Monthly Archives: December 2017

FREE AT LAST

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I love sitting here listening to Caroline Myss speak her wisdom. She is what you call a no nonsense woman. “Stop it!” she stresses. “Or I am going to put your head in the toilet.” I like to put Sheba’s head in the toilet now. She’s barking over her rubber chicken. I can hardly think! I’m suppose to toss it with her. I like sitting here with her when she’s quiet and peaceful. She probably likes it when I play rubber chicken. We are both in training – to better ourselves and to please each other. Mutual love.

I think we are making some progress. We are going to prove that you can teach old broads new tricks. It depends on the rewards used. Sheba is not as discriminatory as I am. She is tail-wagging happy, will sit, down and stand on her head if possible for any treat big or small. I am not so easily swayed. It would be in your best interest to trick me into self motivation. I am a tough cookie. Sheba loves tough cookies, too. She’s always next to me.

For today at least, I’ve relinquished my guilt for everything. I’m letting it fall like puddles at my feet. I can declare like Martin Luther King, Free at last, Free at last, Thank God almighty we are I am free at last. A little melodramatic, you say. But alas! I do feel shackled by all that I’ve been taught, unwittingly or otherwise.

I like to turn a new page, a clean slate with no blame. I’ve come to the conclusion that we can’t forget, we can’t forgive so let’s move on and start a new story. We think our wounds are healed but are they just scarred over? They can bleed at any provocation. Ask any survivors of residential schools in Canada. And has Truth and Reconciliation Commission brought about truth and reconciliation? I am sure that many would find a fallacy in my comparison between such a big hurt and my little hurts. But aren’t wounds, like beauty, in the eye of the beholder? I’m not a fan of licking each other’s or trading stories of wounds. It makes me want to have bigger ones than you have. That’s why I think it wise for me to move on.

I hate the name of Wounded Warrior. I don’t even like being a warrior at all. The title signifies fighting, warring. Don’t we have a lot of that? Every day in the news there’s a war. The Gulf War, the war in Afghanistan, Syria, Vietnam, Iraq. Then there’s the war on drugs, terror, against crime, poverty, cancer. Why must we fight so much? Can’t we work to find solutions? Maybe if we can change our talk, we can change our thinking and seeing. Maybe we can find common ground without the fight. How about a little brotherhood and sisterhood. And maybe then there won’t be so much ass and other body parts grabbing.

So why this sudden avalanche of sexual harassment stories. They’re tumbling out of closets. Big names, starting with Harvey Weinstein, are falling like dominoes, except for Trump. He is still President even though he said grab them by the *  *.  Maybe he has a big gun mouth.

 

 

THE VALLEY OF DOUBT

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The best thing for me is not to dwell in the valley of doubt. I should just drive through –  looking at possible choices, decide and act. My mistake usually is going back, ruminating and flagellating myself. All that does is create agony and more time in the valley.  I better work on giving up the bad habit. Most things are not that important. Whatever I decide and do will be fine. Things have a way of working out. I have good self talk. I hope I listen to myself sometimes.

I am a little down in the mouth. I hope I don’t talk trash though I tend to when squished between a rock and a hard place. It never works. So the dog is barking her fool head off. The postman was at the door. Yelling at Sheba never works either, but still I try. Eventually she does shut up. Eh, life is full of barks and grunts.

You will have to excuse me a little. The weather is hampering my well being. Not to worry. I’m tapping myself out of my discomfort. I’m contrary to that belief that we should be happy and chirpy all the time. I am an exception to that rule. I hope that I do keep my grumpiness to myself. Let me know if I transgress.

What I hate about these episodes of irascibleness is loss of productivity and more chaos. But being a long time companion of my temperament, I have learned to make a few adjustments of behaviour. I try not to give in to my crankiness and behave badly. I aim for a quieter environment. I try not to talk so much, staying out of arguments. That could be difficult. In those cases, I stay away from social gatherings. I use those alone times for constructive activity. Cleaning house can be soothing.

Today, I’m mostly tired. My throat a little scratchy from coughing during the night. I struggled this morning with the decision of staying home or going out. Staying home won out but I did feel a little guilty. Those I should have been able…I would have felt better if…thoughts tumbled in my head for awhile. I kept them to myself, not voicing them outloud. It would have been more delicious if I just allow myself to feel my fatigue and rest.

You know that when you have a dog, you can’t call in sick for those walks. You will not get any rest. I killed two birds with one stone to save energy. I packed my furry princess in the car. We stopped first at the dog food store. $91.00. Small price to pay for a healthy fur baby. I think it lasts for a month at least. Next was the dog park close by. It was our first one where she learned there were other four legged creatures like herself. She was very timid on her first outing, hanging close to the fence. She soon got over it and ran with her buddies. Memories!

Letting her run off-leash in the park was much easier on me than walking on leash. We did two laps around, climbing the hill in the middle. Done and homeward bound.

MY DAILY BREAD

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My daily practices have become my joy and salvation. Seeing the letters and words march across the screen, hearing the tap, tap of the keys, pushing the paint on the canvas with my brush – they all bring me incredible joy. The feelings are so subtle at first. Now I’m infused with them. In this moment with the sun beaming into my room, I can say I am happy. It is enough.

I’ve never wanted much – for myself. Maybe that is why I’ve never felt poor even though we were. My sister felt it and my mother testified to it. Dried anchovies were mostly what we had to accompany the rice. But we were never hungry, except maybe on Sunday mornings. That was the one day the cafe closed. Everybody slept in, even if you were 8 years old and itching to get up, with tummy rumbling for food. We had a roof over our heads though it was an old one. We lived in a little house behind the cafe and near the town’s public bathrooms. Sometimes our house was mistaken for it.

Our next house was along the highway. It was bigger though not newer. My foot crashed through the floorboards of my bedroom the first day. It wasn’t my bedroom long, for our grandparents came to live with us. My sister and I had bunkbeds in the livingroom and our little brother slept with mom. Dad slept at the cafe because he had to open it early. The livingroom was great in the winter. It had an oil furnace. I would undress and dress next to it. Sometimes I got too close and ouch!

Recounting our early days in Canada, I see that we WERE poor. It mattered less to me maybe because I was warm, fed and nourished. Everything was new. I was learning a different language. I had school and friends. The Grey Hound Bus bought me books from the provincial libraby in Regina regularly. I always had a voracious appetite for the written word. The teachers told my father at the Grade One parent/teacher meeting that I have a talent for drawing. In my teens, I drew portraits of teen idols – Elvis, Fabian, etc. I only did trees in art class. My affinity for faces and people started young.

I’ve never made any money with my two loves. They were stuff of dreams. Who doesn’t dream of making it big, writing that novel or creating that painting? I didn’t work at making the dreams come true. I earned my living and money the hard way. I waitressed, worked in an office and slung bedpans as a registered nurse in a teaching hospital. Oh, glory days! Now in the aftermath of my youth, I have lived, am seasoned and have suffered. I have something to say and perhaps the fire to say it.

I was not a child genius, who upon falling out of my mother’s womb, can pick a brush and create a masterpiece. But that’s what it feels like in my senior years. It happened once I decided to pick up my brush after talking about my passion for decades. I push these blobs of paint on the canvas. Somehow a picture emerges. Sometimes it’s good. Sometimes it is even great. It keeps me showing up for my daily practices, my daily bread. It feeds and nourishes me. God I saved the best for the golden years.

 

BEING BRAVE – BAH HUMBUG!

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I am myself again, ruminating and ranting. I find myself still dwelling over things I’ve said or shouldn’t have said. I see myself wringing and twisting my hands in my mind. Oh, I’m rude! I’ve hurt their feelings! Why couldn’t I have kept my mouth shut? But I’m talking back to this voice in my head. It doesn’t really matter! It’s only my obsessive over-inflated ego thinking what I say have any importance to anyone, especially to three learned professors. Just stop it!

I stopped the voice in my head. The thoughts echo and ricochet off  the edges of my mind. I sat back in my chair and sipped my decaf. It tasted pretty good with coconut milk. I travelled back to yesterday. The room was noisy with music and people chatter, the sounds of what Christmas luncheons are made of. Our salads arrived, then the pork tenderloin. They are making draws for door prizes. My name is called. I won 2 tickets to Persephone Theatre. Someone said that the play Treasure Island is very good. It is being held over.

I’m trying to drown out life’s miseries. They tend to come out and multiply with weddings, funerals and Christmases. I’m feeling very bah humbug this year. This feeling has been increasing each year. Now I’ve reached that crescendo – BAH HUMBUG! I’m exhausted listening to all the complaints of consumerism, blah, blah, blah. Complaints! Complaints! Complaints! And yet with all these complaint the practices are continued year after year. This year I’m stopping all that. I’ve stopped going to church because of all the bad stuff about religion. Now I’ve gone all the way. Now I’m truly brave.

Not that I’m feeling totally comfortable with my new bravery. I see certain looks on people’s faces after I’ve come out – those shifty eyes and uncertain careful voices. People betray alot with body language and facial expressions. I imagine I do, too. I can’t see myself but sometimes I catch my own reflection in others’ reaction. I could be happier if I was dumb and dumber. Ah, you can’t have everything in this world.

If you’ve caught a whisper of sarcasm and bitterness in my words, you got it. I am feeling that. It is my own sarcasm and bitterness, not directed at anyone else. There’s no harm in acknowledging my own feelings. The harm comes from holding them in and squishing them in my own body. There is nothing wrong with not celebrating Christmas. It is not a Chinese tradition though we’ve adopted it over the years. It’s truly a Charlie Brown kind of Christmas and not authenitically ours. I’ve felt like an imposter all these years.

If Christmas is about peace, goodwill and love towards all, I’m all for it. It should be celebrated every day. But do we need all the trappings? If you love ‘all that is Christmas’, it is okay with me, too. I have no objections to how others’ celebrate. I respect that. But the controversies and arguments about Christmas have killed some of that joy for me. That is not to say that I am a total joyless heathen. There is a tiny spark of hope for joy in me. I will bring out my own Bodhi tree. Sheba and I found it in the park last year. I had to fight her for it. There’s history here. It was already dead and no chopping down necessary. We didn’t pay any money for it either. Measuring up is not in our vocabulary.

 

 

50 SHADES OF SEEING TRUTHS

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Egad, it is 11:21 already! The morning flew away on me. Too much wondering and fretting about this and that. I wasn’t going to do that anymore, right? Things are not as easy as you think. People are not who you think they are. It’s ok. I’m just muttering, my preamble into the words. I don’t mean any of it. I am happy to be here. In My Writing Space, I am the star. No one interrupts me. No one contradicts me. I like it.

I think I’ve lost my writing mojo. I feel staid, stale to be exact. I’ve lost my fire, my disagreeable self, the wringing of hands and heart. I try to be careful not to step on toes, doing and saying the proper things. Because life gets tiresome trying to be just yourself, it is easier to be agreeable or silent. Maybe there’s no more words to be said. I’ve been listening to Dr. Phil’s rant too much. ‘Do you want to be happy or do you want to be right?’ I want both.

I know this interlude won’t last forever. I’m sure I will return to ranting soon. I am who I am. I might as well enjoy my peace and get a few things done. Enjoy and live every moment! I hate mottos, don’t you? See! My sarcasm has returned. We can’t help being who we are. I do try. It’s another reason I come here to tap. I try to tap out my bad thoughts, emotions. I put them on the page so I can examine them, turn them inside out, upside down, backwards and frontward. Are they true or are they just about me? Will they help or hurt me? Will they hurt another? These are the questions I ask before I hit the PUBLISH button. I know. I think and worry too much.

In essence, I am not really brave as some people have told me. I am being me, yes, but I try to make sure it is all about me and not about others. I have slipped from time to time. What can I do? I am human. I err. While I am a very honest and open person, I do know about discretion. I don’t air dirty laundry, mine or others. Sometimes I am too honest, blurting out truths. You know how that happens. It wouldn’t hurt to hold back by being silent. Mum is a good word.

Day 3

George Washington might have fessed up about the cherry tree but I wonder what Martha would have to say about him. Honest Abe was known for his honesty, but had he been totally truthful? He was a politician after all. Things are never black and white. That’s what they tell me. I see my truths in startling stark black and white. I’m trying to learn about the 50 shades of grey. That’s why I paint. I’m exploring the many shades of being artistic. I think I am making some progress. Do you think I have some potential?

 

TORN BETWEEN DECISIONS

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It’s 2:55 pm and I’ve just sat down. 5 minutes before Sheba’s supper hour, 5 minutes to have a bit of fun with disciplining and waiting. She does a sit and down beautifully. I give her praise and talk. She’s bobs up like a Jack-in-the box. I thought it best if we just do and down and stay with no talk. We did a companiable look into each other’s eyes until the eating hour. Then it’s tossing and squeaking that damn chicken with her before I can have some peace and tapping time.

Life is full, complex and perplexing. I look forward to my Saturday morning swim all week. When the time came, I was torn wanting to stay at home with my tea and book instead of heading out in almost complete darkness. Getting into the water is not very appealing on a dark winter’s morning. Neither choice is bad. I made up my mind that I was not going to feel guilty whichever one I decided on. I was not going to suffer the guilt. Because what would be the point of that?

Being that I swim only once a week on Saturdays and that it was the best possible time decided for me. I stopped thinking, packed my bag and went out the door. Everything is easier when you stop going back and forth. It doesn’t matter which choice. Just choose one and enjoy. Many times this past week, I’ve caught myself agonizing over small decisions. Then I fret the guilts following such decisions. When the truth is It Really Doesn’t Matter. The world is not going to collapse because I did/said one thing instead of another. The only one to suffer would be me.

I’ve suffered through many such moments of stupidity. They have spoiled good times. They have distracted me to no ends with useless intruding thoughts and guilt. Oh, why did I say that? Why did I do that? I shouldn’t have. I could’ve. The litany of self admonishment ran endlessly through my head. They would have rendered me deaf and sightless to whatever was going around me. In other words, I would be lost to the world.

I console myself for having recognized my behaviour. Now I can try to change some of that. It won’t be easy, I know, but now that the light bulb is lit, I can’t hide in the dark. I wouldn’t want to. I can slowly inch towards the light. No one need to know that I trash myself over and over. I don’t need to announce my shortcomings. There’s no need to toot my horn either. I will not gnash my teeth at my failures or gloat over successes.

The day is coming to an end. I need to give it a rest. Some days are better than others. Some words are better than others. Tomorrow is another day.

CLICKASNAP, SHEBA AND MR. SCROOGE

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A full stomach and sunshine makes me satisfied and sleepy. Somebody else is that way, too. Sheba is curled up peacefully on her bed. I should not speak too soon. You know how that can jinx a situation. Shhhh!

Yesterday I came upon someone’s post about Clickasnap, a photo sharing site that allows free hosting of your photos and opportunity of sharing and earning some money. It all sounds great as I have had to upgrade my free WordPress plan to a paid personal one because I ran out of storage space. Clickasnap sounded like the perfect soloution. But on second thought after reading about it, it sounded complicated to my non-techy brain. It would take me a long time to figure it out.

I will perhaps keep it in mind to investigate at my leisure. Since my plan gives me priority support, I might ask the Happiness Engineers about it. That would be time consuming, too. I really want to concentrate on my writing. My free plan lasted 5 years before I ran out of space. If I am not such a clutterbug, had organized my photos and not duplicated many of them, I am sure my storage space would be fine. It pays to be more organized. I will not fret about it. $5/month will help keep me in line. I will be watching my GBs closely and editing and labelling photos.

The furry monster has woken and has ears on back of her head. She hears people on the street from the back of the house. She can hear me peel a banana in another room. She barks alot and loudly. We have another hour to go before her supper. We’ll see how patient and consistent we are today. I have the kettle on for another cup of tea. Somehow that always help. It’s better than lighting up another cigarette like the olden days.

We are making good progress. Sheba knows the drill now. She is whimpering softly but she is obediently doing her ‘down.’  She is very cute and causes me to smile with her little whimper. It is hard to resist her but I do. I know she is not that hungry. Only 3 more minutes before chow time. She gives another little whimper.

So it goes. 3:00 pm. She forgets herself and rushes at the bowl. I almost forgot, too but admonishes her. She sits back and waits till I’m finished pouring her kibbles and gives her ‘okay’. See how easily things can slide back if you are not paying attention?

It is the first of December. I have been thinking about Christmas. I have done away with the gifting part of it. How will I celebrate it? How can I make it meaningful and joyous? And exactly what is its true meaning? We talk so much about it. We talk a lot about simplifying but often it ends up more complicated. I wonder, too, how my ungifting Christmas will affect my family. I like to think that it is just about me, but it does affect others. It’s that pebble casting ripples through the universe. Christmas is not where I want that effect to work. I do not want to be the Scrooge who ruins everyone’s Christmas. But to be authentic, you have to be brave and do what you say you want. I’m doing it.

Now it is time for our walk.