Monthly Archives: September 2012

All stressed up and nowhere to go

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Last week, I had a brutal nightmare.  I have no recollection of the horror at all, but I awoke in the wee hours of that morning and I was sobbing, full on heaving sobs, and tears were streaming down my face.  I can honestly say I’m relieved that I don’t remember the theme of the night terror that I survived. Naturally, it got me thinking about nightmares and why they occur.

Nightmares are simply a combination of your history of events, and many of those nightmares are caused by the stress of those same calamities.  Whether you realize it or not, you may be dealing with some issues that take hold of your subconscious and wreak havoc in your dream world.  You may not even comprehend that you are holding onto so much of what happened in your day, or your week, but it builds up like a brick wall that crumbles in your sleep and the shrapnel plummets into your waking moments.

Stress is fickle creature.  It can inhabit your daily life as much as it creeps into the blissful hours that should be your time to recharge.  Apparently I didn’t allow myself the down-time I needed to overcome the stress of my day.  When I went to bed, I carried with me each particle of energy-draining angst that I had accumulated throughout that day.  Nightmares and dreams paint a picture of what is happening in your life.  Whether that portrait is drenched in vibrant colors or tarnished with mottled shades of black and grey, the visions in your sleep depict your mood and illustrate the tension you are storing in your body.

I am in awe of the seemingly limitless catastrophes that a human body can endure and process.  Any type of mental anguish it represses during the day will certainly appear in our unconscious state giving us signs that we are walking on a ledge.

Find a way to clear out your negative energy before the weight of your day begins to pull down the blankets of your eyelids.  You will at least have a fighting chance of supplying the artist in your sleep with a pallet of spirited rich colors instead of the monochromatic, threatening spatters of charcoal and black. Free your head of that ticking time bomb called stress and reclaim your restful night of unadulterated sleep.

Thumbs up

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I may have read one too many Dean Koontz novels, or perhaps have seen more than my fair share of creepy movies.  Whatever the case may be, the conglomeration of macabre tales has left a lingering doubt in my mind when it comes to hitch hikers.

I have never entertained the thought of sticking my thumb in the air and hoping that a random stranger would stop and let me into their vehicle. And on that same train of thought, I have never picked up a hitch hiker.  I occasionally feel guilty about driving by and leaving them with arm extended and a thumb reaching up like a beacon of hope.  I even go so far as to not look directly at them – although I know full well that they cannot see the direction that my ocular orbs are focusing.

Scenes from movies play like a slide show in my brain and I imagine the most innocent looking person taking hours to remove my appendages and build them into a sinister piece of art nouveau.  It may be a warped interpretation, but one that could salvage my digits and leave my body intact.

Although there is always the nagging doubt that picking up that hitch hiker will hold some sort of malice for me, I still feel the need, in my head, to explain why I will not invite them into the sanctuary of my four-wheeled haven.  I constantly feel the urge to roll down my window on the way by and tell them that my turn is only meters away and that they will have a better chance of a full ride with another driver. Regardless of any guilt I feel for not stopping, I still avert my eyes from their general direction and carry on, alone in my car, to my destination.

I am not labeling worldly travelers, nor am I judging those whose means of travel rely on a digit that many animals do not possess.  I am simply propagating my existence in my over-active imagination and choosing to not share the sanctity of my car.

Best wishes to all of you that have the guts to be the hitcher or the driver that stops to pick up those wayward travelers.  The neurons in my brain will always fire in the same way and err on the side of caution, but for those brave enough to pick up or be picked up – thumbs up to you.

If you love something, don’t set it free

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For several years, I made novelty birthday cakes as well as wedding cakes.  It was something I was really passionate about and I loved the creative outlet that I was afforded when decorating each individual cake.  My outer world seemed to disappear when I was in the kitchen and life became uncomplicated and beautiful.

With the increased responsibility in my day job and the hectic pace of my life, something had to give.  Unfortunately the cakes were put on the shelf (metaphorically speaking) and I didn’t know how much I missed them until today.  A friend of mine is getting married on Saturday and I agreed to make her small and simple, but elegant wedding cake.  The smell in my house tonight is bringing me back to all of those nights of baking and making me wonder why I made the decision to give up something that I loved so much.

The saying “if you love something, set it free” came to mind and it started the wheels in motion for this post.  I have been pondering why I set this love free.   Love isn’t something that is just given to us.  It requires nurturing and a great deal of effort.  If we just set it free and rest on the hope that it will come back, we give up our sense of responsibility to that passion.

This love didn’t just return to me on a whim.  I chased it into the night and romanced it back into my kitchen.  I coddled it, caressed it and with that effort on my part, together we found the path that we once travelled.  It was comforting, like slipping a foot into a well moulded slipper that only fits your foot.

I didn’t make the mistake of loving something, I made the egregious error of setting it free.  It would never have returned had I not made the effort to get it back and keep it in my life.

Don’t just give up on the things you love.  Don’t set it free and hope it will come back to you.  Unless you are willing to put unequivocal effort into keeping that love nourished, it will find another kitchen in which to grow and flourish.

The milk of human kindness

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For the greater part of my life I have lived in a small town.  I branched out into the bustling metropolis for a few years to attend college, but the pull of our tight-knit community was too strong to ignore and I came home.  Much to the chagrin of my city dwelling friends, I have never regretted that decision.

There is something comforting about seeing the same people on a day-to-day basis.  It may feel a little too close for comfort at times when they know more about your life than you do, but it has become the safety blanket of my existence.  That community that began as a collection of strangers rapidly transformed into an extended family and I take solace in the fact that I could knock on any door and receive the same warm welcome from any one of them.

The milk of human kindness flows more freely in a small town – at least, that has been my experience.  And today that lesson was inked into my skin in colors more vivid than any tattoo.   My mother had a slight episode while on her scooter, making her way home from her shopping excursion.  Her dog had broken free from her collar and in the chaos that ensued, my mother had toppled from her scooter and lay on her back on the pavement.  As fate would have it, I was driving through town just as the mishap occurred and I was able to pull over and help.

In the time it took for me to pull over, a handful of people were already either assisting my mother or madly looking for the frenzied dog that was dodging parked and moving vehicles.  It was controlled chaos, but in the end my mom was fine and the dog was recovered without incident.  A very large thank you to Sue, Jean-Ann and the random strangers who dropped everything to help us.

There is an overwhelmingly comforting feeling knowing that if I had not been there, my mother would have been just as well attended to and things would have still ended well.  Knowing that the milk of human kindness flows freely through the veins of my community makes me glad that I made the decision to carve my life into the branches of the tree of this rural atmosphere.

There may be moments of my life that I will look back on with regret, but choosing to live my life in this town and the community of people I share it with is not one of them.

I’ll take 40 something over 20 something any day

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Arthritic pains, hot flashes, stress and wrinkles withstanding, I would not relive my twenties if you paid me.  That creased, hot to the touch skin cloaks me in a sense of comfort that I was never afforded two decades ago.

Perhaps these wrinkles are the roadmap of the journey that led me to where I am now.  Each crevasse that is etched into my skin marks a milestone that created not only a lesson learned, but a memory.  Like every foolish twenty something, I thought I was invincible.  I didn’t necessarily feel like the world owed me anything, but I felt like it was my oyster, and it was my destiny to find that pearl.

It took me that span of twenty years to realize that I am the pearl in the oyster of my reality.  The epic search for the jewel encased in a hard shell was actually the search for my true self.  The walls that I had created in my teens and twenties became the shell of my oyster and the pearl was me.  Slowly over those many years, that pearl has come to represent the confidence I now have in myself in every facet of my life.

Spending time chiseling away at the outer shell of my oyster has allowed me to gradually peer into the real meat of my reality and open the doors of that tomb that was my shell.  I no longer feel the same constraints I did in my twenties, and if some remnants of those constraints still remain, I don’t care.

Even in my forties, the world has become my oyster once again, but in a completely different way.  I know who I am, and I finally can admit to what I want.  My obstacle now is not the boundaries of my shell, but the only the boundaries of my imagination.

Instant idiot, just add alcohol

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This post is inspired by the weekend that has just passed.  Our resort hosted a few bus loads of college students, or perhaps a more appropriate definition, potential future employees.

There is a reason that the LCBO and multiple organizations urge us to drink responsibly.  After a few too many, we become abhorrent mutations of our former selves and lose all sense of discipline and self-control.  The “White Elephant in the Room” campaign is meant to draw attention to drinking and driving.  Perhaps we should also have a campaign for drinking and being an idiot.   For now, let’s call it the “Saturated Moron” campaign.

I’m not going to lie and tell you that I have never over-imbibed, but only once have I ever lost control of the person I have strived to become.  And even in that moment that I am not so proud of, I have never left an impression of myself that created any ill will, any harm or caused any negative feelings.  With the advancement of technology today, we have more than a fair shot of seeing our misgivings pop up on websites like YouTube and Facebook, but that doesn’t seem to be enough of a deterrent for those afflicted with the “I’m going to drink WAY too much” syndrome.

There are certain things to keep in mind when you are beginning a night out with friends and alcohol will be involved.  If you think you become more attractive, you do not.  If you feel you can dance like a professional, this is untrue.  And if you think your friends won’t take every opportunity to humiliate you and make sure there is photographic evidence, think again.

Obvious health reasons aside, when we drink too much, we simply make bad choices.  Perhaps the first bad choice was to drink to excess in the first place.  The thing to remember is – what has been done, cannot be undone.  People have very long memories when it comes to things you have done in a drunken stupor, and they will do their best to never let you live it down.  And undoubtedly they will take every opportunity to replay the videos or repost the images of your misfortunes during your intoxication.

Drinking to excess can cause you to black out and have no recollection of the events of the previous evening.  Be assured, it will either come back to you in small scenes, like a movie trailer that you can’t seem to stop, or in one horrific flashback that you wish you could eradicate from your memory.

Be smart and know your limits.  Don’t be the “Saturated Moron” in the room.   And for the college students that may happen upon this blog post, I will not be recommending you for future employment.

You want to be in love in a movie

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Admittedly, I have seen Sleepless in Seattle at least a dozen times.  For that matter, I will come clean and say that I have seen my fair share of romantic movies.  There is something truly endearing about the thought of being drawn to someone in the way that Meg Ryan was pulled across the country to find Tom Hanks.

We all love the feeling of being in love……the giddiness, the smiles at random times when you think of those cute moments and the contented feeling from knowing that someone reciprocates those feelings that you feel.  But all too often we find ourselves wishing that falling in love resembled something from the big screen.  We want the music score, we want the slow motion kiss…..we want to be in love in a movie.

Hollywood certainly knows how to dangle the bait of love stories to all of the hopeless romantics that wish their own fables of romance would emulate those on the big screen.  They make us want to fall in love in a way that is completely removed from the mundane realities of our own lives.  And although our lives may not seem at all ordinary, there is something exhilarating about falling in love the way they do in that scripted performance.

In reality, love will find us at random times and show itself in individual ways.  It may not mirror the effortless bliss they show on the big screen, but it is fraught with truth.  Love that we find in our own lives may come with more obstacles than are written in those quickly abating scenes or it may seem completely effortless.

Regardless of the circumstances, the love that we put our heart and soul into is the stuff that movies should be made of.  Listen to your own music score and write your own script – your love story could be better than anything you can watch at the theatre.

By the pricking of my thumbs – something wicked this way comes

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Intuition is a perplexing thing.  Our body is a natural conduit for energy, and that energy has an odd, but effective way of giving us warning signs that danger is lurking.   The witches in Macbeth described the feeling as a pricking in their thumbs.  We may feel it when the hair on the nape of our neck stands at attention, but the premise is the same.  Our gut is sending a message that our brain cannot ignore.

Usually we can’t understand the visceral reaction to a certain circumstance, but we have to put our faith in its validity.  That little voice gets very vocal when it feels imminent danger, and usually that voice is spot on.  Everyone is born with the gift of intuition, but it is how we heed the wisdom of that instinctive feeling that is of great benefit to us.

That moment when something wicked does actually come may be completely averted by listening to those nagging doubts in our mind.  Those doubts exist for a reason.  There is a power far beyond some people’s belief or comfort level that aids in our self-preservation.   That terse glance over our shoulder, the quickening of our step while walking in the dark – both may feel cryptic and unnecessary, but listening to those pestering whispers may help us avoid an uncomfortable situation.

That intuition may also have altruistic applications.  The stirring in our senses does not always represent peril, but could also put us on the path to good fortune.  The Yin and Yang of those intuitive forces can also help us make decisions for our benefit and not just our physical longevity.   Our lives are based on choices and that same power of perception can guide us through those choices and help us discover the best path for our journey.

My thumbs do not become prickly, nor does the hair stand up on my neck.  I get goosebumps, and that chicken skin that was once my flesh has never steered me wrong.  Hopefully when something wicked this way really does come, I will be the human version of Foghorn Leghorn, plucked and covered with a roadmap of goose-flesh to guide me to safety.

Hello, kettle? It’s the pot calling. You’re black.

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Hypocrisy.  It lives and walks among us and it lurks in the very shadows in which we feel safe.  It feeds upon unsuspecting minds, clinging to the particles of grey matter that are most apt to ignore it.

Professing beliefs or ideals that you neither follow nor remotely understand is the most familiar definition, but there is also the flip side of the hypocritical coin.  The admonishment of a habit or behavioural pattern that is so blatantly shared by the one pointing the finger is the one that is most commonly seen – at least by me.

But the ones making flagrant accusations are oblivious to the obvious.  They are standing so far out on the precipice of blindness that they are unaware that they are constantly living in a suspended state of hypocrisy.  And perhaps they truly can’t see the irony in pointing out the shortcomings of another when they represent the same qualities themselves.

Maybe the pot calling the kettle black is a mere distraction technique.  If the focus is shifted in a different direction, the pot will never receive the negative repercussion that it should so rightly be subjected.  Panning the camera for a close up on the kettle leaves the pot completely out of the picture.  But a word of caution to the pot – even though you may try to use the kettle as a scapegoat to alleviate any personal discomfort, bear in mind that there are many other pots and pans in your proverbial pantry, and we see right through the facade.

Those same ashes that charred your surface mirror the ones on that kettle – so before you are so quick to judge, make sure that same finger cannot turn around and point at you.

What I want to be when I grow up

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I was talking to some friends today about my blog.  They have been very supportive and encouraging, which really inspires me to continue this journey of my recently rekindled love for language.  I have always had a passion for words, but now my passion has gone from glowing embers to a roaring blaze.   One of the girls was unaware of my blog, and when she asked if I was a writer, I responded without hesitation – yes.

That was the first time in my life I have felt worthy of being able to call myself a writer and I felt an overwhelming sense of joy.  I have always responded to similar questions with varied responses.  ”Oh, I write poetry” or “I’ve written a couple of short stories”, but never have I felt enough ownership of my talent to be able to claim that I am a writer.   Today was the turning point in that constant battle in my head.  I am a writer, and I’m proud to finally be able to admit that.

After years of searching for what truly makes me happy, I finally decided what I want to be when I grow up.  Okay, so I’m 43 years old, but I still feel like I have a lot of growing to do, not only as a writer, but as a person.  But I want to write.  I feel that fire coursing through my veins more and more and the urge to string sentences together into paragraphs fraught with meaning is overwhelming.  Ideas churn in my brain during the conscious hours of my day and random dreams diffuse themselves into plot lines when my eyelids flutter open to watch the new crest of the sun greet the horizon.

My dream is quickly becoming more of a reality because I am allowing myself to believe that I can achieve the possible.  Embrace what it is that truly makes you feel complete.  If you keep your dreams alive, you can still chase them.