Monday, February 20, 2012
The Book
I got through some writing last night. I'd forgotten how much I'd already done. It's intimidating because I'm holding myself to a much higher standard than usual - the kind that's pretty much make it publishably perfect or don't waste my own living space. And the fact that once or twice a year I think I can be that person, well, that's pretty amazing.... but the rest of the time, what the heck? Really?
Sunday, February 19, 2012
on dark little hovels
It's been a few days. I think I'm brave enough to open my book and do some writing. And by my book, I mean the novel that's been very poorly neglected. In fact, maybe you didn't even know I was writing it. Well, now you do. Great. Giving myself expectations to live up to that aren't mine now.
The question at hand was why dank, wretched, dirty little hovels make for the best creative space. The answer is surprisingly simple: When you have absolutely no distractions, no material wealth, and very few standards to live up to, it is shockingly easy to see beauty and feel love in those dark places. Every little thought, act, feeling, reaction - it all feels like more somehow. When you're not sure where your next meal is coming from, it's actually easier to stop and smell the flowers. When you don't know if you'll have a roof over your head the next night or not, well, it makes it a lot easier to wait for the train home while sitting somewhere out of the way on the platform. And if you're told that only (insert racist slang term for local native peoples here) sit on the kerb while having a snack, and you're the kind of person who feels injustice at that, the remark makes it easier to just stay sitting. (Don't y'all see that I'm clearly not the kind of person you can put a label on and walk away from? I'm asking you by my non-interaction to engage with me on a soul level because that's where I'm at and that's how I'm seeing you right now and it would be just oh so amazing if you'd deign to come down here and show me who you are underneath your skin...)
The question at hand was why dank, wretched, dirty little hovels make for the best creative space. The answer is surprisingly simple: When you have absolutely no distractions, no material wealth, and very few standards to live up to, it is shockingly easy to see beauty and feel love in those dark places. Every little thought, act, feeling, reaction - it all feels like more somehow. When you're not sure where your next meal is coming from, it's actually easier to stop and smell the flowers. When you don't know if you'll have a roof over your head the next night or not, well, it makes it a lot easier to wait for the train home while sitting somewhere out of the way on the platform. And if you're told that only (insert racist slang term for local native peoples here) sit on the kerb while having a snack, and you're the kind of person who feels injustice at that, the remark makes it easier to just stay sitting. (Don't y'all see that I'm clearly not the kind of person you can put a label on and walk away from? I'm asking you by my non-interaction to engage with me on a soul level because that's where I'm at and that's how I'm seeing you right now and it would be just oh so amazing if you'd deign to come down here and show me who you are underneath your skin...)
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
There was a giant centipede on the front step. Its body was slowly being eaten by ants. Welcome home.
Inside everything was sticky from the humidity - the walls, the dishes, the countertops, chairs, tables, even somehow the bed linens. The bathroom was in a permanent state of funk, the shower curtain long ago ceasing to be of the realm of the living. A gentle, hot breeze wafted through the open window. Sweat greased the edges of the writer's hairline and pooled on her lower back, stinging her fresh tattoo. She reached into the fridge for some yogurt-ish dairy-like snack. The container was covered in a layer of slippery moisture. She was grateful it was plastic and not paper.
The apartment was shared space. Last night while she was reclusive in her upstairs bedroom (the bed smelled of mould) the dining area of the apartment had been overtaken by a fellow from New Zealand, a mate of his from the island, and someone from South America he'd met somewhere who claimed to be a shaman. She'd declined an offer to join them with wine, attempting to stay the course of being faithful to her writing instead of the so-called sins of the flesh. (Or was that pleasures of the flesh?) When she awoke hours later from her nap to discover it wasn't midnight and the party downstairs was full of obnoxious stories being told, she wished to reconsider her decision. In the end she decided that she was feeling far too self-conscious to possibly pull of the dramatic entrance required of such an incredibly late arrival to the party. Also, she had no gifts, and was under the impression that it was uncool to arrive at a party with a shaman and not bring gifts, even if she thoroughly doubted his shamanic abilities. Whatever the case, party demonstrated that he did have the ability to tell a story and captivate an audience, which is at least half the gift.
The island was paradise, but for the purpose of her mission it was not nearly run-down and dirty enough. Mission? To work on a book started in what felt like a prior life, so very long ago. This mission was about to be interrupted by the arrival of her ex-boyfriend, who, she was quite certain, had only decided to follow her to such a remote place in the south Pacific with the intention of repairing their relationship. She was adamant that this would not happen. The fact that he'd planned to stay for nearly the whole month put a severe damper on her plans to write. The island was too small to hide from each other, especially given they had so much in common in terms of interests.
The space she'd been hoping to find for writing, the ideal space, would have been much more run down, dirty, more hovel-like. The kind of space where she wouldn't feel bad cracking a cold Cook's Lager at 8 a.m., or not showering every day, or wearing out the same pair of island shorts and white shirt, now just a little too dirty from being worn every day. The book demands that kind of atmosphere.
*******
My profile picture on this blog was taken by said ex boyfriend on the island of Rarotonga. My book is still largely unfinished, but if it ever does get finished, I'll let you know. In the meantime, I invite comments as to why I feel the need for dank little hovels as the best creative space...
Inside everything was sticky from the humidity - the walls, the dishes, the countertops, chairs, tables, even somehow the bed linens. The bathroom was in a permanent state of funk, the shower curtain long ago ceasing to be of the realm of the living. A gentle, hot breeze wafted through the open window. Sweat greased the edges of the writer's hairline and pooled on her lower back, stinging her fresh tattoo. She reached into the fridge for some yogurt-ish dairy-like snack. The container was covered in a layer of slippery moisture. She was grateful it was plastic and not paper.
The apartment was shared space. Last night while she was reclusive in her upstairs bedroom (the bed smelled of mould) the dining area of the apartment had been overtaken by a fellow from New Zealand, a mate of his from the island, and someone from South America he'd met somewhere who claimed to be a shaman. She'd declined an offer to join them with wine, attempting to stay the course of being faithful to her writing instead of the so-called sins of the flesh. (Or was that pleasures of the flesh?) When she awoke hours later from her nap to discover it wasn't midnight and the party downstairs was full of obnoxious stories being told, she wished to reconsider her decision. In the end she decided that she was feeling far too self-conscious to possibly pull of the dramatic entrance required of such an incredibly late arrival to the party. Also, she had no gifts, and was under the impression that it was uncool to arrive at a party with a shaman and not bring gifts, even if she thoroughly doubted his shamanic abilities. Whatever the case, party demonstrated that he did have the ability to tell a story and captivate an audience, which is at least half the gift.
The island was paradise, but for the purpose of her mission it was not nearly run-down and dirty enough. Mission? To work on a book started in what felt like a prior life, so very long ago. This mission was about to be interrupted by the arrival of her ex-boyfriend, who, she was quite certain, had only decided to follow her to such a remote place in the south Pacific with the intention of repairing their relationship. She was adamant that this would not happen. The fact that he'd planned to stay for nearly the whole month put a severe damper on her plans to write. The island was too small to hide from each other, especially given they had so much in common in terms of interests.
The space she'd been hoping to find for writing, the ideal space, would have been much more run down, dirty, more hovel-like. The kind of space where she wouldn't feel bad cracking a cold Cook's Lager at 8 a.m., or not showering every day, or wearing out the same pair of island shorts and white shirt, now just a little too dirty from being worn every day. The book demands that kind of atmosphere.
*******
My profile picture on this blog was taken by said ex boyfriend on the island of Rarotonga. My book is still largely unfinished, but if it ever does get finished, I'll let you know. In the meantime, I invite comments as to why I feel the need for dank little hovels as the best creative space...
Why Jen and skirts don't love each other
I had a very good comment from a friend in the Church yesterday who said Blogger said her comment was too long to post. Boo blogger!
But in Jen-speak, the gist of it was that particular items of clothing are worn ritualistically (really, it is a ritual to get dressed up for church)to show reverence for the Divine.
I can respect that a whole lot more...
and in further discussion with said friend discovered that my issue is actually not so much with the policy as with my own feelings of vulnerability. Apparently wearing a skirt makes me feel vulnerable, a feeling that can be overcome with the presence of my husband - literally within arm's reach. Otherwise, the vast majority of the times that I've worn skirts (dance performances excepted) or dresses, they've been over pants. Or shorts. But usually pants. Sometimes capris.
Wearing skirts makes me feel hideously uncomfortable. Wearing skirts over pants is just about the most awesome thing I ever could have come up with and have been doing for most of my life.
There was quite a bit more soul-searching than that involved in what I replied to my friend. The fact that I know she's going to consider what I said and give me a real answer, and not a canned Church policy answer, is probably why I consider her such a good friend. And I am very curious to hear what she has to say... and to find out what the Church might think if I showed up with pants under my skirt.
Assuming I get over the other reasons why I stopped going to church...
But in Jen-speak, the gist of it was that particular items of clothing are worn ritualistically (really, it is a ritual to get dressed up for church)to show reverence for the Divine.
I can respect that a whole lot more...
and in further discussion with said friend discovered that my issue is actually not so much with the policy as with my own feelings of vulnerability. Apparently wearing a skirt makes me feel vulnerable, a feeling that can be overcome with the presence of my husband - literally within arm's reach. Otherwise, the vast majority of the times that I've worn skirts (dance performances excepted) or dresses, they've been over pants. Or shorts. But usually pants. Sometimes capris.
Wearing skirts makes me feel hideously uncomfortable. Wearing skirts over pants is just about the most awesome thing I ever could have come up with and have been doing for most of my life.
There was quite a bit more soul-searching than that involved in what I replied to my friend. The fact that I know she's going to consider what I said and give me a real answer, and not a canned Church policy answer, is probably why I consider her such a good friend. And I am very curious to hear what she has to say... and to find out what the Church might think if I showed up with pants under my skirt.
Assuming I get over the other reasons why I stopped going to church...
Monday, February 13, 2012
appropriate clothing
I was daydreaming on the topic of things that are and are not appropriate to wear to work. I draw the line at backless shirts that show bras, and lace shirts that also show bras, even if they're only lace in the back. And as much as I might want to, I'd never wear a strapless anything to work. One of my favourite summer dresses is strapless. I might wear it as a skirt to work, but not as a top.
This then brought back a memory. A what was I thinking kind of memory.
I was in church. Specifically, a Relief Society meeting. I'd worn my little black dress because it was the only skirt-like thing I owned that was clean. I should add that there is an unwritten rule (at least, I think it's unwritten) that women are only allowed in the chapel in skirts. Anyone who knows me knows that this really, really, really pisses me off. This is dumb. I didn't own skirts that weren't part of dance costumes until I started going to church.
On this particular day, as mentioned, I was in the little black dress. It had little black sleeves. It was a button up dress. It was also particularly short. When I sat down and crossed my legs, you could see entirely too much leg for church. Which I realized But Eff Me, seriously, with what happened next.
The "talk" was begun with a "reminder" about the nature of appropriate clothing to wear to church, especially how our skirts should not be too short.
I have no idea which sister gave the talk. I don't care. I don't even know if she'd seen me. But do you know how I felt? I damn near walked out. If you're going to make a misogynist rule about women having to wear skirts in the chapel, in my not particularly humble or non-hostile opinion, you've just lost the right to have any control over those skirts whatsoever.
Maybe next time I'll wear the little black skirt with the laces down the sides. And maybe I'll find a shirt with a lace back and wear a flourescent bra underneath it. Maybe I'll put my hair in a mowhawk while I'm at it and wear a thick layer of sparkles on my eyes. And to top it off you know I'd have to break out the 5-inch stiletto heels and fishnet stockings.
I don't disbelieve that my church means well, and as anyone who has seen me at work and read past dissertations on how I don't own anything sexy unless a vaguely tight wool sweater counts, clearly I am about 95% conservative in my dressing habits. And I'd have to say my clothes are pretty nice too. Even (especially) my pants.
That said, the Church can take its outdated, misogynist Bee Es and keep it. Far. Far. FAR. away from me. God gave me female genitals. How I choose to portray that in society is between me, and God. I'm not going around burning my bra, or advocating for anything that would get my picture in the DSM.
In fact, I'm not even sure why this is still an issue in the Church. And I know I'm not the first woman who's expressed discomfort at having to show up somewhere in a skirt. Unless, of course, it's a miniskirt. In which case I'm delighted you invited me!
This then brought back a memory. A what was I thinking kind of memory.
I was in church. Specifically, a Relief Society meeting. I'd worn my little black dress because it was the only skirt-like thing I owned that was clean. I should add that there is an unwritten rule (at least, I think it's unwritten) that women are only allowed in the chapel in skirts. Anyone who knows me knows that this really, really, really pisses me off. This is dumb. I didn't own skirts that weren't part of dance costumes until I started going to church.
On this particular day, as mentioned, I was in the little black dress. It had little black sleeves. It was a button up dress. It was also particularly short. When I sat down and crossed my legs, you could see entirely too much leg for church. Which I realized But Eff Me, seriously, with what happened next.
The "talk" was begun with a "reminder" about the nature of appropriate clothing to wear to church, especially how our skirts should not be too short.
I have no idea which sister gave the talk. I don't care. I don't even know if she'd seen me. But do you know how I felt? I damn near walked out. If you're going to make a misogynist rule about women having to wear skirts in the chapel, in my not particularly humble or non-hostile opinion, you've just lost the right to have any control over those skirts whatsoever.
Maybe next time I'll wear the little black skirt with the laces down the sides. And maybe I'll find a shirt with a lace back and wear a flourescent bra underneath it. Maybe I'll put my hair in a mowhawk while I'm at it and wear a thick layer of sparkles on my eyes. And to top it off you know I'd have to break out the 5-inch stiletto heels and fishnet stockings.
I don't disbelieve that my church means well, and as anyone who has seen me at work and read past dissertations on how I don't own anything sexy unless a vaguely tight wool sweater counts, clearly I am about 95% conservative in my dressing habits. And I'd have to say my clothes are pretty nice too. Even (especially) my pants.
That said, the Church can take its outdated, misogynist Bee Es and keep it. Far. Far. FAR. away from me. God gave me female genitals. How I choose to portray that in society is between me, and God. I'm not going around burning my bra, or advocating for anything that would get my picture in the DSM.
In fact, I'm not even sure why this is still an issue in the Church. And I know I'm not the first woman who's expressed discomfort at having to show up somewhere in a skirt. Unless, of course, it's a miniskirt. In which case I'm delighted you invited me!
Friday, January 20, 2012
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
blog help?
I wonder if any of my tech savvy mates can give me a pointer... I saw on a friend's page a word box with um... words.. in it... and some of 'em were bigger than others indicating more frequent usage in her blog posts and... I want something like that. OR maybe it was tags. And I don't tag stuff. So I don't know. Who wants to fill me in? In the meantime, I have a date with some passionflower tincture and my bed. 3 cheers for morning showers.
Wednesday morning, birthday week
Visions of costumes and a song I have always wanted to choreograph dance in my head. I like it.
http://www.oriental-dancer.com/productDetails.aspx?type=product1 is a link for some costumes I love, designed by Mohammed Gomaa. (apparently the picture I wanted to post is too big for blogger. Sigh. Go look yourselves, it's worth it.) I love his work. I find it to be leaps and bounds above the rest in terms of sheer creativity. And I want one of the costumes he has listed on Facebook because it matches a pair of earrings I have. Which is maybe not entirely true. I want it because it also happens to be one of my favourite colours. And I love the design.
http://www.oriental-dancer.com/productDetails.aspx?type=product1 is a link for some costumes I love, designed by Mohammed Gomaa. (apparently the picture I wanted to post is too big for blogger. Sigh. Go look yourselves, it's worth it.) I love his work. I find it to be leaps and bounds above the rest in terms of sheer creativity. And I want one of the costumes he has listed on Facebook because it matches a pair of earrings I have. Which is maybe not entirely true. I want it because it also happens to be one of my favourite colours. And I love the design.
Sigh.
I think I will end up working with royal purple and royal blue this year though, because those are the fabrics that I have. And the song I want to work on? It's my favourite Shakira piece. I've improved it a few times. Here's a link... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5BzkbSq7pww
Monday, January 16, 2012
Monday, December 19, 2011
grief
Grief doesn't come when it is convenient. It doesn't wait or even sometimes announce itself properly. Like a ghost, instead, it tickles the corner of our peripheral vision. It waits. And then it pounces, or hits like a ton of bricks. A physical response to grief tells us that we are feeling something. Call it bad, utter shite, feeling like balls, just generally bummed out, or my favourite: feeling like the blackness has swallowed you whole and you will never get out.
Maybe a song or a piece of art brings out an emotional response you weren't expecting. Maybe it's an interaction with a person, 3 or 4 lines you can't get out of your head, a scenario, repeating itself, an instrumental crescendo, breaking into silence.
What's in that silence?
White space. Me.
And.
Oh my.
Oh wow.
Oh boy. Apparently I'm grieving.
Realizing this as I'm walking down the hallway is potentially awkward. But the location of the hallway is important: I work in a hospital. And for whatever reason, probably because so many really awful things have happened in my life in hospitals, a hospital corridor full of people feels like a completely safe space to feel grief and maybe even cry.
Where do I feel it? My upper neck, in the paraspinal muscles, just out of reach of a good stretch. And in my lower back, my upper gluteus maximus muscles, and lower glutes, which have demanded more than their fair share of stretches today.
The who and what is a little more difficult to pin down. I'll give myself 4 more minutes to make a list and see what I come up with.
1. Grieving the craptacular endings and splits with ex boyfriends.
2. Grieving the loss of my party self.
3. Grieving the changes in my relationship with my husband in that we are now both grown up, satisfied with life and wondering, now what?
4. Grieving the lack of my own child.
5. Grieving the loss of my Dad's leg, but also feeling incredible gratitude for his current quality of life being so great and that he's doing so well.
6. Missing my grandparents.
7. Anticipatory grief.
8. Wondering how life would be different if Uncle Chris were still here.
9. Grieving the loss of my cat, a reality that won't hit until I'm at Mum's house.
10. Wondering if everyone I love moves to Estevan to die. Don't like that thought.
11. Grieving the loss of a few friendships and family relationships due to drugs.
12. Grieving my current lack of life goals.
13. Grieving how far we live from our sisters and brothers. And parents. (But not wanting to move - I love where we live.)
I guess that's it.
Wow. Okay.
So here's what I've learned:
Giving grief names/designations helps it feel remarkably better.
Maybe a song or a piece of art brings out an emotional response you weren't expecting. Maybe it's an interaction with a person, 3 or 4 lines you can't get out of your head, a scenario, repeating itself, an instrumental crescendo, breaking into silence.
What's in that silence?
White space. Me.
And.
Oh my.
Oh wow.
Oh boy. Apparently I'm grieving.
Realizing this as I'm walking down the hallway is potentially awkward. But the location of the hallway is important: I work in a hospital. And for whatever reason, probably because so many really awful things have happened in my life in hospitals, a hospital corridor full of people feels like a completely safe space to feel grief and maybe even cry.
Where do I feel it? My upper neck, in the paraspinal muscles, just out of reach of a good stretch. And in my lower back, my upper gluteus maximus muscles, and lower glutes, which have demanded more than their fair share of stretches today.
The who and what is a little more difficult to pin down. I'll give myself 4 more minutes to make a list and see what I come up with.
1. Grieving the craptacular endings and splits with ex boyfriends.
2. Grieving the loss of my party self.
3. Grieving the changes in my relationship with my husband in that we are now both grown up, satisfied with life and wondering, now what?
4. Grieving the lack of my own child.
5. Grieving the loss of my Dad's leg, but also feeling incredible gratitude for his current quality of life being so great and that he's doing so well.
6. Missing my grandparents.
7. Anticipatory grief.
8. Wondering how life would be different if Uncle Chris were still here.
9. Grieving the loss of my cat, a reality that won't hit until I'm at Mum's house.
10. Wondering if everyone I love moves to Estevan to die. Don't like that thought.
11. Grieving the loss of a few friendships and family relationships due to drugs.
12. Grieving my current lack of life goals.
13. Grieving how far we live from our sisters and brothers. And parents. (But not wanting to move - I love where we live.)
I guess that's it.
Wow. Okay.
So here's what I've learned:
Giving grief names/designations helps it feel remarkably better.
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
thoughts on religion
This morning I thought a lot about religion and our weird disconnect from anything that is actually holy. It is not just cultural. Back in the day, during the Crusades but even before then, we decapitated and dismembered our understanding of and connection with the divine and wandered around like Kali with skulls of the divine, formerly worshiped, draped from our bodies like jewels, blood running down our legs and dripping into the earth. Fertilizer.
If not fertilizer, what becomes of us?
I can't tell you that the divine is entirely a man-made construct. I don't believe it is. My faith tells me that it is the great I AM, the great LOVE, an easy explanation for how the complex life forms on our planet have evolved so perfectly. (I am not a creationist, let's just get that straight. I believe that creationism is a man-made construct devised for our control.)
Genetically we have been birthed to perpetuate the cycle of abuse toward our concept of divinity, toward our God and Goddess, or various incarnations thereof.
In our summer dance show, we veiled and wrapped the Goddess. We mummified her to symbolize our shame of her, something that is a learned behavior passed on at a cellular level, like all forms of abuse, from a time period more immense than any of us can properly comprehend. Hundreds of years. We can say "hundreds of years" but our brains do not have the ability to actually grasp that time frame.
When we came out to give her wings, but then cover her, hide her, bury her, stash her away, I had a hard time not crying. It means something to me. Deeply.
I am not against the patriarchy. It is an integral part of our sociocultural matrix and I am just fine with that. But I do realize that its prominence came to be by a cycle of abuse perpetuated continually against our divine, as manifested by our faith.
One of my students expressed that this connection with the divine is more easily observed in animals because they haven't been enculturated over the years to disconnect. I see truth in that.
I believe that we are all divine instruments if we simply open our hearts and souls.
This does not make me a slave, a servant, or obedient. It does make me a person in harmony with my perception of divinity.
My divinity, my perception of God, Goddess, I AM, LOVE... it is a physically felt knowing that there is something extracorporeal that I am connected to. I do not believe that it is something I am different from, however. It is also not existing entirely in my head. Perhaps it is simply the great cosmic consciousness, a felt knowing that everyone and everything is connected on an energetic level. I believe that completely. And when it sways one way or another, it takes on aspects of a personality; when it is easily anthropomorphized, then we are able to give it names like God and Goddess.
These days after so many years of being told that we need an authority figure to direct our connection to the divine, I believe we are paralyzed. I believe this is a direct result of hundreds of years of multi-generational trauma inflicted upon us by efforts like the Crusades, the Inquisition, and the imposition of the patriarchy as a hierarchical structure to which we must be obedient.
No loving God would tell us that we must be obedient to a person or a structure of people. Our individual uniqueness makes it clearly obvious that obedience won't work for most people and in many cases it crushes our most beautiful gifts.
Where does this leave us?
Intergenerationally traumatized from being told that what we know to be real (our personal divine connections) is a fallacy. We have been told that the divine will answer our prayers. Yet nobody tells us that if our prayers are unrealistic or too specific, they will get us nowhere without our own interventions to accomplish them. We have made the divine into a person, categorized with rules, in order to attempt some understanding of him/her. We have decided that the divine requires a gender. Requires compartmentalization.
We communicate with the divine through a carefully ordered structure. Much obedience is necessary to properly ascend to our own levels of divinity.
What a bunch of bullshit!
Yet, in a traumatized paralysis on a cellular level, is it any wonder that we seek and find comfort in the excessive, nonsensical structures of fundamentalist religion? If we have not worked to heal our relationship with our divinity, is it any wonder that we are okay with perpetuating the cycle of guilt, shame, and an obedience which implies our worthlessness?
Why do we need to ascend to heaven? Why can't we simply transcend in a multi-faceted way that allows us to experience heaven here and now?
Matter is energy, according to a much simplified version of Einstein's theory. This means that scientifically we are all connected. There is a cosmic consciousness. Our thoughts are transmitted in our brain somewhat energetically - nerve conduction works similarly to the principals of basic electricity. None of this is rocket science.
Let's heal the trauma, shall we?
And while we're at it, I'd like to address our horrific disconnect between spirituality and sex. I see them as one and the same, as intricately connected. In my spiritual world, sex is a physical manifestation of a deeper connection we all share. (This does not mean I think we should all go out and have sex with everyone we meet!) It is an intimate expression, or should be, of LOVE. Of course, as I well know, it can be simply a physical act, with about as much meaning as a handshake (gold star for anyone who can tell me which famous person I just paraphrased). But it shouldn't be. It should mean something. It should mean that the heavens and earth come together for one brief moment and infuse us with stardust. After all, sex is the ultimate act of creation, when energy translates on a physical level to mass.
I feel my connection with the divine most strongly when I feel sexy. This has nothing to do with our cultural preconceptions of what is sexy. I can be naked, covered, in public, in private; it doesn't matter because it is an internal feeling. It is not an external perception. My connection to the divine excites me on a carnal level.
I think I'm all done now. Feedback is welcome!
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Dad, whatever happened to your old rifle?
The rifle?
Yes. You don't still have it, do you?
(Long pause.)
Why do you want to know about the rifle?
No good reason, I'm just curious what happened to it.
I gave it to John Ward.
(Puzzled Jen face.)
He collects guns and takes them down to the shooting range.
I didn't know that.
Yes. Well I sure as hell wasn't going to pay to register the thing, and I didn't want it, so I called John and he came up here one day with a rifle case and took it home. When he got home he traced the serial number on the internet and found out it's an old Australian Army rifle.
Australian? How did it end up in the Arctic?
Well, after the war, surplus supplies were everywhere.
So how'd you end up with it?
I got it from Ed. I had a rifle but one day Ed asked me if I wanted it and I said sure.
And that was when you were up north, just in case of the polar bears, right?
Yes it was.
Did you ever shoot anything with it?
No. I shot it at trees a few times just to make sure it still worked.
(Pause.)
Ed wrapped himself around a telephone pole. I heard about it on the radio just after we moved to Spruce Grove. One morning on the way to work they said the police had found someone who had had too much to drink, wrapped around a telephone pole. Of course they weren't saying who it was because they hadn't told the family, but sure enough it was Ed. I heard later.
How did you know Ed?
We flew together at Gateway.
Yes. You don't still have it, do you?
(Long pause.)
Why do you want to know about the rifle?
No good reason, I'm just curious what happened to it.
I gave it to John Ward.
(Puzzled Jen face.)
He collects guns and takes them down to the shooting range.
I didn't know that.
Yes. Well I sure as hell wasn't going to pay to register the thing, and I didn't want it, so I called John and he came up here one day with a rifle case and took it home. When he got home he traced the serial number on the internet and found out it's an old Australian Army rifle.
Australian? How did it end up in the Arctic?
Well, after the war, surplus supplies were everywhere.
So how'd you end up with it?
I got it from Ed. I had a rifle but one day Ed asked me if I wanted it and I said sure.
And that was when you were up north, just in case of the polar bears, right?
Yes it was.
Did you ever shoot anything with it?
No. I shot it at trees a few times just to make sure it still worked.
(Pause.)
Ed wrapped himself around a telephone pole. I heard about it on the radio just after we moved to Spruce Grove. One morning on the way to work they said the police had found someone who had had too much to drink, wrapped around a telephone pole. Of course they weren't saying who it was because they hadn't told the family, but sure enough it was Ed. I heard later.
How did you know Ed?
We flew together at Gateway.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
A road trip with postaday
I've had quite a few awesome road trips. I guess I'll have to pick the best... Hands down, Dad wins.
When I was little we'd go for milkshakes and drive around in the countryside following the "monster tracks" which were really tar patches on the roads. It was about as awesome as it could possibly get. The grownup version of the same thing involves either coffee or hot chocolate, and is less about monsters and more about the splendor of "God's Country," new road construction, and excellent conversation.
Dad and I also once went on a bear-spotting expedition just outside of... I think just outside of Jackson Hole, Wyoming. (My place memory is fuzzy - I was pretty young at the time). We drove down a tiny gravel road that became a tiny path with 2 distinct tire tracks, lined by willows and berry bushes on either side - prime bear spotting territory and with a convertible, absolutely nowhere to hide and nowhere to go. Mum stayed at the hotel and read by the swimming pool in the sunshine - Mum wasn't ever really into bear spotting in such an up close and personal way. Of course, we didn't actually see any bears. However, the countryside was breathtaking which is what mattered.
When Dad and I were in Mexico we took a drive from Los Cabos up to La Paz. We didn't stick around long in La Paz - we were more concerned by the high number of burned out vehicles along the highway and figured we'd be safer going home before dark! The other thing we kept count of on the side of the road were dead animals, the most gruesome being a dead horse that had been unfortunate enough to have its guts eaten by flies - the inside of the horse was made up of a mass of hungry flies and maggots, while the outside still looked like horse. We're still saving that travel story for a dinner party with any guest who we'd like to frighten away....
Dad and I also went for some pretty incredible drives on the big island of Hawai'i. The big island has some absolutely huge ranches, as well as some of the best prime rib in the world. The story goes (and I think I looked it up once for verification) that the nice folks in Hawai'i actually studied the beef farming methods used in Alberta (grain fed) because Alberta is known around the world for producing the tastiest beef. After many nights of prime rib with a side of king crab legs in Hawai'i, I believe it.
Hawai'i was full of other fantastic sights too - waterfalls, beaches, old black lava flows that stretched all the way from the top of the mountain to the sea. My favourite beach was the black (volcanic) sand beach - I had to keep my sandals on because the sand was quite hot. I seem to remember it either was or was near a sea turtle sanctuary. I remember standing at the edge of the water as small waves broke on the rocks, watching the turtles scrambling over the rocks in the water. Beautiful creatures.
We also drove up through Volcanoes National Park - and what a sight that was! There were steam vents venting toxic gasses along the road (random openings in the earth where the gasses had forced their way out). We also stood and looked out over the crater of an active volcano for a while, until Dad told me to turn around. What did we see? A SNOW COVERED MOUNTAIN! In Hawai'i!!! Just across from a steaming, bubbling volcano!!!
The most recent road trip Dad and I did was around San Francisco. He drove down the scenic highway with its twists and turns, along the coastline. We saw vinyards (no tours though, we're just not like that) and ocean and eucalyptus trees. I also took some time to go through a pretty ancient cathedral. On our last day in the San Francisco area, we were driving around, killing time until our flight. We decided to take random exits off the freeway for funsies. (This is what we do for fun, really.) The first place we were at was a cross between parkland and office buildings that looked like they had some sort of scientific function. The area was deserted, so we sat beside a small, probably man-made lake and relaxed for a bit. The next exit we took... was interesting. The first business we drove by had bars on the window and a few cop cars in front. People were being arrested. Further down the street we were greeted by the locals with a very authentic Black Power salute. We were a bit nervous at that point, but we still had the windows down, Dad had one arm resting on his door and was driving nice and slow, just like he owned the place. We did make it out alive to get to the airport.
San Francisco was a make-up trip. The original plan had been to fly to Dublin, Ireland, rent a car, and go from village to village in search of the family castle which should be somewhere in County Cork (formerly County Barrett), all the while making frequent stops (but not so frequent as to incapacitate the driver) to sample the local Guiness. Can you even begin to imagine what a riot that would be??? I suppose now that Dad and I both have spouses, even when his foot recovers we might have a bit more pomp and circumstance to deal with if we were to attempt the trip. I want to do it... but I have to be perfectly clear: the only person on earth I want to do it with is my Dad.
When I was little we'd go for milkshakes and drive around in the countryside following the "monster tracks" which were really tar patches on the roads. It was about as awesome as it could possibly get. The grownup version of the same thing involves either coffee or hot chocolate, and is less about monsters and more about the splendor of "God's Country," new road construction, and excellent conversation.
Dad and I also once went on a bear-spotting expedition just outside of... I think just outside of Jackson Hole, Wyoming. (My place memory is fuzzy - I was pretty young at the time). We drove down a tiny gravel road that became a tiny path with 2 distinct tire tracks, lined by willows and berry bushes on either side - prime bear spotting territory and with a convertible, absolutely nowhere to hide and nowhere to go. Mum stayed at the hotel and read by the swimming pool in the sunshine - Mum wasn't ever really into bear spotting in such an up close and personal way. Of course, we didn't actually see any bears. However, the countryside was breathtaking which is what mattered.
When Dad and I were in Mexico we took a drive from Los Cabos up to La Paz. We didn't stick around long in La Paz - we were more concerned by the high number of burned out vehicles along the highway and figured we'd be safer going home before dark! The other thing we kept count of on the side of the road were dead animals, the most gruesome being a dead horse that had been unfortunate enough to have its guts eaten by flies - the inside of the horse was made up of a mass of hungry flies and maggots, while the outside still looked like horse. We're still saving that travel story for a dinner party with any guest who we'd like to frighten away....
Dad and I also went for some pretty incredible drives on the big island of Hawai'i. The big island has some absolutely huge ranches, as well as some of the best prime rib in the world. The story goes (and I think I looked it up once for verification) that the nice folks in Hawai'i actually studied the beef farming methods used in Alberta (grain fed) because Alberta is known around the world for producing the tastiest beef. After many nights of prime rib with a side of king crab legs in Hawai'i, I believe it.
Hawai'i was full of other fantastic sights too - waterfalls, beaches, old black lava flows that stretched all the way from the top of the mountain to the sea. My favourite beach was the black (volcanic) sand beach - I had to keep my sandals on because the sand was quite hot. I seem to remember it either was or was near a sea turtle sanctuary. I remember standing at the edge of the water as small waves broke on the rocks, watching the turtles scrambling over the rocks in the water. Beautiful creatures.
We also drove up through Volcanoes National Park - and what a sight that was! There were steam vents venting toxic gasses along the road (random openings in the earth where the gasses had forced their way out). We also stood and looked out over the crater of an active volcano for a while, until Dad told me to turn around. What did we see? A SNOW COVERED MOUNTAIN! In Hawai'i!!! Just across from a steaming, bubbling volcano!!!
The most recent road trip Dad and I did was around San Francisco. He drove down the scenic highway with its twists and turns, along the coastline. We saw vinyards (no tours though, we're just not like that) and ocean and eucalyptus trees. I also took some time to go through a pretty ancient cathedral. On our last day in the San Francisco area, we were driving around, killing time until our flight. We decided to take random exits off the freeway for funsies. (This is what we do for fun, really.) The first place we were at was a cross between parkland and office buildings that looked like they had some sort of scientific function. The area was deserted, so we sat beside a small, probably man-made lake and relaxed for a bit. The next exit we took... was interesting. The first business we drove by had bars on the window and a few cop cars in front. People were being arrested. Further down the street we were greeted by the locals with a very authentic Black Power salute. We were a bit nervous at that point, but we still had the windows down, Dad had one arm resting on his door and was driving nice and slow, just like he owned the place. We did make it out alive to get to the airport.
San Francisco was a make-up trip. The original plan had been to fly to Dublin, Ireland, rent a car, and go from village to village in search of the family castle which should be somewhere in County Cork (formerly County Barrett), all the while making frequent stops (but not so frequent as to incapacitate the driver) to sample the local Guiness. Can you even begin to imagine what a riot that would be??? I suppose now that Dad and I both have spouses, even when his foot recovers we might have a bit more pomp and circumstance to deal with if we were to attempt the trip. I want to do it... but I have to be perfectly clear: the only person on earth I want to do it with is my Dad.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
cocoons
What causes us to cocoon ourselves?
Death
trauma
grief
loss
abuse
feeling like we don't have a voice
winter
seasons
seasons as they're reflected in our lives
the aging process (lifespan?)
changes in our theologies
changes in general
new technologies
breakdowns of communication
lack of multi-generational understanding
environmental toxins
noise pollution
war
profanity
(but not four letter word profanity)
a lack of understanding
among tribes of humans
why?????
Sometimes we cocoon when life calls upon us to help somebody dear to us with a major transition. This is usually a caregiving role... but it can be the role of friend after a calamity too.
finding our voices
I've run across this topic quite a bit recently
I didn't think it was that big of a deal
apparently I'm wrong.
Do I have a voice?
I do.
But is it heard?
I guess it can be, when needed.
But would I want it heard more?
I'm not sure. There's so much of that, out there that I'm not sure.
I don't have a penis
or a master's degree
but I am turning a small profit.
Friday was Jen's stilletto day at the office where I used to work.
I thought it was hilarious that an ankle length skirt and stillettos made half of the management team lose his ability to speak. I wasn't wearing anything revealing, or form fitting. Just the shoes.
And you should've seen the looks on the faces of the other ladies in the office, the others doing my job. But why's it have to be like that?
I have definitely created a cocoon. I ran from that place so fast it made their heads spin.
Slowly I am finding my voice again.
My authenticity.
Friday should be stilletto day, regardless of whether we work alone at home or in an office. I say we reclaim Fridays as dress up for work days, and not be afraid to say to someone's face... dude, my eyes are up here.
For me, coming out of my cocoon is a lot about reclaiming the feminine divine in my life. I'm not talking about the Goddess, Heavenly Mother, or even necessarily Mary. I'm talking about natural cycles, paying attention to the moon, realizing that everything is interconnected, in summer loving me some garden and dirt, and in winter loving me some snow. My feminine divine is inside of me. I can't explain it at all, but I know it is there.
I am also thinking about trance dance as performance art, for about 6 or 7 minutes, then slowly fusing it with a structured improv piece involving an opening cocoon. I like the idea of starting with the trance dance as performance - start us with blindfolds, all awkward and strange. Really, it is no different than real life; the audience is our mirror. Let us dance unscripted with blindfolds. Then gently switch the music. Let us reawaken. Let us show our vulnerability. Let us come together to express the gifts we have received from allowing ourselves to be vulnerable. And let us share that with an audience who will have moved from being uncomfortable to feeling a power shift in the ambiance - a power shift toward being our authentic selves.
Death
trauma
grief
loss
abuse
feeling like we don't have a voice
winter
seasons
seasons as they're reflected in our lives
the aging process (lifespan?)
changes in our theologies
changes in general
new technologies
breakdowns of communication
lack of multi-generational understanding
environmental toxins
noise pollution
war
profanity
(but not four letter word profanity)
a lack of understanding
among tribes of humans
why?????
Sometimes we cocoon when life calls upon us to help somebody dear to us with a major transition. This is usually a caregiving role... but it can be the role of friend after a calamity too.
finding our voices
I've run across this topic quite a bit recently
I didn't think it was that big of a deal
apparently I'm wrong.
Do I have a voice?
I do.
But is it heard?
I guess it can be, when needed.
But would I want it heard more?
I'm not sure. There's so much of that, out there that I'm not sure.
I don't have a penis
or a master's degree
but I am turning a small profit.
Friday was Jen's stilletto day at the office where I used to work.
I thought it was hilarious that an ankle length skirt and stillettos made half of the management team lose his ability to speak. I wasn't wearing anything revealing, or form fitting. Just the shoes.
And you should've seen the looks on the faces of the other ladies in the office, the others doing my job. But why's it have to be like that?
I have definitely created a cocoon. I ran from that place so fast it made their heads spin.
Slowly I am finding my voice again.
My authenticity.
Friday should be stilletto day, regardless of whether we work alone at home or in an office. I say we reclaim Fridays as dress up for work days, and not be afraid to say to someone's face... dude, my eyes are up here.
For me, coming out of my cocoon is a lot about reclaiming the feminine divine in my life. I'm not talking about the Goddess, Heavenly Mother, or even necessarily Mary. I'm talking about natural cycles, paying attention to the moon, realizing that everything is interconnected, in summer loving me some garden and dirt, and in winter loving me some snow. My feminine divine is inside of me. I can't explain it at all, but I know it is there.
I am also thinking about trance dance as performance art, for about 6 or 7 minutes, then slowly fusing it with a structured improv piece involving an opening cocoon. I like the idea of starting with the trance dance as performance - start us with blindfolds, all awkward and strange. Really, it is no different than real life; the audience is our mirror. Let us dance unscripted with blindfolds. Then gently switch the music. Let us reawaken. Let us show our vulnerability. Let us come together to express the gifts we have received from allowing ourselves to be vulnerable. And let us share that with an audience who will have moved from being uncomfortable to feeling a power shift in the ambiance - a power shift toward being our authentic selves.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
good morning Postaday.
Good morning Jen.
I can't remember if I've ever lied about my age. I don't think so. I might've gotten it wrong a few times and had to do the math, but I am pretty certain I've never actually lied about it. I'm not sure there would be a point to it. My husband is still convinced that I am 27 (but I think he got the memo about it really being 30) and Dad usually uses my Chinese age (31) but otherwise I think most of my family even doesn't try to confuse me on the subject.
Oh postaday. I don't feel particularly motivated today.
What would I tell myself 10 years ago if I only had 5 minutes? That my world is what I make it - if I want something, I can make it happen. Also, saying no is my friend. Demanding better treatment isn't out of the scope of my existence. That'd be about it.
What part of life confuses me the most? That's easy - religion. I'm quite sure I could believe almost anything but I get a little angry when anyone tries to tell me how to live my life or how to behave. I believe that my relationship with the divine is very personal - it's not a 3-way. I get easily confused by attempts from any religious authorities to control any part of my life, my family's life, or the lives of others, especially children. I don't understand the necessity. If what we are all being taught is real, is true, then all of the coercions wouldn't be necessary to retain us as believers. If anyone can show me a religion that doesn't have some sort of control structure, I'd probably join it. Except for that other thing. Religions confuse me because the ones I've played with don't seem to have the foggiest clue about what's spiritual and what isn't. Spiritual is a subjective perception. There's a scientist who has figured out that it's all in the brain, and maybe he's even figured out where in the brain. But it definitely isn't found in an organizational structure telling me I must donate X% of my income to be worthy or volunteer my time in order to be considered for membership in the Kingdom. If I am able to find something spiritual in either of those, well, it's not impossible. But I have to tell you, if I give from my heart it is much more meaningful to me than if I am giving in a structured way. I don't find spirituality often in reading the scriptures - anyone's scriptures. I do sometimes. But it's rare. I'm much more likely to find divine inspiration and spirituality in nature. I love walking in nature. Biking in nature. Rolling around in nature. Taking pictures of nature. That's where my God lives - in a great big garden. I find communion with plants and animals spiritual. Deeply so. I love digging in the dirt. I think that's the biggest reason why I keep worms for composting in my basement - and start seeds in February - so that I have something in the dirt to look after. I love the weather too - I find spirituality in storms, all kinds of storms. The day my latest religious fling decided to give me a swimming lesson, I went for a walk before it started to rain. The wind was furious and the clouds were massive and roiling. I interpreted this as an obvious approval of my decision to belong to a religion with a name, because my God knows that I love storms. (See how subjective all this is?) I also find deep spirituality and communion with fellow humans in music and dance. I find it easy to get trapped in the circle of music/dance as a spiritual pastime. This is one of the reasons why I went out of my way for my birthday this year to do a trance dance with my mum. Trance dance is phenomenal. You dance in a room of people with a blindfold on for just over an hour. The music is such that it transports your mind and your body somewhere else. Your body moves on a soul level and your mind operates on a soul level. It is absolutely beautiful. At some point in all of this, including my attempts to hold talking circles on the new moon that revolve around natural cycles, someone's going to ask me if I'm a pagan. Maybe. Someone else might accuse me of being a witch. Maybe. My God gave me these cycles and elements. S/he gave me these fantastic spiritual outlets. I have yet to find a religion willing to accept that part of me. But I also know that I can't bend over backwards to authority without spiritual fulfillment. Rules are man made. Authority is ultimately decided by man - we can choose to believe the divine was involved if it makes us feel better, but we can't prove it. But the things we know as spiritual are things that can happen independently of authority, independent of circumstance or beliefs. Without that as a focal grounding point, religion simply loses me. I am baffled by the lack of questioning of the rules. I am baffled by the lack of objective thinking of the membership. And I'm baffled by the lack of encouragement toward personal relationships with the divine. I'll repeat myself before calling it a day: My relationship with the divine is NOT a 3-way. I do not need the confines of religion. They piss me off. In order for this to work, it has to be a give and take relationship. Also, I need for my worthiness to not be judged by men. Or women. Who are we to judge each other if it's common knowledge that Judgment Day exists for that purpose? My worthiness is not determined by how much money I give to the church, how frequently I show up for services, or whether or not I contribute to building the Kingdom on earth. My personal worthiness is an intimate matter between myself and my God.
End of story.
I can't remember if I've ever lied about my age. I don't think so. I might've gotten it wrong a few times and had to do the math, but I am pretty certain I've never actually lied about it. I'm not sure there would be a point to it. My husband is still convinced that I am 27 (but I think he got the memo about it really being 30) and Dad usually uses my Chinese age (31) but otherwise I think most of my family even doesn't try to confuse me on the subject.
Oh postaday. I don't feel particularly motivated today.
What would I tell myself 10 years ago if I only had 5 minutes? That my world is what I make it - if I want something, I can make it happen. Also, saying no is my friend. Demanding better treatment isn't out of the scope of my existence. That'd be about it.
What part of life confuses me the most? That's easy - religion. I'm quite sure I could believe almost anything but I get a little angry when anyone tries to tell me how to live my life or how to behave. I believe that my relationship with the divine is very personal - it's not a 3-way. I get easily confused by attempts from any religious authorities to control any part of my life, my family's life, or the lives of others, especially children. I don't understand the necessity. If what we are all being taught is real, is true, then all of the coercions wouldn't be necessary to retain us as believers. If anyone can show me a religion that doesn't have some sort of control structure, I'd probably join it. Except for that other thing. Religions confuse me because the ones I've played with don't seem to have the foggiest clue about what's spiritual and what isn't. Spiritual is a subjective perception. There's a scientist who has figured out that it's all in the brain, and maybe he's even figured out where in the brain. But it definitely isn't found in an organizational structure telling me I must donate X% of my income to be worthy or volunteer my time in order to be considered for membership in the Kingdom. If I am able to find something spiritual in either of those, well, it's not impossible. But I have to tell you, if I give from my heart it is much more meaningful to me than if I am giving in a structured way. I don't find spirituality often in reading the scriptures - anyone's scriptures. I do sometimes. But it's rare. I'm much more likely to find divine inspiration and spirituality in nature. I love walking in nature. Biking in nature. Rolling around in nature. Taking pictures of nature. That's where my God lives - in a great big garden. I find communion with plants and animals spiritual. Deeply so. I love digging in the dirt. I think that's the biggest reason why I keep worms for composting in my basement - and start seeds in February - so that I have something in the dirt to look after. I love the weather too - I find spirituality in storms, all kinds of storms. The day my latest religious fling decided to give me a swimming lesson, I went for a walk before it started to rain. The wind was furious and the clouds were massive and roiling. I interpreted this as an obvious approval of my decision to belong to a religion with a name, because my God knows that I love storms. (See how subjective all this is?) I also find deep spirituality and communion with fellow humans in music and dance. I find it easy to get trapped in the circle of music/dance as a spiritual pastime. This is one of the reasons why I went out of my way for my birthday this year to do a trance dance with my mum. Trance dance is phenomenal. You dance in a room of people with a blindfold on for just over an hour. The music is such that it transports your mind and your body somewhere else. Your body moves on a soul level and your mind operates on a soul level. It is absolutely beautiful. At some point in all of this, including my attempts to hold talking circles on the new moon that revolve around natural cycles, someone's going to ask me if I'm a pagan. Maybe. Someone else might accuse me of being a witch. Maybe. My God gave me these cycles and elements. S/he gave me these fantastic spiritual outlets. I have yet to find a religion willing to accept that part of me. But I also know that I can't bend over backwards to authority without spiritual fulfillment. Rules are man made. Authority is ultimately decided by man - we can choose to believe the divine was involved if it makes us feel better, but we can't prove it. But the things we know as spiritual are things that can happen independently of authority, independent of circumstance or beliefs. Without that as a focal grounding point, religion simply loses me. I am baffled by the lack of questioning of the rules. I am baffled by the lack of objective thinking of the membership. And I'm baffled by the lack of encouragement toward personal relationships with the divine. I'll repeat myself before calling it a day: My relationship with the divine is NOT a 3-way. I do not need the confines of religion. They piss me off. In order for this to work, it has to be a give and take relationship. Also, I need for my worthiness to not be judged by men. Or women. Who are we to judge each other if it's common knowledge that Judgment Day exists for that purpose? My worthiness is not determined by how much money I give to the church, how frequently I show up for services, or whether or not I contribute to building the Kingdom on earth. My personal worthiness is an intimate matter between myself and my God.
End of story.
postaday catchup sort of
Dear Postaday,
Since your topics mostly suck, I'm giving up on you. Why should I bother with a 2 line response to a lame topic? I think maybe every week or 2 I will catch up on you, just like a disinterested lover. How does that sound? Oh, yeah, of course I missed you. Gee whiz. What did you think I meant by that?
Love,
Jen
Since your topics mostly suck, I'm giving up on you. Why should I bother with a 2 line response to a lame topic? I think maybe every week or 2 I will catch up on you, just like a disinterested lover. How does that sound? Oh, yeah, of course I missed you. Gee whiz. What did you think I meant by that?
Love,
Jen
Saturday, February 05, 2011
Growed-ups
I woke up this morning with a wonderful memory. I don't know how old I was, but the answer is not very. It was in the late 80s, I know that much. I was hanging out with my best friend, Joanne. I'm going to guess that it was either a rainy day or a snowy day because we were inside at her house, not outdoors. We were sitting at the kitchen table with her mum, on the bench seat. I have no idea what colour the bench seat was. Maybe yellow? Or maybe it was before yellow. I think there was a time before the kitchen was yellow, wasn't there? Either way, we were eating Joanne's mum's homemade gingersnaps and to my great delight, Mrs. Humphrey was letting us dip our cookies in her tea. This was also the day that I learned what tea was - nobody in my family really drank tea when I was growing up. I'd never seen it before.
Last night I made my own gingersnaps for the first time, and that memory came back to me. It was a thoroughly pleasant experience. My cookies don't look or taste like Joanne's mum's cookies, but the basic idea is the same.
The purpose of this message is to thank some people - specifically the growed-ups who had an influence on who I've grown up to be. Thanks, Jan and Terry Humphrey, for letting me do some of my growing up at your house, and for showing me another example of what marriage and family could look like. I appreciate it.
Last night I made my own gingersnaps for the first time, and that memory came back to me. It was a thoroughly pleasant experience. My cookies don't look or taste like Joanne's mum's cookies, but the basic idea is the same.
The purpose of this message is to thank some people - specifically the growed-ups who had an influence on who I've grown up to be. Thanks, Jan and Terry Humphrey, for letting me do some of my growing up at your house, and for showing me another example of what marriage and family could look like. I appreciate it.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Cleaning out the closet
Cleaning out the closet
in the box
cards from
awesome people
in the corners
the guest pillow
I thought we had a spare somewhere.
In the middle
broken shoe rack
(shoes go in the box)
and my favourite socks
dirty from camping last summer
at Battleford
so that we could see the re-enactment of the Battle of Battleford.
Longlseeved dress shirts
when I had to work in an office
and had very little office clothing that wasn't
black or white.
Holdovers from bistro days.
The miniskirt I only ever had the guts to wear once
the night we met an old friend of mine for drinks
in a jazz bar
where my ex's brother played
in Toronto
hot
humid
night.
A skirt that never fit well, bought to wear with
a cream sweater set that
so wasn't me but
could be
if I wanted.
The night my Dad's wife and I went to the symphony to find out
it was really the
choir.
T-shirt
souvenir
from San Francisco
Awesome trip with my Dad.
Pants and shirts
memories
definitions of
who I was
The gal who worked at the bistro
serving wine
coffee
and finally learning how to shuck oysters
moonlighting early in the mornings at transcription
at my Dad's house
he usually made me lunch
which completely sweetened the deal.
Capris and matching shirts
bought for that dumb office job
where we weren't allowed to wear shorts
Everything coordinated
with everything else.
I had blue stuff
and pink stuff
and a mix and match that went with the cream
sweater set.
I seriously hated that office.
Finally black and white shirts. Another bistro-type job but.
But.
But.
Only worse than that even.
Food safety standards were shocking.
Steamed milk left to sit sometimes for hours, only to be resteamed and served
to unsuspecting customers
Oh.
Also,
it was scalded the second time around.
And when I asked where the handwash sink was
I was told I could use the staff washroom
which was down the long hall and up the stairs
I actually had to explain to someone that I
didn't have time to go up there every
damn time I made a caesar to
wash the clamato juice off my hands so as
not to
potentially
contaminate the drink of whichever customer might be next
who might not think
to inform the serving staff
of his or her lethal seafood allergies.
Seriously!
Some people are really fucking dumb.
I quit that job.
The shirt I love to look at but never wear
bought out shopping with mum
The other shirt bought out shopping with mum that I
don't want
to give away yet but
might
if the coolest person accepts it. I found it in Estevan.
For reals.
The yoga pants I picked up for dance,
for a potential costume,
that shrunk beyond belief. They're still awesome just
so
so
small!
A skirt I wore
the first time I went to church
when I stared at her legs
the whole way there
out of the corner of my eye.
I have some seriously attractive friends.
(MILF club?)
And 3 t-shirts that
aren't really on offer but
might
go to someone
3 t-shirts that I really love and
am not ready to part with
yet
in the box
cards from
awesome people
in the corners
the guest pillow
I thought we had a spare somewhere.
In the middle
broken shoe rack
(shoes go in the box)
and my favourite socks
dirty from camping last summer
at Battleford
so that we could see the re-enactment of the Battle of Battleford.
Longlseeved dress shirts
when I had to work in an office
and had very little office clothing that wasn't
black or white.
Holdovers from bistro days.
The miniskirt I only ever had the guts to wear once
the night we met an old friend of mine for drinks
in a jazz bar
where my ex's brother played
in Toronto
hot
humid
night.
A skirt that never fit well, bought to wear with
a cream sweater set that
so wasn't me but
could be
if I wanted.
The night my Dad's wife and I went to the symphony to find out
it was really the
choir.
T-shirt
souvenir
from San Francisco
Awesome trip with my Dad.
Pants and shirts
memories
definitions of
who I was
The gal who worked at the bistro
serving wine
coffee
and finally learning how to shuck oysters
moonlighting early in the mornings at transcription
at my Dad's house
he usually made me lunch
which completely sweetened the deal.
Capris and matching shirts
bought for that dumb office job
where we weren't allowed to wear shorts
Everything coordinated
with everything else.
I had blue stuff
and pink stuff
and a mix and match that went with the cream
sweater set.
I seriously hated that office.
Finally black and white shirts. Another bistro-type job but.
But.
But.
Only worse than that even.
Food safety standards were shocking.
Steamed milk left to sit sometimes for hours, only to be resteamed and served
to unsuspecting customers
Oh.
Also,
it was scalded the second time around.
And when I asked where the handwash sink was
I was told I could use the staff washroom
which was down the long hall and up the stairs
I actually had to explain to someone that I
didn't have time to go up there every
damn time I made a caesar to
wash the clamato juice off my hands so as
not to
potentially
contaminate the drink of whichever customer might be next
who might not think
to inform the serving staff
of his or her lethal seafood allergies.
Seriously!
Some people are really fucking dumb.
I quit that job.
The shirt I love to look at but never wear
bought out shopping with mum
The other shirt bought out shopping with mum that I
don't want
to give away yet but
might
if the coolest person accepts it. I found it in Estevan.
For reals.
The yoga pants I picked up for dance,
for a potential costume,
that shrunk beyond belief. They're still awesome just
so
so
small!
A skirt I wore
the first time I went to church
when I stared at her legs
the whole way there
out of the corner of my eye.
I have some seriously attractive friends.
(MILF club?)
And 3 t-shirts that
aren't really on offer but
might
go to someone
3 t-shirts that I really love and
am not ready to part with
yet
Saturday, January 22, 2011
May I have a word with you? (poem)
May I have a word with you?
I don't know you well
but you seem awfully... well..
I want to be your friend.
I want to be her friend too.
I'm a bit confused.
(Ha - I bet you both read this and think I'm talking about you!)
You tell me you are reluctant
to let her get in our space
that she's the one
you brush your teeth with at the end of the day
and go to bed with
and wake up with
you make it sound so much like drudgery
Why did I ever think you were a good idea?
Was it because you were from somewhere that
seemed
exotic to me? Was it because
you could write so convincingly?
My mum reminded me that apprently
Charles Manson
was quite skilled in the love letters department.
Now I see some similarities.
Then... I saw you. I wondered about you. I wondered about absinthe
too
And when I was making my decision to
not
go back with you to your hotel room
I was thinking
of your beautiful wife and wishing
she were with us.
You were evasive on the subject and
had harsh words with her on the phone. And I knew
something wasn't right
but
I decided to ignore it for the moment.
Making out in the river valley
under the stars
fall leaves cold under your back
she understood, you said
she understood
but I wasn't convinced.
Later in an email she said she tried to veto me
and that made sense.
Somehow it seemed I had this hold over you
but
I
didn't really.
I just have a way with words and a way with ghetto-fabulous
clothing on a budget.
I wrote you poetry
I wrote her love letters.
Honestly, how does it feel
(not that you'll ever read this)
to know that I was much more interested in your wife
than you?
A couple of years later I'm
happily into
a closed relationship with the man
I eventually marry and I
remember her birthday.
I get a letter back
telling me that you'd done some terrible things to her. I
try
to
think
restraining order she said
I try to think
and hindsight is 20/20.
I know I didn't know you for very long
or very well but
I saw it so clearly.
Dude.
You can't treat people like that.
And yes, women
are people too.
*****************
The orange dirt and
reeds in the park were of
little comfort as I
ate my vegetarian sandwich and
thought.
You were off learning to dive
on the motherfucking Great Barrier Reef.
I was poor
picking zucchini
having the worst menstrual cramps of my life
and wishing we had drugs. I don't remember what I was taking.
For the pain.
I think it was the extra strength Neurofen
The stuff wot has the opiates in the analgesic.
Uh huh.
Why were you there? I know why I was there. I know that you accused me of screwing around and giving you a yeast infection and I didn't answer you. I didn't try to deny it.
why
the
fuck
did you not
question that? I wouldn't even meet your gaze.
And why, instead of standing up for myself, why'd I just
stand there
in the shower with you
thinking of another man naked
unable to speak in my own defense?
That part of the trip was stupid. Why did you even come?
I offered you the ultimatum because I
never
in a bazillion years
thought you'd actually show up.
So when it all fell apart and we were face to face fighting and crying and talking in circles
(as opposed to doing it over the phone)
what on earth kept us in that space?
I left you shortly thereafter
for an Australian
I took off my engagement rings. Put them
back in their box.
I might not be able to stand up to you
but I could easily disappear.
I left no forwarding information.
Of course, when I got home
you found me out
and were understandably upset.
Fine.
I wanted to never see you again so
is it so wrong that
I learned so much from you
about who I am
and who I'd rather be?
Is it wrong that when everything went right in your life I
cowered a bit
when I saw you and
tried to hide?
You approached me anyway. Kudos to you.
Your happiness confuses me.
I wish that was how I'd known you.
But
I'm glad you found her
you're much better off with her
and you have a beautiful son.
I have found out that I couldn't promise you
children.
I'm glad you and I never had to figure that one out together.
Thanks for being in touch and
being so positive
and occasionally recommending stuff to me.
You're not a bad person. I never really hated you.
I hated that we didn't get along. Like, at all.
I'm sorry I prolonged it so long
and dragged you all the way to the
other side of the earth
only to
finish it.
************
I dated a man once who
liked to cum on my face
and wear straight jackets in public
so
so
sexy.
***********
You don't know me yet
but you're trying
and I respect that
I think you're
prettier than you give yourself credit for
and
better than you think.
I'm not sure how you came to be in a submissive place
in this world.
You just don't seem like
that kind of person.
Who is telling you
how to behave?
Where and when to go?
And under what authority?
You act with such confidence and a kind of
clumsy grace
it's beautiful and
totally disarming
(honest, I haven't felt this way about a woman in years)
I am going to echo words I think
you might have used recently:
I want to be your friend
but I don't know how to get into
your world.
We come from such incredibly different places
we have different view on words such as
authority
and
abuse
and what differentiates one from another
and what's okay and what's
really not.
You're obviously intelligent
and kind
and pretty
and caring.
What's not to love?
But
subservience?
To whom?
Doctrine?
I'm having trouble getting there.
I don't even
know
that that's what I know about you but I know that
if my husband ever hung up on me
out of frustration
while I was out doing a good deed for a friend
you'd better believe
there'd be hell to pay.
In my world you don't treat someone you love like that.
Ever.
No freaking excuses.
I don't know what the line is
between love
authority
and abuse.
I've clearly failed to see it before
in my own life but
at some point I learned how to say no. I remember it clearly.
I was with my Dad. We were shouting at each other and
he swore and I
swore back and without
calling each other names I said hey
what's really bothering you because all this
negative talk
is really bothering me and I don't like it.
I spent a weekend standing up for myself in
difficult situations
and
afterward
everything started to get
so freaking good that
I've never
ever
ever
looked back.
I'd rather tell someone I love to go eff themselves
than let them walk all over me
or tell me
what I can do or
say
in public
(because trust me, I've said and done much, much worse)
But what freaks me out is that
maybe you're reaching out to
give me some sort of warning like
maybe
this is one mountain I can't topple
and that
freaks me out and makes me want to
wash my hands
of the whole thing
but for the grace of God
honestly.
Straight up,
WTF?
What's up?
Why can't I call you and say this?
Because. I feel passionately about it.
When I feel passionately about anything I usually
express it with
fairly crude language
as all pre 2011 posts on this blog
will attest.
I respect you. I don't want to offend you.
I don't want to say anything
that doesn't come from a place of love.
This is why I'm not identifying you. I'm not naming names. You'll maybe recognize yourself
in this post
poem
if you manage to get past all of the
offensive things I've done.
And that's a short list.
Seriously.
I'm easy to like because it's
difficult to get past the
past
if you're a judging type.
But here's the kicker:
I'm still the same person. I haven't changed.
Yes, I'm married and faithful.
But lemme tell ya, the grownup toybox has toys. And we occasionally use 'em.
I don't party in shopping carts anymore
or try to bring 2 boys or 2 girls
home
at once
anymore.
But let's not confuse that with mellow.
I am still a certifiable
perpetrator of the Bee Es.
And the number one thing I
absolutely cannot stand
is to watch my friends be trampled upon
whether by husbands
churches
doctrine
other friends
or anyone who might apply pressure
or tell y'all to behave
any certain way.
You are a strong
brilliant
talented
thoroughly awesome
amazing
pretty
caring
wonderful young woman.
I want nothing more than for you to shine your light
all over the world.
this great big light of mine
I'm gonna let it shine
I'm gonna let it shine
all over the world
It goes against every fiber of my being not to
get you to rat out
everyone who's ever
tried to tell you what to do or
what to be
and
break their motherfucking knees.
When you're my friend
you deserve
DESERVE
respect, love, and kindness.
You deserve to be appreciated
for all of your gifts and talents.
You're amazing.
To paraphrase one of my favourite long quotes,
we don't serve the world
by playing small.
Ever.
Who are you to not be beautiful, talented, wonderful, amazing?
And who the heck is everyone else for not allowing you
fuck that.
Encouraging you to
let your great big light shine?
she's been
everybody else's girl
maybe one day she'll be her own....
I want you to know that I want you
to be
the best person you can possibly be and that
I will support you in doing that.
I'm not talking about being righteous or virtuous or
obeying anything or anyone.
I'm talking 100% about being YOU.
Everyone else can
take it or
leave it.
I'll take it. And love it.
I would love to walk beside you
if you'd let me.
***************
The end.
I don't know you well
but you seem awfully... well..
I want to be your friend.
I want to be her friend too.
I'm a bit confused.
(Ha - I bet you both read this and think I'm talking about you!)
You tell me you are reluctant
to let her get in our space
that she's the one
you brush your teeth with at the end of the day
and go to bed with
and wake up with
you make it sound so much like drudgery
Why did I ever think you were a good idea?
Was it because you were from somewhere that
seemed
exotic to me? Was it because
you could write so convincingly?
My mum reminded me that apprently
Charles Manson
was quite skilled in the love letters department.
Now I see some similarities.
Then... I saw you. I wondered about you. I wondered about absinthe
too
And when I was making my decision to
not
go back with you to your hotel room
I was thinking
of your beautiful wife and wishing
she were with us.
You were evasive on the subject and
had harsh words with her on the phone. And I knew
something wasn't right
but
I decided to ignore it for the moment.
Making out in the river valley
under the stars
fall leaves cold under your back
she understood, you said
she understood
but I wasn't convinced.
Later in an email she said she tried to veto me
and that made sense.
Somehow it seemed I had this hold over you
but
I
didn't really.
I just have a way with words and a way with ghetto-fabulous
clothing on a budget.
I wrote you poetry
I wrote her love letters.
Honestly, how does it feel
(not that you'll ever read this)
to know that I was much more interested in your wife
than you?
A couple of years later I'm
happily into
a closed relationship with the man
I eventually marry and I
remember her birthday.
I get a letter back
telling me that you'd done some terrible things to her. I
try
to
think
restraining order she said
I try to think
and hindsight is 20/20.
I know I didn't know you for very long
or very well but
I saw it so clearly.
Dude.
You can't treat people like that.
And yes, women
are people too.
*****************
The orange dirt and
reeds in the park were of
little comfort as I
ate my vegetarian sandwich and
thought.
You were off learning to dive
on the motherfucking Great Barrier Reef.
I was poor
picking zucchini
having the worst menstrual cramps of my life
and wishing we had drugs. I don't remember what I was taking.
For the pain.
I think it was the extra strength Neurofen
The stuff wot has the opiates in the analgesic.
Uh huh.
Why were you there? I know why I was there. I know that you accused me of screwing around and giving you a yeast infection and I didn't answer you. I didn't try to deny it.
why
the
fuck
did you not
question that? I wouldn't even meet your gaze.
And why, instead of standing up for myself, why'd I just
stand there
in the shower with you
thinking of another man naked
unable to speak in my own defense?
That part of the trip was stupid. Why did you even come?
I offered you the ultimatum because I
never
in a bazillion years
thought you'd actually show up.
So when it all fell apart and we were face to face fighting and crying and talking in circles
(as opposed to doing it over the phone)
what on earth kept us in that space?
I left you shortly thereafter
for an Australian
I took off my engagement rings. Put them
back in their box.
I might not be able to stand up to you
but I could easily disappear.
I left no forwarding information.
Of course, when I got home
you found me out
and were understandably upset.
Fine.
I wanted to never see you again so
is it so wrong that
I learned so much from you
about who I am
and who I'd rather be?
Is it wrong that when everything went right in your life I
cowered a bit
when I saw you and
tried to hide?
You approached me anyway. Kudos to you.
Your happiness confuses me.
I wish that was how I'd known you.
But
I'm glad you found her
you're much better off with her
and you have a beautiful son.
I have found out that I couldn't promise you
children.
I'm glad you and I never had to figure that one out together.
Thanks for being in touch and
being so positive
and occasionally recommending stuff to me.
You're not a bad person. I never really hated you.
I hated that we didn't get along. Like, at all.
I'm sorry I prolonged it so long
and dragged you all the way to the
other side of the earth
only to
finish it.
************
I dated a man once who
liked to cum on my face
and wear straight jackets in public
so
so
sexy.
***********
You don't know me yet
but you're trying
and I respect that
I think you're
prettier than you give yourself credit for
and
better than you think.
I'm not sure how you came to be in a submissive place
in this world.
You just don't seem like
that kind of person.
Who is telling you
how to behave?
Where and when to go?
And under what authority?
You act with such confidence and a kind of
clumsy grace
it's beautiful and
totally disarming
(honest, I haven't felt this way about a woman in years)
I am going to echo words I think
you might have used recently:
I want to be your friend
but I don't know how to get into
your world.
We come from such incredibly different places
we have different view on words such as
authority
and
abuse
and what differentiates one from another
and what's okay and what's
really not.
You're obviously intelligent
and kind
and pretty
and caring.
What's not to love?
But
subservience?
To whom?
Doctrine?
I'm having trouble getting there.
I don't even
know
that that's what I know about you but I know that
if my husband ever hung up on me
out of frustration
while I was out doing a good deed for a friend
you'd better believe
there'd be hell to pay.
In my world you don't treat someone you love like that.
Ever.
No freaking excuses.
I don't know what the line is
between love
authority
and abuse.
I've clearly failed to see it before
in my own life but
at some point I learned how to say no. I remember it clearly.
I was with my Dad. We were shouting at each other and
he swore and I
swore back and without
calling each other names I said hey
what's really bothering you because all this
negative talk
is really bothering me and I don't like it.
I spent a weekend standing up for myself in
difficult situations
and
afterward
everything started to get
so freaking good that
I've never
ever
ever
looked back.
I'd rather tell someone I love to go eff themselves
than let them walk all over me
or tell me
what I can do or
say
in public
(because trust me, I've said and done much, much worse)
But what freaks me out is that
maybe you're reaching out to
give me some sort of warning like
maybe
this is one mountain I can't topple
and that
freaks me out and makes me want to
wash my hands
of the whole thing
but for the grace of God
honestly.
Straight up,
WTF?
What's up?
Why can't I call you and say this?
Because. I feel passionately about it.
When I feel passionately about anything I usually
express it with
fairly crude language
as all pre 2011 posts on this blog
will attest.
I respect you. I don't want to offend you.
I don't want to say anything
that doesn't come from a place of love.
This is why I'm not identifying you. I'm not naming names. You'll maybe recognize yourself
in this post
poem
if you manage to get past all of the
offensive things I've done.
And that's a short list.
Seriously.
I'm easy to like because it's
difficult to get past the
past
if you're a judging type.
But here's the kicker:
I'm still the same person. I haven't changed.
Yes, I'm married and faithful.
But lemme tell ya, the grownup toybox has toys. And we occasionally use 'em.
I don't party in shopping carts anymore
or try to bring 2 boys or 2 girls
home
at once
anymore.
But let's not confuse that with mellow.
I am still a certifiable
perpetrator of the Bee Es.
And the number one thing I
absolutely cannot stand
is to watch my friends be trampled upon
whether by husbands
churches
doctrine
other friends
or anyone who might apply pressure
or tell y'all to behave
any certain way.
You are a strong
brilliant
talented
thoroughly awesome
amazing
pretty
caring
wonderful young woman.
I want nothing more than for you to shine your light
all over the world.
this great big light of mine
I'm gonna let it shine
I'm gonna let it shine
all over the world
It goes against every fiber of my being not to
get you to rat out
everyone who's ever
tried to tell you what to do or
what to be
and
break their motherfucking knees.
When you're my friend
you deserve
DESERVE
respect, love, and kindness.
You deserve to be appreciated
for all of your gifts and talents.
You're amazing.
To paraphrase one of my favourite long quotes,
we don't serve the world
by playing small.
Ever.
Who are you to not be beautiful, talented, wonderful, amazing?
And who the heck is everyone else for not allowing you
fuck that.
Encouraging you to
let your great big light shine?
she's been
everybody else's girl
maybe one day she'll be her own....
I want you to know that I want you
to be
the best person you can possibly be and that
I will support you in doing that.
I'm not talking about being righteous or virtuous or
obeying anything or anyone.
I'm talking 100% about being YOU.
Everyone else can
take it or
leave it.
I'll take it. And love it.
I would love to walk beside you
if you'd let me.
***************
The end.
How do you define a friend? Postaday2011
How do you define a friend?
A friend is someone who encourages you to follow your heart. She might think you're making a really bad decision. If she loves you, she might very gently tell you that she doesn't agree with you but values your happiness over agreement.
A friend is someone who doesn't judge you - for anything. If you make a bad decision about something important, a friend won't tell you that you did something stupid. Instead, when the consequences come raining down, a friend will be really glad that you came to your senses and sought her out.
Someone who is not controlling is a friend. He is someone who does not tell you what to wear, how to act, how to behave in public or ever insult your parents, no matter how awful they might be behaving.
A friend is someone in whom you can confide your deepest, darkest secrets and truths, knowing they will never be shared with anyone - they will be taken to the grave. A friend won't talk behind your back, or make up stories about you that aren't true.
A friend is someone who does something nice for you without you having to ask for it, or without offering first. Friends bring over random baking. Friends show up without warning in work clothes when you post on facebook that you're going to spring clean your garden. If you're lucky, they bring homemade lemonade. Friends show up to help you move. They also find time to spend with you when there's no time left and you're desperate for some grown-up conversation. Friends don't do thoughtful things out of some sense of obligation. Friends are thoughtful because they actually think about you. A friend is someone who comes over on the sly to give you a souvenir from their recent trip to somewhere exotic with the added info that nobody else got anything but this one thing just jumped out and screamed your name...
Friends don't understand what it's like to have something awful happen, or to have your heart broken so badly that you feel like you're going to die from the emotional pain/trauma. Friends will stay with you though, and distract you, look after you and make sure that your life is going on, even though it hurts. A friend knows that passing you a kleenex when you cry is a silent message that they aren't comfortable with your tears. Friends know that you'll get the kleenex when your effing good and ready for it, thankyouverymuch. Friends are folks in front of whom you can cry, openly. Because friends don't talk about friends, and because friends care so deeply even though they don't understand your unique feeling because it is yours only, friends create a safe space for you.
When a friend gives you positive encouragement, and encourages sharing of your memories, good, bad, ugly and otherwise, and when the friend doesn't share any of that with anybody else, it creates a feeling of safety and a feeling of trust. Most people have private things inside of them that they don't share easily, but will spill to a safe friend.
A friend definitely says it's okay to cry when the tears start and you look hesitant about it.
A friend will track you down if you're in the hospital. She might not know where to start looking for you, but if your facebook post says you're in the hospital, she'll do her darnedest to find you, because nobody should ever be in the hospital alone.
A friend knows how self-sufficient you really are, and believes you when you say that you don't need anything. A friend will simply sit with you, talking when it's time to talk, and chilling out when it's that time too.
A friend will offer to help clean your kids' or pets' vomit. If you won't let them, your friend will offer to look after whichever creature recently upchucked.
Friends will offer to go to funerals with you, even though they don't know the person who died, and even though it might be difficult for them to get the time off work. They'll also offer to go with you to put flowers on graves and make sure you're emotionally stable enough to drive yourself there and back.
Friends know who in your life is unwell, and they ask about that person. Friends care about whether or not your husband aced his job interview and how your kid is recovering from her injury. Friends care when your pet dies or if it is particularly sick.
Most friends probably don't know everything there is to know about you or your past, but they should have a decent idea of the life you've led and the circumstances that gave rise to the person who you are today.
A friend is somebody who loves you, for who you are, no matter what you've said or done. A friend understands that sometimes things happen, sometimes we make mistakes or do something we might regret, but that it was necessary to shape us into who we are today. Friends forgive you for occasionally being mean because they know that it usually has nothing to do with you.
A friend is someone who encourages you to follow your heart. She might think you're making a really bad decision. If she loves you, she might very gently tell you that she doesn't agree with you but values your happiness over agreement.
A friend is someone who doesn't judge you - for anything. If you make a bad decision about something important, a friend won't tell you that you did something stupid. Instead, when the consequences come raining down, a friend will be really glad that you came to your senses and sought her out.
Someone who is not controlling is a friend. He is someone who does not tell you what to wear, how to act, how to behave in public or ever insult your parents, no matter how awful they might be behaving.
A friend is someone in whom you can confide your deepest, darkest secrets and truths, knowing they will never be shared with anyone - they will be taken to the grave. A friend won't talk behind your back, or make up stories about you that aren't true.
A friend is someone who does something nice for you without you having to ask for it, or without offering first. Friends bring over random baking. Friends show up without warning in work clothes when you post on facebook that you're going to spring clean your garden. If you're lucky, they bring homemade lemonade. Friends show up to help you move. They also find time to spend with you when there's no time left and you're desperate for some grown-up conversation. Friends don't do thoughtful things out of some sense of obligation. Friends are thoughtful because they actually think about you. A friend is someone who comes over on the sly to give you a souvenir from their recent trip to somewhere exotic with the added info that nobody else got anything but this one thing just jumped out and screamed your name...
Friends don't understand what it's like to have something awful happen, or to have your heart broken so badly that you feel like you're going to die from the emotional pain/trauma. Friends will stay with you though, and distract you, look after you and make sure that your life is going on, even though it hurts. A friend knows that passing you a kleenex when you cry is a silent message that they aren't comfortable with your tears. Friends know that you'll get the kleenex when your effing good and ready for it, thankyouverymuch. Friends are folks in front of whom you can cry, openly. Because friends don't talk about friends, and because friends care so deeply even though they don't understand your unique feeling because it is yours only, friends create a safe space for you.
When a friend gives you positive encouragement, and encourages sharing of your memories, good, bad, ugly and otherwise, and when the friend doesn't share any of that with anybody else, it creates a feeling of safety and a feeling of trust. Most people have private things inside of them that they don't share easily, but will spill to a safe friend.
A friend definitely says it's okay to cry when the tears start and you look hesitant about it.
A friend will track you down if you're in the hospital. She might not know where to start looking for you, but if your facebook post says you're in the hospital, she'll do her darnedest to find you, because nobody should ever be in the hospital alone.
A friend knows how self-sufficient you really are, and believes you when you say that you don't need anything. A friend will simply sit with you, talking when it's time to talk, and chilling out when it's that time too.
A friend will offer to help clean your kids' or pets' vomit. If you won't let them, your friend will offer to look after whichever creature recently upchucked.
Friends will offer to go to funerals with you, even though they don't know the person who died, and even though it might be difficult for them to get the time off work. They'll also offer to go with you to put flowers on graves and make sure you're emotionally stable enough to drive yourself there and back.
Friends know who in your life is unwell, and they ask about that person. Friends care about whether or not your husband aced his job interview and how your kid is recovering from her injury. Friends care when your pet dies or if it is particularly sick.
Most friends probably don't know everything there is to know about you or your past, but they should have a decent idea of the life you've led and the circumstances that gave rise to the person who you are today.
A friend is somebody who loves you, for who you are, no matter what you've said or done. A friend understands that sometimes things happen, sometimes we make mistakes or do something we might regret, but that it was necessary to shape us into who we are today. Friends forgive you for occasionally being mean because they know that it usually has nothing to do with you.
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