, I will be okay.

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.

 

 

Waiting

I used to drive to Vancouver Airport and stand on a grassy field just outside the perimeters of the runway and watch the jets take off and land. The rush of metal and jet fuel would max out my senses, driving out any unwanted feelings that might have been trying to take over. Just when I would feel wild and uncontrollable, I would stand there, face up, chest open and arms wide, and let the forces of the plane dominate my body and press me to the ground in one giant roar of authority.

There have been times in my life where I’d stand there and wait, feeling wild and uncontrollable, and no plane would fly overhead. I’d scour the sky, desperate for a higher power and yet there was none. Sometimes it seemed like I stood alone in that one spot for an eternity, watching the seasons change, hoping for a sign of Life for when I stood alone in that anxious state, I was never really living.

Sometimes the isolation and hopelessness would be too much to bear and I’d take matters into my own hands, exchanging anything I could offer for some sort of salve to stop the bleeding. Whether we like to admit it or not, we all find our own escapes from pain. Some of us drink or eat or run. Or maybe we have children to fill the void. Or we treat sex one-dimensionally and spread it on the surface of our skin like the desert sun hits the outermost layer of sand; we feel its burning presence but it leaves our deepest layers untouched and cold.

I know that the healing happens in the waiting. That we have two choices: to exchange our souls for the first thing that crosses our path, risking contamination, or, we can wait for the fuel that will ultimately satisfy our longing and satiate our bellies.

It’s part of our growing process. It’s cocooning. It’s the pregnant silence carrying the whisper of what’s to come. And when our promise flies overhead, we will know the roar of its omnipotence so intimately that we will tremble with relief.

Big Hairy Deal

I appreciate my hair, I do. Just as the chanting of a snake charmer raises the cobra from its coiled, dormant state, so does my hair draw out my reticent femininity. Also, it's comfy like a blanket. When I feel disarmed and wild, the heaviness of my hair shushes me back down to earth.

You know what I can't stand, though? Is that my hair picks up smells faster than a tourist picks up E. Coli from raw meat in Mexico. It's like, one second my hair smells like perfumey splendor and then the next second it's all Starbucksy ass munch. Or bacon. Or the cigarette smoke blown all over me by the lady I'm standing next to with the messy boobs and chin hair.

Twice in my lifetime, I've chopped my hair all off.  The first time I was in grade nine and it was right before my sister's wedding. I played about 18 different sports back then and so I looked like a 10 year old boy. It took me forever to grow it out and then again, I chopped it all off right after Jake was born. It's interesting to note that both times I cut my hair, I was having a bit of an identity crisis. Maybe I'm looking too much into it but I believe that in many ways, my hair is a metaphor for my Self. I'm lovely and feminine yet sometimes wild and unruly. My life can be messy and overwhelming and completely uncontrollable, but it's beautiful because it makes me Suzy. The more I attempt to manipulate it, the uglier it gets. I just need to let go and let it be.

The Puke

I have a phobia of throwing up. Actually, I used to have this phobia; it's lessened in intensity over the years. The more I talked about it the more I noticed that it's not uncommon to be totally freaked out about getting the stomach flu. My good friend Jen calls it "The Puke." If someone so much as walks by her in the mall with a nauseous look on their face, she hits her medicine cabinet and swallows truckfulls of anti-puke medication in anticipation of The Puke. And really? I don't blame her.

There's just something about getting the stomach flu that turns my world upside down. I've thought about it many times and tried to analyze it (my name is Suzy, and I am an analyzoholic) and the best explanation I could come up with is that when we throw up, it's a complete loss of control. As humans we are control freaks, some of us more than others, but at the end of the day we need to know that we have some sort of grip on our decisions and their outcomes. But when we get The Puke, there is no amount of self-control and cheek-biting that will stifle the spaghetti purge.

This is gross.

There's some funky virus going around right now that is giving everyone the worst form of The Puke since Norwalk, 2003 (been there, puked that). Kids at school are dropping like flies. The party people I work with are phoning in sick, and the rest of us are all hanging onto our health by our fingertips. Andrew and I saw a girl in one of the food courts at the mall yesterday wearing a mask and do you think we wanted to eat there? No. So we starved.

Whether we carry it as a phobia or as a mere discomfort, nobody wants to lose control and have our insides come out. It's embarrassing. It hurts. It smells, and it's out of our control. But when we finally let go, isn't it such a huge relief? The fear of letting it out can make us feel sicker than we need to feel but once we let go of that vice grip, we can purge ourselves of our sickness and start over with renewed health. This is why I don't fear The Puke anymore because my life will play out the way it's supposed to play out whether or not I feel in control. A feeling is a feeling, not truth. The sooner we let go, the healthier we will be.

Vroom

There is no doubt that I have annoyed everyone who knows me with repeated quotes from the movie "Tommy Boy" starring my favourite actor of all time: Chris Farley. At one point he is trying to sell brake pads to a dealership and the guy who might buy them keeps hesitating because the box that contains the brake pads aren't stamped with a guarantee of some sort. Farley makes a point that a guarantee is nothing but that: a stamp. He says to the man, "If you'd like, I can take a shit in a box and stamp a guarantee on it but at the end of the day all it would be is a guaranteed box of shit."

There is very little in this life that is guaranteed and people who have lost much are the ones who will nod their heads most fiercely to this statement. In a split second we can go from plenty to pathetic. Married to divorced. Life to death. Paradise to devastation. Words are empty without the accompanying actions. The only way to know if our risks are worth it is by taking that step of faith and choosing to put the brake pads on, and hoping for the best. Have faith, choose love, put the brake pads on and drive. If we don't, we will be sitting cross-legged on the cold garage floor for all eternity holding a box filled with what we are convinced of is shit.

Imagine all of the things we would miss out on if we never left the garage floor.

"He who risks and fails can be forgiven. He who never risks and never fails is a failure in his whole being." -Paul Tillich

Shhh...

I'm reading a book called "Walking on Water" by Madeleine L'Engle and in the first chapter she writes, "when I am constantly running there is no time for being. When there is no time for being there is no time for listening."

I remember when I was pregnant with my first child, I was sitting in one of those prenatal classes that we're supposed to take at the hospital and the nurse who was instructing the class was giving us lessons on how to breathe during contractions. All of us big girls were sitting around in a semicircle on chairs desperately trying to not look fat, doing our best to pay attention while pretending not to notice the wasp that was taking nonstop suicide dives into the light bulb above our heads. It was an exciting night.

Meanwhile, the nurse would walk around the room observing the way we would be breathing: in deeply through the nose, relaxing the belly out, tongue down off the roof of the mouth, ears relaxed, shoulders limp. As she marched around the semicircle and came closer to me, I felt even more tense, worried that I'd be doing it wrong and that I'd be the example of what not to do. Everyone else seemed to be at peace while I felt like I had a cat caught somewhere inside of my body, scratching at me to get out. She stopped in front of me, and I will never forget this moment for as long as I live, she told me, "Suzy... you need to practice letting go of your anxiety." And then she walked on.

I'm the type of person who runs constantly so as to not have a time for being, because when there is a time for being there is a time for listening. And do you think I would want to hear what my body and mind wanted to tell me? Not a chance.

It wasn't until I went through the dreadlock phase that I started being still and opening myself up to what silence had to teach me. I was petrified, but I got to the point where it hurt too much to stay stuck where I was. I'd fluff my hippie blanket out, light my incense and then I'd sit in the middle of my bed and close my eyes and let my thoughts come and go with as much ease as a morning breeze. Sometimes the sun would feel warm on my face and then just as suddenly as it came it was replaced by the sting of hail. I'd sit there, face open and willing to receive, bear, and birth. I'd rock each thought, fear and hurt and then, belly out, tongue down and off the roof of my mouth, ears relaxed and shoulders limp, I'd let them go.

Truth

Some people lie a lot. It's weird. I haven't been much of a liar, although I've definitely had some sneaky lying stints in my lifetime, for sure. My personality defects revolve more around you know, like, being self-absorbed, neurotic, and obsessive. Lying has never been something that I struggle with or need to overcome. Which I guess, if I'm truthful, I'm quite pleased about.

I'm actually truthful to a fault. Like, I say TOO much truth. For instance, I am a wee bit drunk right now because I opened up a bottle of wine on Monday night and I really couldn't keep it much past tonight or it would taste bad, and because I'm rather frugal (okay! I'm cheap! whatever!) I decided to drink the rest of it tonight after work. And I needed something to snack on, because wine needs snackifying accompaniment, so I ate a bunch of crackers smothered with cream cheese and pickled jalapeno peppers, and now I'm paranoid that I'll get the stomach flu because it's going around you know, and who wants to throw THAT shit up? Not me.

Anyway.

So I'm not a liar. And I feel smug about it.

There was this one time that I spilled coffee all over my cell phone. I always drink my coffee with copious amounts of cream, and so whenever I spill it (which is often), the ramifications of such spills are costly (old milk stinks like ass). But yet I still thought that when my cell phone stopped working and I brought it into Telus, that for some reason they wouldn't know that I spilled coffee all over it.

NOT TRUE.

Because when I marched up to the counter and indignantly demanded that my cell phone be fixed, I was shocked and horrified that the guy opened up my phone and found milk and coffee sludge crusted onto the battery pack.

It was embarrassing.

I had to admit that yes, I remember spilling coffee all over it and that yes, I am aware that I am responsible for the cost of fixing my phone. We initially hide behind our lies to save face but in the end, we always look like assholes because the truth always comes out. It just does.

As sure as the earth is round, truth always comes out.

It's frightening to accept, but it's also quite freeing, because we don't have to pretend anything anymore. We can just let go, and be. One of my favourite sayings is one that my dad always says and it goes like this: "We are only as sick as our secrets."

Anyway, as much as I'd love to pretend that I'm lounging in a hot tub holding a martini and listening to Kenny G on my surround sound, I must admit that I'm sitting in bed with cracker crumbs all over my shirt, and the only sounds I hear are the tapping of the keys on my keyboard and my morbidly obese cat snoring beside me on the floor (because he's too fat to jump up on the bed).

Truth hurts, but it's freeing. Open it up, clean house, and move on.

Day Twenty-Nine

Humans by nature are control freaks. We can jump out of airplanes, eat fried chicken from KFC and touch the door handles at WalMart but as soon as we get stuck in traffic we totally lose our minds. We'd rather stand in a lit room filled with snakes than stand in a dark room filled with god-knows-what. As long as we know what the fuck is going on, we will be okay.

Why?

It's the fear of the unknown, and that fear is persuasive.

How do we deal with the unknown so that we don't totally fall apart whenever life gets convoluted? I'm not sure. When you figure it out, will you let me know?

I think if I'm honest with myself, when I lose control over one aspect of my life, I over-control everything else to make up for it. Like, I run 100 miles a week because running has cause and effect. I run, I get tired, I eat, I sleep, I wake up and run some more. I also make lists of things to do like take my van for an oil change and buy cat food from Costco so that I can go do it, and then cross it off the list. Seeing it there written down "to do" and then physically putting a big black line through it is so satisfying. I also love to sit on my bathroom counter and tweeze out all my white hairs.

So maybe I don't know if Freddy will need a blood transfusion or what city I will be living in, but I'll know for damn sure that I won't need an engine flush for another 10,000 km and that my cat won't starve.

We are all control freaks in our own way, too. Some people are outwardly obvious with their controlling nature, while some people white-knuckle their lives in the more hidden parts. What do you guys do to maintain a sense of control? Eat? Pluck hairs? Exercise? Wash your car 800 times? Scrub the kitchen floor until you've taken off the finishing coat?

Let me know! I need some fresh ideas.

Day Twenty-Five

I thrive in chaos. I had breakfast with my dad this morning and he described me as having too much on my plate, some by choice and some by chance, but too much nonetheless. It's like I need a challenge of some sort just to keep life exciting.

If I know I'm going to be 20 minutes early for something then I will almost always attempt to squeeze in a little extra errand of some sort on my way there which almost always makes me late. It's a bit like a game to me to see how much I can fit into one day.

My kids are with their dad in California until Monday night so I have been cramming in as much "Suzy time" as possible. I'm having overdue dinners and coffee dates with my friends and family and just spending some quality alone time with myself, writing on my laptop or reading books. It's been blissful, but it also feels so foreign.

Two weeks ago I was strung out from too little sleep and too much work. I was getting up at 3:30 am to work a Starbucks shift until 1pm and then working at the physio job from 2 until 6. Then I'd get the kids and schlep them to soccer practices, guitar lessons, and church groups while making dinner and doing laundry. I was exhausted. I phoned my mom from the side of the road bawling my eyes out about how I was so overwhelmed.

And then there's now, where I'm home from a relaxing trip to Arizona, with so much time to myself that I can barely stand it. I met Lora for a run out in Chilliwack but I was 15 minutes early to her house so I sat in my van and texted Andrew: "I'm bored." I don't think I've been bored since grade eleven when I solved the boredom problem by throwing Jeremy Eccles' binders and pencils out the second story window.

Instead of fighting the silence, I opened myself up to the stillness and let go. I chose to be comfortable in my own body, being "okay" with everything in the world at that precise moment. There was nothing to do but wait, and I didn't want to lose those 15 minutes to the torturous game of "if only." I imagined my body storing up a peace reserve for the upcoming days of juggling school, work, sports, and Christmas shopping. And since I was in the mindset of storing up things in my body, I decided it would be an appropriate time to consume some cranberry bliss bar and a Starbucks coffee. It was just the right thing to do.

Day Twenty-Three

A good friend of mine is going through a hard time right now and she just texted me this morning, "Suzy, I cried myself to sleep last night and now I look like shit. I have to go to work when I should just stay in bed."

I told her to just let herself look how she feels. That this is life, and this is humanity, and that it's okay to feel how we feel.

There's a well-known drug-addiction counselor in the lower mainland here and he is known for his words of wisdom, one of which is this: that it's important to embrace pain because it teaches us something. That pain is in fact more important than peace and joy. It facilitates movement, and when we move, time passes and heals.

A couple of years ago I read Sue Monk Kidd's book, "The Dance of the Dissident Daughter" in which she describes pain and how we might best deal with it:

"He suggests we approach the pain the way a mother tenderly picks up a crying baby...once we can get the baby quiet, we can begin to look deeply at the feeling. We begin to understand the attitudes, patterns and beliefs that cause it. We start to see what keeps us stuck in our wounds and what we can do to transform them."

Pain feels awful, emotional pain far more so than physical. If we detach ourselves from it and pretend it's not really there, then it will fester and grow and contaminate our lives and loves. But if we pay attention to the pain, let it speak to us and teach us, as painful as it is, we will be able to walk away from that toxic sludge with that much less green goop stuck to our hearts.