Monthly Archives: December 2017

HAIR PULLING DAYS

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December days can be murderous on humour and well being, especially for one such as I. Add Sheba’s pesky afternoon shenanigans to the mix and I want to scream and pull my hair out. My hair is thinning so that stops me. What’s so bad about December days? Well, let me tell you.

In November, it snowed just about every other day. That was fine. The snow lit up the grey. It made everything look bright and clean. No dirt to track in. Come December a warm front came. The snow went but enough left to freeze over, making it treacherous and difficult for our walks. Ugh! Now the cold came back. No snow. We are still left with grey and ice to navigate on. Double UGH!

Egads! Days like today set me on edge. Everything is difficult. Everything gets on my nerve. Sheba on my heels continuously. Her hair everywhere it seems. Then there’s all my clutter. Everything seems to go wrong. Trying to work on a painting, I picked up my spray bottle to wet the paint. It comes apart. The bottom falls off. Water falls out. The bottom cracks. More water on the floor. Nothing to do but retrieve the bottle, mop up the floor and give a great big sigh. No LOL – laughing out loud.

What do you do when life hands you lemons? Make lemonade, of course. In this case, I’m not sure what to make. I am sure everything would turn into lemons. Best course of action is to lay low. The day is almost done. I can do like Scarlett. After all, tomorrow is another day.

 

THE LADY WITH THE TORCH

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I was never one of the nurses who counted down the years, months, weeks, days, hours, the minutes till retirement. I think I must have loved my job. If it was so intolerable that I have to do the counting, I am sure I would have quit and found another job. I hit such a critical point early in my career. After suffering enough doctor and head nurse abuse, I quit right then without another backup job. I was never afraid of not finding work.

Nursing must be was what I was supposed to do for I found myself back in it not long after. I was aghast. I thought it was not where I want to be again. I never thought of myself being the ministering angel. I was definitely not the lady with the lamp type. I entered the profession solely to help me develop confidence with people. I was a shy timid wallflower. What better job than being a nurse in a hospital?

I think I fulfilled my goal of gaining confidence. My second job in nursing was in a large university teaching hospital with many departments and people. I got some backbone and learned to deepen my voice. I tried to cut out my squeaky ‘excuse me(s) after being told by a kindly resident. “For heaven’s sake, Lily, speak up and don’t say excuse me,” he chided. “Be more assertive!” With time I became that. I was not quite as tough as nails but neither was I soft as marshmallows.

Over the years, I must have turned Florence like. Once upon a time, I had hoped to regale stories from my years upon retirement. But to my dismay when the time came, I held no memories nor the desire to recall them. They were all bad.I was in full anxiety. Now some time has passed and so too, my PTSD. Yup, it’s my own diagnosis of my post retirement predicament. Well, I am/was a nurse. I know or should know the symptons.

A few pleasant memories are seeping back. I don’t need to feel tough as nails anymore. I’m hoping to feel soft as a marshmallow. I remember some of the reasons why I stayed in the profession. It is the soft whispers of the patients in the night. “Thank you.” ” You have such a gentle touch.” I go from bed to bed and room to room with my torch. I bend over a bed. I straighten a blanket. I fluff a pillow. In the dark, a voice asked me, “Did your mother ever tell you how pretty you are?”

How could I not love that? I melt like a marshmallow.

 

 

 

THE STRANGER AT THE DOOR

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I love the poem Love After Love by Derek Walcott. I first heard it recited by Jon Kabat Zinn, the founder of MBSR  (mindfulness-based stress reduction). It is about learning to love ourselves, to be present and at home in our own lives. I’ve been on that quest for a long time now. Today, I feel that homecoming, that welcoming of myself at my own door. I feel it all as I worked on this painting.

All my life, I’ve been told that I was smart and talented. I must not have believed it. After high school, I was going to take a secretarial course. My public school principal was aghast at my decision and chided me. I have too much intelligence and talent. I should not waste it. Then I got an entrance scholarship to university. That decided it. I went for two years. I got wayward and lost. I did not fail but I did not shine either. I dropped out and became a steno despite my smarts and talent. Four years later, I became a nurse. I emptied bedpans and saved lives for over 30 years.

It was a year and a half ago that I decided to investigate my ‘talent’. I’ve been talking about it most of my life. My artistic training consisted of maybe 4 classes many decades ago. I grew tired and embarrassed listening to myself repeat the same story. I started to feel like someone who people try to avoid. Same old, same old story. It was time to tell a new one. Entered 100 Day Project on Instagram. I did a little art each day for 100 days. I’ve learned that talent is not enough. Practice does make for better.

 

So I’ve finally arrived after all these years. I feel the elation rising. The canvas is my mirror. I caress the face with my brush. We smile back at each other. Strange and strangers to each other till now. Where have you been? Where have I been? The questions echo silently in the air. So many years have passed. You have lain motionless and silent within this body. I did not know you were within though I’ve been lonely and longed for you. Now you have arrived. Welcome. Come in, sit here. Eat.

E************************************************************************************

LOVE AFTER LOVE

The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror,
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,
and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

POTATO PANCAKES IN THE MAIDSTONE HOTEL

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It’s a cloudy December Sunday. I still got a wee bit of Saturday sunshine to carry me through. We all slept in till after 8 this morning, even Sheba. Wonder of wonders! But she barked shrilly for her breakfast. Wake up! Feed me! We stumbled out of bed. Well, we were up late last night. Till 11 pm watching a movie about James Brown.

This warm, melting December does not agree with me. I am sore and achy. It’s not the stabbing kind of pain but rather dull, wearing and constant. Sometimes I want to scream. It must also burns up calories because I’m hungry already. It’s only 3 pm, Sheba’s supper hour. I guess it’s my snacking time. One piece of flat bread tasted pretty good. It makes me want more. I’ll restrain myself. I’ll just keep on tapping here. Perhaps I could google recipes for potato pancakes. Someone had posted some pictures on FB yesterday. It reminded me of my childhood friend’s mother’s potato pancakes with icing sugar on top. They were so good!

Strange but I haven’t had potato pancakes since then. It has been many decades. I wonder why? The memory comes up once in awhile. My mouth would water. They even have it on the menu at Smithy’s Restaurant. I’ve never ordered it and I dine there more than a few times. Perhaps I don’t want to ruin that memory of Barbara’s mom’s pancakes. Barb’s parents owned the hotel in Maidstone, Saskatchewan. They lived in their apartment within the hotel. They were Polish and still had an accent. Her father’s name was Steve. He was a bit short and stout but not fat. I don’t recall what her mother’s name was. I don’t think I called her anything except maybe Mrs. B…. The last name is difficult to say and harder to spell.

I think Mrs. B liked me more for her daughter’s friend than Barb did. She would make those pancakes for us when I visit. One time I overheard Barb saying to her that she shouldn’t have to invite me to all her parties. I pretended not to hear but I felt crushed. Our friendship got cooler. I have pride and I am considerate. I wasn’t going to throw myself where I wasn’t wanted. I am still that way today. Proud! You know what they say about pride. It goes before a fall. But I am not that way. I am not conceited or have self importance. Rather, I am the opposite.

I did find a recipe for potato pancakes. Looks easy enough. Some Sunday soon, I will try it out. Maybe it will measure up to Mrs. B’s.

  1. Mix potato, onion, eggs, crackers, salt, and pepper together in a large bowl
  2. Pour enough vegetable oil into a sklet to fill about 1/2-inch deep; heat over medium-high heat.
  3. Drop spoonfuls of the potato mixture, first pressing potato mixture against the side of the bowl to remove excess liquid, into the hot oil; slightly flatten the latkes into the oil with the back of your spoon so they are evenly thick. 
  4. Cook in hot oil until browned and crisp, 3 to 5 minutes per side. Drain latkes on a plate lined with a paper towel.

 

 

COME SATURDAYS

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Saturdays have always been my favourite day of the week as far back as I can remember. One of my chores was to dust  on Saturday. The sun lit up the dust on top of the chest of drawers that my father somehow had made. I can’t remember what other chores I had to do that day. I remember helping with the dishes and bringing in coal for the pot belly stove. When my mother was in the hospital having my brother, my grandmother came for a few days. My mother gave me a list of chores which included doing the laundry. We didn’t have a machine so it was by hand.

I think I always associate Saturdays with that sunlit dust. I can still see that beam of sunshine coming through the bedroom window in that little house behind the cafe. Of course not all Saturdays are sunny but they are in my mind’s eye. That little house with the coal shed is also there. Funny how some images stay with you after so many years.

Today was not sunny either but my Saturday sunshine is in me. It’s been a mellow yellow day. So happy that I could get myself to the pool though it was dark as night at 8 am. The University Bridge was lit up in bright Christmas lights of green and red. I wished I could have taken a photo but I was in moving traffic. I was alone and driving. I had not only a lane but the whole pool to myself. Just me, a brand new life guard and no loud music. It was heavenly. I could relax and pretend I was a mermaid. No worry of sharks on my tail. I splashed at my own speed to my heart’s content. I had planned to do a short swim but given that much freedom, I stayed the whole hour. Wouldn’t you?

I stopped in and visited with my mother on my walk with Sheba in the afternoon. Sheba was content to be outside. She preferred the snow rather the blanket I brought for her. I let her be. Kids and dogs. They have minds of their own. My mother was not as chirper as could be. She had her heating pad draped across her shoulders for her aches and pain. Some days are like that. That’s how it is.

She’s excited all three of her orchids are going to bloom. She told me how she saved her goldfish. It was constipated and in distress. What could she do? What do we do for our constipation? Vegetables! Fish eat plants. She chopped up a bit of lettuce for it and cut back the pellet food. It made all the difference.  I showed her a picture of my new sewing machine. She was impressed by its size and that it’s computerized. I was surprised to learn that hers had embroidery and other accessories. It is older than my old Kenmore and it is OLD. So many memories when we visit. My mother is a very good conversationist and story teller.

The day has turned into evening. Supper and dishes are done. Saturdays have always been kind to me. Feeling mellow and content.

 

HOW TO TEACH AN OLD DOG NEW TRICKS

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Yesterday, I joked about writing a blog on how to do anything better. On second thought, I’ve decided that it’s not such a bad idea after all. How else can I improve anything if I don’t even try? Just because I have an unfocused mind doesn’t mean it has to stay that way. Already I’m working on my addiction to tea – Orange Pekoe, to be exact. There must be some secret ingredient that makes me crave it. Could it be just caffeine?

I’m sipping chamomile as I am tapping. I hope I can stay awake. Sheba is keeping me company. She is usually very rowdy and restless in the afternoons. It is that time between her supper and her walk. I’ve been working patiently with her for the last few weeks. When she barks up, I coax her in laying down, staying and then giving her lots of verbal praise. It took awhile but she’s finally getting it. Quiet = food and a walk. I could see the comprehension in her eyes and behavior. Really, a couple of weeks is not a long time. It is so pleasurable to see her ‘getting’ it.

The truth is I am the one finally ‘getting’ it. Raising Sheba has been strenuous, frustrating, fun, and satisfying all at the same time. It was very tumultous in the beginning. I was more a cat person, having had 3 cats previously. A dog was a new thing. What I knew about dogs was in movies and on television. It was myths and fairy tales, no true hard facts about raising a dog. The only preparation I made was to buy a very big crate and a book from the library.

The book was a very good resource at toilet training my new puppy. I followed the suggested schedule to a t. I can’t remember the number of times I took Sheba out to ‘potty’. It was enough times to wear me out but Sheba is perfectly toilet trained. One time she got into some ripe prunes and she had to go. She was in her crate in the garage when I was at work. She tried to poop out the crate door. She had some messy back end. When I let her out, she got away from me. Out the yard she ran. I had to chase her through the neighbourhood. Oh, what a time that was! Lucky for us, nobody saw us and the messy back end. A big sigh of relief when I finally caught her.

I listened and read too many accounts of how to raise a dog. I was terrified of doing the wrong things. Everyone and every source stated how difficult it is to correct a dog once it learned the wrong thing. I was a nervous wreck, feeling like a failed dog owner. Puppy classes were of no help. We weren’t keen on the trainer. She made both Sheba and I feel bad about ourselves. One time Sheba charged full throttle into Pet Smart (where we took the class), choked on her collar and pooped on the floor. On the way home after, she threw up in the car. What a mess! Ugh! We decided we did not need any more puppy classes. We’ve been limping along on our own ever since.

My advice on how to if you are a very first time dog owner, is to relax. Enjoy your dog. Get to know each other first. Go from there. The best thing is about consistency. But when you are a novice, you don’t even know what that means. The next best advice is don’t worry too much about making mistakes. Even old dogs can be corrected. They are just like us. They can change given the right motivations. It’s practice, practice and more practice – the same way each time – over and over = success. It only took us 11 years. But better late than never.

 

 

ADDICTED TO BETTER

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Here’s another afternoon staring at me. My mind is a little alot scattered. It is admirable that I am so keen on learning. Putting too much on my plate can negate all that. It sends my head into a continuous spin. I’m not focused. I have no direction and don’t I know it! Right now I’m dying for a cup of tea. It’s my addiction calling. It would help if I could cut back a bit. Too many cups adds to my aggitation. If I’m too intent on cutting back, it calls me louder. I might as well go make myself a cup.

I’m back with my tea. It would be good if I could just sit but I have things whirling around and around in my head – ‘my goals and projects’. Once upon a time I could just sit and read for pleasure. Now, I’m a bit driven to do everything better. I don’t want any prize ribbons but I am addicted with ‘improvement’. I’m considering a blog on how to do anything better – not seriously.  I am a lost cause on giving as well as receiving directions.

I suppose I could blame everything to this crazy weather we’re experiencing. I feel guilty complaining about blue skies and warm temperature. But it does not feel like December or that Christmas is just around the corner. It is a little disconcerting. Weird weather patterns are here to stay. I better adjust. I want to whine less, do better and more. Can’t help but be my striving self.

What specifically am I striving for? I’m thinking of expanding my artistic endeavours to include quilting and embroidery. Blame it on the quilt show I went to in October. Seeing all the fabulous quilts displayed made me want to do it, too. I believe in listening to the  voices of creation. I have no extra time to sit and ponder. It is time to sew, to explore, experiment and go wild, crazy creatively addicted.

 

 

 

DOING THE HUSTLE

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One of these days I will have to hustle my ass and get with the program. I’m always lagging behind, dragging my butt. I’m continuously just treading water and not getting ahead. Wish it could wear off pounds and inches. That would be getting ahead.

I could just pretend I’m that energetic girl. They say you can fake it until it becomes you – if you want. December is a bad month to fake it but it is also the perfect time. I don’t think I am alone in my tiredness. Someone else whispered agreement along with me this morning. We’re all faking it until we make it. A relief I’m not alone.

Sometimes I feel like such a rebel rouser, a bad mouthed, sorry ass gal. In these times I see the world with jaundiced coloured sunglasses. I try to keep these sentiments to myself. I guess the secret is out now. Better here on the page than a verbal diatribe. The written word is much gentler than a shout or rant. But most of my ragging are against myself. It’s all about me. I hope at the end of it, I’m more mellow and positive. I always hope for a transformation.

Yes, it is hard to keep with the program. I try not to rain on others’ parade. This morning I was stepping along with everyone else in our step aerobics class. I wondered how our instructor keeps motivated. What if she was feeling like me. How does she carried it off then? Well, I am recalling there were some days that she was not so together. She lost track of some maneuvers, etc. We are all the same – human. A big sigh of relief. I listened to the beat of the music and kept my body parts moving. That matters. You get the same results however much you enjoy or not. Even if I felt shitty, at least I would be looking trim and fit.

REFLECTIONS

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December can be dangerous – for me at least. The days are shorter, the nights infinitely long. Then there’s the snow. Just when you’ve adjusted to it and the cold, a warm front comes along. The snow melts. You welcome the not shivering and bundling up but the world is grey and muddy. I find myself longing for the snow to clean and lighten my world.

Christmas comes along to add to the challenge. “Tis the season to be jolly. Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la. I was born serious and quiet. I was never jolly. It does make me feel obliged to go ho, ho, ho! I still have this bad little girl feeling inside.  I’m so serious and somber. I was criticized by those ‘aunties’ in China when I was a child. She speaks so little, they would say to my mother. That was how I was. How can I unbecome myself?

The answer came later in my young adulthood. I became a nurse. It was not to help mankind. My motive was I was bored working as a steno in a large office. I was searching for another career, one that would help me get over my quiet/shyness. A hospital would fill all my criteria. It answered all my wildest dreams – in a sense. I certainly developed a gift for chatter and a backbone for sure. Then there’s the anxiety.  We won’t speak about that today but it has gone. Thank goodness and knock on wood.

There are so many landmines in December. Even my iPhone is intent on tripping me up. No Internet connection, it tells me. Can’t use Google Map. I think I can find my way. How hard can it be when it’s only 13 minutes away. I’ve been there a few times already. I was wrong! My 13 minutes turned out to 30 minutes. But I got to see the countryside, blue skies, red barns and horses. Maybe someone up there knew I needed to get out of the city if only for a little while.

What I know for sure is that I am lousy at directions. On not so copacetic days, my sense of direction is even worse. I can’t even get myself out of a wet paper bag. Getting lost is not a big deal. Google Map is a good friend. If the iPhone is malfunctioning, turn the power completely off. Then turn it back on and it will work like a charm. It redirected me back on course. I have to give myself a pat on the back for persevering with my day, following through with my errands. I could very well have thrown up my hands and abandon ship.

On some Decembers days, my head is thicker and my fuse is shorter. It’s good to see myself reflected in the glass doors/walls I walk by. Not only did I get lost hopelessly going to Costco, but I didn’t realize I was pushing 2 shopping carts as one. The Costco greeter asked: Do you need 2 carts? Well, no. We had a good laugh and so did another customer.

All’s well that ends well. I have to echo Mr. William Shakespeare. I ended my adventures for the day at one of my favourite spots on 8th Street – A & W. The bright colours and big windows reflect comfort, ease and cheerfulness. Seeing the orange/gold orbs hanging down, I felt a Fa-la-la-la-la rumbling deep within. And maybe a ho! or two.

 

HOW TO BE HAPPIER

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Today I’m tempted to throw up my hands and cry, For what purpose am I doing this? THIS meaning the tap tap of my keyboard. Sometimes I seem to go on and on about the same thing. Worse yet, they seem to be about nothing. Then I read Amy Tan’s post on FB on how to be happier in these trying times. Well, I do have a pet – Sheba. She’s just started up her usual antics now,  barking up a fit.  I see that her water bowl is empty. She has good reason to bark. Sorry Sheba. My fault this time.

Having Sheba/a pet is a life enhancer even though she is a ton of work. She gets me out the door on walks no matter rain or shine. She has taught me to look up and see the blue sky of a sunny day, the soft pinks of a December sunset. She has shown me it can be fun teaching and learning obedience and tricks. She’s given me structure to the day. She has a built in alarm clock.  She is pretty accurate most of the time. But she is not always a reliable security guard. We have been robbed. She was sleeping on the job.

What Amy suggest if you can’t keep a pet, is to take up bird watching. She suggests to learn more about them by encouraging them to come into your yard with bird food. She sketches them, too. I think I will stick to tapping on my keyboard for now. It does make me happier to give voice to the angst – all my negativity and sarcasm. They do tend to fester inside, rolling over and over in the canyons of my mind. Ha! Music is playing in my head again. I’m stealing phrase(s) from Bob Lind’s Elusive Butterfly. It’s a great song. Beautiful lyrics. Don’t you agree? But I really should acquire a more recent playlist for my head.

I’m have to rethink about being ‘happier’. What does happy feel like anyways? I’m more aware of when I’m not. My whole body reacts, screaming, We’re not copacetic. Get us out of here! Everything, all of me retreats, withdraws, shrinking inside, hiding where it is safe. So ‘happier’ for me is to make my body feel good. Sometimes I need some spiritual guidance to help me out. That sometimes is now. That guidance source is from Caroline Myss. I need her ‘put your head in the toilet’ no-nonsense approach. We are so fortunate to be in this energy age. I can access help with a tap of the keyboard – the Internet coming to rescue my InnerNet.

It is good to hear Caroline talk about our present time being special, extraordinary. The stories and myths of yesterday no longer work. That’s exactly how I am feeling – that my stories/myths are passé. They no longer work for me. I have to change my stories, my voice, my vision. I am not the center of the Universe. I’m listening to her voice telling me to humble up, that I am not special. Yes, put my head in the toilet for 7 minutes and reboot my life. Got it, Caroline! Thanks for the cold water.

Oh, I do feel happier now. My body is laughing.