I lost myself

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Women of a certain age face many challenges when it comes to our well-being, both physically and mentally. The past eight months have been fraught with many personal hurdles that have made me question, not only my sanity but, my ability to hold on to my image of my true self.

I cannot pinpoint the moment the pieces of me began to slip away. It was not until recently I was able to recognize the imposter living under my skin, and her willingness to strip away everything that gave me strength and happiness. The things that once gave me joy, bared their teeth and sent me scurrying away from them. The things I took pride in soon had me questioning my abilities. And the life I loved seemed to be nothing more than something I once read in a novel.

But tonight, I felt a shift in the dynamic of my life. It was not something I conjured, and certainly not something I expected to happen, but tonight, I feel different. I can feel a piece of myself clawing out from under the oppressive blanket of menopause, and taking my first breath of fresh air. That heavy blanket that has been forbidding me to enjoy life is slowly falling away, and I am able to tell myself it’s okay.

It’s okay to give myself time to figure this out. It’s okay to push projects aside to allow myself the time I need to process my feelings and put me first. It’s okay to ignore phone calls from dear friends, and it’s okay to pick up that next call when it comes at the perfect time.

I know I’m going to be okay. I know I have slowly begun to collect the pieces of me and put myself back together. I feel the shift in my energy, and I know the universe has things in store for me. I may have been lost, but I am finding my way back to me. Look out world, I’m coming back!

Creativity in a different form

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I consider myself to be extremely fortunate. I am a person who can sit at a keyboard and create a fictional world by typing words onto a screen, giving me the chance to lose myself in a fabricated realm that comes from my imagination. To date, I have written seven novels, and I have enjoyed the exhilaration of allowing my characters to be able to speak through me to tell their stories.

Recently, a group of screenwriters came to our lodge for a writer’s conference. I was invited to sit in on their sessions, and it was an opportunity I will never forget. Currents of magnetic creativity sizzled in the air and slowly fell on me, like the first tentative drops in a rainstorm. Before I could brace myself, I was pummeled by the intensity of the storm of ideas that whirled in my mind. I was drowning in a new world of creativity, and I could only do my best to hold on until the tempest abated and I was able to gather my thoughts while the electric current still raced through my blood.

After listening to four sessions of the conference, and after pushing off the weighted blanked of convoluted emotions that held me fast to my space on the couch, my creative drive took a detour I was not expecting. The idea is daunting. The road ahead is filled with twists and turns I will have to navigate after studying a vastly different road map than I am used to, but I am up for the challenge.

My Google search history is now filled with pages to help me navigate the seas of writing a pilot for a television show. I find myself in unchartered lakes, still buoyant on a body of water with no discernable map, and no captain to dispel the myths of the waters I am about to enter. I am up for the challenge, but I know the water will be choppy. The characters are in my head, and they are whispering snippets of the tales they would like to tell. Their voices are tentative, but I have put my faith in them. They will find me. They will tell me who they are. And they will, in turn, put their faith in me to tell their stories.

The end of two eras

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Lately, I have not been able to find the time to allow myself to be soothed by the comfort I find in this writing space. This blog has been my sounding board for over twelve years, and today I needed the shelter of its warm embrace.

This past weekend, my family gathered in Oakville to celebrate the life of my Uncle Bob, or Buzzy as he was affectionately known. It was a beautiful day, and a beautiful way to share happy memories of a man who meant so much to all of us. They broke the mold when they made Buzzy. He was a kind soul, generous to a fault, and just a great guy to be around. Some tears were shed during the afternoon, but it truly was a celebration of a life well-lived, and a man well-loved.

During the celebration, I found out the second of our three historic family cottages in Muskoka had been torn down. It was a sacred family home that absorbed many of our family discussions into its wooden walls, and continually whispered our secrets during the abundant meals we shared together. Thanks to my Aunt Carol, I have a small piece of that cottage in a shadow box I see every day, and I treasure it more than she knows.

After the long drive home from the city on Saturday, and getting through my work day yesterday, I came home in the late afternoon and burst into tears. I cried for the loss of a man who meant so much to me, and I cried for the loss of the Ford cottage, a place that holds so many of the special memories I have with Buzzy. The yellow fortress that once stood amongst the pines is now a vacant piece of land, but the memories we created there as a family will live on in our hearts forever.

In my heart, I know Buzzy is standing in a kitchen in the next realm, coddling eggs and making his kick-ass Caesar salad. Buzz, you were a loving uncle, a kind heart, and a great friend. I will always treasure the times we had together.

Another sad anniversary

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My post on Thursday talked about the 10th anniversary of my mom’s passing, and today marks the 18th anniversary of my father’s death. These three days are filled with a deep sadness, but I spend the days bringing back the funny memories we shared, and there were many.

I remember standing behind the podium in the church as I attempted to give his eulogy. My legs were shaking so much I thought I would topple over in front of the packed room. The words I had written had been penned through many tears, but I wanted to capture the boyish nature of my dad, so I talked about his love of dancing, his odd stance on the putting green, and the fact that he enjoyed being naked. On such a somber occasion, I could hear the giggles in the room as was encouraged to continue.

I told the story of coming home from high school to an empty living room. Both of our cars were in the driveway, but the main floor of the house was empty. As I neared the basement door, I could hear laughter coming from below. I dropped my backpack on the kitchen floor and followed the noise. What a mistake that was! When I reached the bottom of the stairs, my parents, and our neighbors, were clearly at the end of a game of strip ping-pong. Random pieces of clothing were scattered around the room, and four naked bodies flanked the ends of the table as they battled to win the game.

I was mortified. I thought I would be able to escape without being seen, but as I backed up onto the bottom stair, my father saw me and welcomed me home from school. Our neighbors, who until then had their backs to me, turned to say hello. The image is burned into my memory. But that was my dad. He loved life, and he loved to have fun.

I’m sure in the eighteen years he has been gone, he has managed to create a naked club of some sort. I miss you, dad. Gone, but never forgotten.

How quickly a decade goes by

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Every year, I write a post on this day to remember my mother. It is mind-boggling to come to the realization that she has been gone for ten years! An entire decade has gone by, and I still miss her every day.

She was a beautiful person inside and out, with a wicked sense of humor and an infectious laugh. I told this story at her celebration of life, and she would be mortified to know I am sharing it on my blog, but this is one of my favorite memories and I need to laugh today to honor her memory.

It was winter, and mom and I had taken our three dogs for a walk, one golden retriever and two small mutts. Our retriever, Brandy, was well-trained, and was usually off-leash. He was always very proud when we gave him the leash handles for the two smaller dogs and he became the dog walker.

Mom and I had walked ahead, and when we turned back to take charge of the smaller dogs, we noticed Misty’s leash had become wrapped around her legs and Brandy was proudly dragging her backwards along the icy road. Muffin lagged behind, seemingly unaware of her sister’s dilemma. I started to giggle, and mom was not far behind. By the time Brandy had dragged Misty to where we stood, we were doubled over in fits of laughter. Through my tears, I saw mom buckle her knees together under the pants of her velour track suit. I knew what was about to happen. The color of the inside seams of her pants began to darken as she peed her pants in the middle the road.

Thankfully, we were close to home. I took the dogs into the house, and mom snuck around to the back door that led to the basement. I knew she would find some dry clothes in the laundry basket, come upstairs, and think she had covered up her secret. When she got to the top of the stairs, she was met with the familiar sound of my laugh, as well as the laughter of everyone else in the house. The story was too funny not to share with our family, and soon she was laughing along with the rest of us.

I miss those moments. I miss her. You are always in my heart, muther muther.

Well pressed

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I have not been in this writing space for a while, and I’m always amused by the random things I see on social media that bring me back to this place of comfort. I saw a post on Facebook asking if ironing was still a thing, and I was immediately transported back to a time in my life when the iron and ironing board were a prominent fixture on Sunday mornings.

In September of 1998, I moved out of a familiar home, and a familiar town in Ontario, to move to Halifax, Nova Scotia and live with my best friend. I needed a change of scenery, but leaving behind my comfortable town and all the familiarity it afforded me was daunting. With the help of my parents, we stuffed a U-haul trailer full of my belongings and traveled the over 1,800 kilometers to the east coast of Canada.

The bustling city of Halifax was charming, very much like the small town I had just left, and it immediately made me feel at home. I got a job at a local bakery and was thrilled I could walk the two kilometers to work when the weather cooperated. Living in this utopia was the change I had needed.

Every Sunday morning, my friend Sandra would bring a pile of laundry into the living room, and iron the crap out of every piece of clothing she owned while watching CBS Sunday morning. It became a tradition that I grew to love, and to soon take full advantage of. While she focused on the television screen and absent-mindedly ironed her clothes, I would sneak my wrinkled wardrobe into the pile and watch as she meticulously ironed my clothes, not noticing they did not belong to her. After the third week, I knew she was aware of my devious plan, but the morning ritual continued and she happily ironed my clothes without a care in the world.

After spending a wonderful year in Halifax, I moved back to Ontario in September of 1999. We remained as close as we had always been, but in 2003, through a series of bizarre circumstances, my dear friend Sandra would be afflicted with necrotizing fasciitis (the flesh-eating disease), and I would never see her again.

Memories give us permission to access our past, to relive the moments that made us smile, even when something as simple as a question on social media gives us a full pass to those memories. I will always cherish those Sunday mornings, sipping my coffee, and smelling the overwhelming scent of freshly pressed cotton. I still miss her insane laugh (that almost made it onto a movie laugh track), and I love the fact that social media can bring a distant memory stampeding into the forefront of my brain. May Sandra forever rest in peace, and continue to wear the iconic crinkled skirts that disobeyed every law of her love of ironing!

The weekend of Winnie

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Nothing brings you back to the center of yourself like being stricken by a bug that renders you unable to willingly lift yourself from under the cover of the comfort of your favorite blanket. The smell of the blanket is familiar. Its warmth takes you away from your illness and transports you to a time when your mom was hovering over you, offering bowls of homemade chicken noodle soup, and your favorite popsicles. But being sick in your fifties is much different than being sick as a child.

After a lovely wedding weekend at the lodge at the end of September, I came home on Sunday afternoon, overflowing with the euphoria of witnessing a marriage that was meant to be. Everything about the weekend exuded love, and that is why I love my job. Was I exhausted? Yes. Was I thrilled to be a part of the incredible display of love? A bigger yes. And was putting in a crazy amount of hours in three days worth it? An overwhelming yes! The weekend went beyond any of my expectations.

But then it was Sunday afternoon, and when the adrenalin of the weekend had passed, and all the guests had vacated the lodge, I was left with only a faint glow of the two days that had transpired, and the fallout from the months that had led up to the happy nuptials. I was drained.

I arrived home that Sunday afternoon, curled myself into a fetal position under my favorite blanket, and gave myself permission to finally rest. That is when the fever took hold. I slept for nineteen of the twenty-four hours that passed while I was blissfully unaware of the time that ticked by. In my mind, I had drifted off in to a short nap. In my reality, my body had decided it was time to play catch up and I had slept my way through an entire calendar day.

Doing what you love to do is a choice. Knowing there are consequences to fulfilling those choices forces us to make a decision people make on a daily basis. But knowing your choices can change the trajectory of other people is a responsibility, and an honor. I was a part of a weekend that, in my mind, will always hold a special place in my heart. And Shamrock Winnie will be the memento of a weekend that will be forever etched in my heart.

Jen and Courtney, your love will forever be written in the stars. The weekend I spent with you and your family and friends will constantly redefine what it means to be truly in love, and to follow your heart, wherever it may lead. The sign you posted at the lodge aptly described the emotion of the weekend – Love is love.

Imposter syndrome

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I am ashamed of myself, in more ways than one. I have willingly neglected this blog for the past three months, and I have recently allowed myself to, once again, bathe in the toxic water known as Imposter Syndrome.

Having just finished the first draft of my sixth novel, I should be elated. I should be patting myself on the back for creating another unique story that has never been told. Instead, I am doubting my ability to write. I am second guessing my talent as a storyteller, and I am apprehensive about reading the rough draft for fear the words have no depth or emotion and hold nothing of value to the reader.

I am sure every author has hit this wall in their writing journey more than once. The fear of not finding an audience for the stories we construct is paralyzing. The thought that I have toiled to combine over ninety-four thousand words and beat them into submission only to have the story fall flat is agonizing.

But somewhere under the somber veil of the debilitating malady known as imposter syndrome lies a beacon of hope. A tiny speck of light looms in the distance, and that light beckons me to continue. Reading stories by other authors has always been a way for me to draw from their strengths so I can become a better writer. But, tonight, I am hedging my bets and reading one of my own books. Of the five stories I have created, it is the one I am most proud to say I have written.

As I turn the pages on my Kindle, I am reminded of the passion I felt drafting this story. I am reclaiming the confidence I felt in myself, and I am slowly letting the water out of the toxic bath and watching the Imposter Syndrome circle the drain before it disappears.

I can do this. I can write.

See you tomorrow

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A beautiful couple, who had been married for seventy-three years, recently left this earth a mere sixteen hours apart. For any of you who have seen, or read, The Notebook, this story may seem like a fairy tale, but it is real. It is devastatingly sad, but it is the purest form of true love I could ever write about.

Jack and Sylvia were an integral part of my life. In my early twenties, I was in a relationship with one of their sons, and their love for their family was the thing I cherished the most about them. I can still picture the dining room in their home where we would gather for Sunday roast dinners, and Gran would be fussing about the little details to make sure everything made its way to the table before we all sat down to eat. It was sometimes chaotic, but it was always pure bliss.

They were the epitome of the devotion they had for their life partner. In the many photos I have seen, their hands were always intertwined, and they were gazing at each other with true affection, and after seventy-three years, the look in their eyes never changed. Their love was magic.

When Gran left on March 14th, Grandpa was overheard saying, “Goodnight Gran, I’ll see you in the morning”. And true to his word, he followed his lover into the afterlife, not wanting to spend a moment on this earth without her. No romance novel, nor no epic movie, could ever capture the sentiment or the overwhelming emotion he conveyed in that moment after she left him.

As I write this blog post, I know they are holding hands in a realm we can only dream of. They will soon be passing out cards for their next game of bridge, and arguing about their bids and hoping they will take the maximum number of tricks.

I can simply say, I was blessed to have had them in my life. They touched so many lives, and I am thankful my life was one of those lives. I am sad they will no longer be in our world, but I am forever grateful they will be a part of my past, and a big part of my future as I move forward holding onto the lessons they taught me. May we find each other again in the afterlife, and may our dining room table be as filled with as much life when we see each other again as it was when we were blessed to spend time together in this physical realm.

My Bridge Day

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Yesterday marked the ninth anniversary of my mom’s passing and like I have done for the last eight years on March 7th, I woke up at exactly 7:02 am. That is the time I received the phone call and was made aware of her death back in 2014.

The first time it happened, I thought it was an unlikely chance occurrence, but it has happened every year since she left us, and when I wake up at 7:02 am each year on March 7th, I replay the phone call over in my head. Her departure was unexpected at that time, and I can still feel every emotion I felt in that moment. I remember what I was wearing. I can recall the dryness in my mouth, the uncontrollable tremble in my lips, and I think of how difficult it was to sit up in my bed and swing my legs over the edge to bring myself to a seated position.

Today is what I call my ‘bridge day’ because tomorrow will mark the seventeenth anniversary of losing my dad in 2006. After his prolonged illness and subsequent health decline, his passing was much more of a blessing than the sudden shock of losing my mother, but the loss of a loved one is never easy to process, regardless of how they leave our world. These early days in March not only remind me of how much I have lost, but these days encourage me to continue to be the person my family and friends always wanted me to be.

I willingly forge ahead with each new day, thoughtfully holding on to the lessons I have learned from, not only my parents but, all the important people in my life who have left this earth before I could mentally prepare for their absence.

I have seen this bridge in my dreams. Many times, this stone structure has entered my subconscious and pulled me onto the apex of its design. As much as I wish to see the faces of my loved ones and feel the warmth of their embraces, in my dreams, I stand alone at the peak of this stone wall. I know the spirits of those who have left my world are with me. I am so thankful, and although I cannot see them or hear their voices, I can feel their energy surrounding me, keeping me safe, and sending me implied messages and signs that they will always be with me.