My Circles of Life

Indalo Man Ring

Circles. Round bits of metal and gemstones. Promise rings. Engagement rings. Wedding rings. Broken circles. Broken promises. What about these meaningless, yet oh so meaningful bits of adornment worn upon our left hand ring fingers?

By now, these rings have piled up; their stories embedded in their hard tiny O-shapes. I still have the first ring given to me by a boy. It won't slide past my baby finger knuckle now. The pale pastel opal set in white gold seems faded and insignificant, not unlike the memories of that relationship. The insignificance only in relation to the brief two years of our coupling, not in reference to what it meant at the time. You know, that early "real" relationship with all of its firsts. I recall how much I treasured that token of his love. It announced I was part of a duo. I was unavailable. Taken. It is the ring that symbolizes the starting point in my journey of love and loss. My first heartbreak.

The next ring I wanted never materialized. I loved him more than he loved me and I wanted a ring from him but he never gave me one. That wished for confirmation that never found a home on my hand probably taught me more about love than I realized at the time. I knew the relationship was one-sided and a ring would not have balanced anything. It would have been a meaningless gesture, so just as well he did not bestow a trinket of what would have amounted to false hope. I had no band of silver or gold to prove to the world I was loved, because I wasn't. I gave him my heart when all he wanted was the body that held it.

A rolling ring came next. It was a knock-off the the infamous Cartier Rolling Ring. Three bands of
white, pink and yellow gold, intertwined. It was a playful ring. It slid on and off my married ring finger like silken metal against my skin. It was somewhat unique and all we could afford. We were fresh out of university and struggling to make a start in life. I was happy with these simple bands of hope and promise. It never occurred to me at the time how the ease of slipping off my finger foreshadowed his ease of slipping out of our marriage bed. In fact, I had a warning shot early on when it slid off my finger into a lake while we swam. I watched with horror as it disappeared into the black-bottomed depths of that cottage country fresh water lake just as I listened with horror two years later to the sound of him making love to another woman from the other side of the bedroom door. The replacement ring rolled off my finger for good that day along with him. I should have known neither was a tight fit.

My next ring was larger than life. When asked if I wanted a big ring, I was honest this time. YES! We had a ring designed to reflect my artsy self-image. It was unlike any traditional wedding ring. No pair of rings for me. I wanted one big knuckle-duster with presence and impact. I loved that ring. I still love that ring. It was an original. The design was modern; a combination of white and yellow gold, a large central Cabochon Amethyst flanked by high quality quarter carat diamonds sitting high up on my finger never failed to please my eye. It spoke volumes. It screamed status. It spelled creativity. It was soooo me. Or so I thought. For many years it fit perfectly. Just the right amount of snug. Not long after I got it, I became a bit disappointed with how the amethyst became scratched. The once shiny surface was marred and dull. I kept meaning to have it reset and re-polished, but never got around to the task. I lived with the flaws. After about 18 years, it became loose on my finger, sometimes even falling off if I wasn't careful. It started to seem clunky and annoying almost. It was too big for my ring finger but still too small for my "fuck you" finger. It had lost its fit. I still loved the ring, but I didn't love it on me any longer. The ring, like my marriage had run its course. The flaws were too deeply embedded. A jeweller told me he would have to remove the amethyst and sand the stone so severely to fix it that it would not fit in the original setting. He told me I would be better off replacing the stone altogether. It sits in a safe now and I take it out from time to time to admire it and remember our time together and the important milestones we shared.

A ringless period followed. My finger felt naked and vulnerable for a time. I was single. Available. Untaken. At first it felt scary. I was a bit lost. My identity was shaky. I felt eyes upon me. A glance at my empty ring finger from a stranger was noticed. I wanted to hide my single status one day, then wave it about like a victory flag the next. It was unpredictable. Was I ashamed of being single in my fifties? Was I so identified with being a Mrs. that I did not know who I was without that title? As time passed it became easier and I noticed it less, until it mattered not.

I am wearing a new ring now. A new old ring. It is a reproduction of a silver pinky ring I had bought for myself in Spain in 1977. I gave that ring to a boy I cared about in 1979. It was a symbolic gesture at the time. The ring is the image of Indalo Man. It is a stick figure of a man holding a rainbow over his head. It is considered good luck to the person who receives it. There are many meanings attributed to the symbol including new beginnings. When I gave away my original ring I told this boy that Canada was at one end of the rainbow and Australia was at the other and maybe one day we would meet again somewhere along that rainbow. He kept this ring in a box for the next 32 years. When we reconnected in 2011, I asked him if he still had the ring and he said, "Of course I do." He had this ring remade for me in gold and had a diamond set as the head of the Indalo Man. It is not a wedding ring. We are not married. It is a symbol of our connection; our history and our new beginning. It feels light on my finger. Not cumbersome. Comfortable. I wear it on my left pinky finger, just close enough to my ring finger to remind me of our bond but far enough away to remind me I am not just a Mrs.

Have I come full circle? So it would seem.

Original Indalo Man Ring

Engage! Engage!

It Will Be

I used to think

every action

each encounter

any conversation

would repeat 

sometime

somewhere

surely

Youthful naivety

worn like a shroud

Surely became

maybe

or... likely

the thinning shroud

of mid-life

But time

does not heed

snooze buttons

and pressing pause

is impossible

So now

I don't think.

I know.

every action

each encounter

any conversation

could be the last

as my shroud 

in near tatters

warns

Could 

has turned to...will

when every action

each encounter

any conversation

will be remembered

as the last

by someone

not me

The threads of the shroud

hover, cloud-like

beneath my feet

carrying me now

constant reminders

Engage!

Engage!

they cry

in every action

each encounter

any conversation

Like it will be

the last.

Don't Judge a Tree by its Trunk

As I meandered along on my daily walk this  morning, it occurred to me that tree trunks came in a huge variety of shapes and sizes. There were fat bulbous trunks, gnarly peeling trunks, spotted trunks, scaly trunks, smooth trunks and crooked trunks. This assortment of trunks makes for lots of visual interest and makes the natural world around us an ever-changing collage of colour and texture.

It got me to thinking how we embrace this individuality in nature and how boring it would be if every tree trunk looked exactly like the next. Why then, I wondered do so many of us struggle with embracing these exact qualities in humans? If everything is energy and everything is connected and we truly are all one, why would we judge our fellow man/woman based on their skin colour or age or size? How did racism and discrimination come to be? Where did the human race veer off track? When did we start judging the world around us based on visual attributes?

As these thoughts continued to swirl around in my head as I rhythmically placed one foot in front of the other dreaming of the day that all this walking might one day lead to smaller thighs and calves (so I could be like the fashion models we are supposed to look like and worthy of praise), I came upon a terrible sight. A few paces ahead of me I noticed a large bird laying on the side of the road. It was not moving, clearly dead. As I got closer, I felt my chest tighten and my heart skip a beat as I realized it was one of my favourite species...a Kookaburra. He had likely swooped too low and was not fast enough to avoid an oncoming car. I felt sick. I never like to see dead birds or animals on the road and this one was particularly upsetting as I love them so.

This led me to think about how the death of this Kookaburra had a far more powerful impact on me than had it been (in my mind) a lesser bird. If it had been an ordinary pigeon or a crow or a bird that I am not so fond of, would I have felt as sad?  This of course begged the question - Why had I created a hierarchy of birds in my mind? A similar feeling had washed over me a few weeks earlier when I watched as an oncoming truck hit and killed a Rainbow Lorikeet, another bird I find beautiful. When did this way of looking at the world around me become so ingrained? Why were beautiful birds more important than ugly birds? 

How does prejudice incubate? We are all aware that it is learned. I get that. But when did it begin? What moment in our ancient past did it happen for the first time? Did one cave man just decide one day that he was better than the Neanderthal standing next to him because he had some feature he decided was somehow better than his fellow cave dweller? Perhaps he was a more successful hunter. That would make sense I suppose. But what turned his superior skill into something that put him ahead of his mates versus just a skill he could simply share and therefore give back and contribute to his tribe? He could be the good hunter and another dude could be a good fisherman and another could be good at making weapons and so on and so on. When did they start placing higher values on certain skills? 

Are we just innately selfish, self-serving beings? Is the survival instinct so deeply ingrained that we will do anything to make our own individual lives easier at the expense of anyone or anything that gets in our way? That could be forgiven in our Paleolithic past perhaps, but surely we have evolved. Or have we? (My mind does pawnder (ponder while walking).)

But back to the trunks and the birds. Is the leap from what is seemingly inanimate (the trunks) to the visibly alive (the birds) as it moves and makes noise, where we start to discriminate? Before anyone ever told me that one bird was more beautiful than another, did I love all birds equally? I wish I could remember. I imagine that as soon as I began to understand language, I began to hear and learn what was considered more beautiful. My mother would have taught me that one girl was prettier than another and one bird was more prized than another and one religion was superior than another.  So children grow up believing what they are taught in those early years until they start to question everything...even their parent's teachings. Or at least we like to think this is what happens. But sometimes they don't. They don't question what they were taught. I actually knew a girl growing up who believed that Hitler was really a pretty good guy. Her German parents told her that and she never questioned it even as an adult. Scary shit.

I would like to believe that for the most part, my generation of baby boomers, have done a much better job of teaching our children about racial equality and embracing their own unique selves despite what they are bombarded with in the media, but I think we still have a long way to go and a generation or two to finally reach a place of complete acceptance and tolerance. That prediction is probably a bit naive, but I am hopeful. 

In the meantime, I am going to try to find the beauty in all living creatures...even the less colourful ones.

Ending and Beginning

The view from my future house

Today was an ending and a beginning for me. As I mentioned earlier this month,  I had signed up for a 30 day writing marathon. It was called Writing Yourself Alive (WYA). Initially I wasn't sure what to expect. Was it going to help me get unblocked? Would it be a quality program or was it just an Internet money grab? Would I stick with it? Would I get any credible feedback on my submissions? Yadda. Yadda. Yadda. I decided to throw caution to the wind and go for it. The timing was right as we are in the midst of one of the hottest summers on record here in Queensland and who wants to go outside anyway? May as well hole up inside and write. 

So that is what I have been doing. Writing. Writing, and more writing. I wrote in the morning. I wrote in the afternoon. I wrote at night. I wrote at the kitchen table, on the sofa or at my desk. I thought about my neglected blog but did not think all that much about my neglected chores. I "dug deeper" and responded to "prompts" and shared my work with other writers in the "writer's lounge".  I made new cyber-friends. I read their work. They read mine. I laughed and cried and spilled my guts and deepest darkest secrets and fears on our "members only" Facebook page and the course website sharing space. It was easy. It was hard. It was therapeutic. It was magical. It was nourishing. It was more than I hoped it would be. It was a joy.

So, now what? Well, that's where the beginning part comes in. Apparently it takes 28 days to cement a new habit. It worked. With 30 consecutive days of daily devotion to my writing under my belt, I feel ready to tackle the big job. The job I have been procrastinating, putting off, half-assed attempting, three steps forwarding and two steps backwarding for so long. I am dedicating the next year to my book. I am giving myself a deadline. By March 1, 2017, I will have a completed manuscript. Sooner if I can. Call me crazy, call me a wishful thinker, call me whatever you like, just don't call me when I am in process!

I have set my intention. Our final prompt for the program was to write a letter to ourselves from the future, five years from now. A written image board of sorts. I will share my letter here with you all, with the universe, and for the record. 

Cue...2021.

Hey Deb!

Yo! Over here! It’s me – 2021! You made it kiddo! Look here! Yeah, that’s you sitting at that table. That’s you at a book signing. I just went outside the shop and there is a line-up half way down the block. Not bad for a first effort, I must say. I told you all along, you just needed to believe it yourself. You had a story to share and all these women here Deb, they relate. They saw something of themselves in your story and it gives them hope. That WYA group was a genuine catalyst. I knew you would figure out a way to do this. To tell your story without hurting anyone. I always said, where there’s a will, there’s a way. Didn’t I? Didn’t I?

Okay, okay, I will lay off the I told you so’s. But seriously Deb, it was you who did it. Sure, I nudged you along a little. I hovered out here, five years down the road and you started to image me. The picture became clearer and clearer with each chapter you completed. You started to see the finish line, your photo on the dust jacket, the book signings, the interviews. And how about those residuals? Ya gotta love those deposits from your publisher every month. Oh, and check this out Deb. This morning’s New York Times. You made it! Number 3 and climbing. Why, I bet you will hit number one by the end of the month.

And look here. Your book club gals are reading your book this month. They are so proud of you Deb. They knew you could do it. Let me tell you something on the down low Deb. Shhhh! Lean in. I am not supposed to go beyond today, but between you and me, next month you are going to surprise them all with tickets to come to Australia for an all- expense paid trip to help celebrate your success. They are never going to forget this Deb. You are going to have such an awesome time hosting them at your new house – that waterfront home you have always dreamed of is finally a reality. I see at least two more books emerging from that place Deb. I love the way you positioned your desk to take in that panoramic ocean view and the way you can hear the waves crashing on the boulders down below the cliffside when you throw open the floor to ceiling sliders. I love how stoked you get when you write during the full moon. You are so inspired by the moonlight reflecting on the waves.

Oh, and get this – you and Emma are working on a screenplay of the book. Her film studies have really paid off. While you two are busy doing that, Steve is creating the most awesome one of a kind tables in the studio behind the house. He is in his element creating “furniture as art” and you are at the top of your creative game. It’s just how you always imagined it Deb. You are doing what you love with the people you love around you. Does it get any freaking better? I don’t think so darlin…I don’t think so.

Cheers and see you in 5,

2021 xoxo

This just happened this morning, two days after writing this blog entry. I just had to share it, since it will be a part of the book. I don't want to give too much away at this point as a book sometimes has a mind of it's own, but I will address the magic and importance of "intuition" and "subliminal messaging" that we all have access to but often ignore. I set out on my walk this morning as usual and I normally take one of two routes, but felt powerfully drawn to take a street I rarely walk down. I just listened to my gut and went with it. I always reckon these things happen for a reason. I got about 20 metres down the road and happened to glance down at my feet and there was a small pale blue sticker - the number 5, laying on the pavement. There was nothing else around it. Just this lone number sticker. I walked by it initially, before realizing it was a message meant for me. I spun around and walked back and took this photo. See you in 5. Indeed.

Today's Assignment - Create New Words

I had some fun with this one. It was a light-hearted break from some of the more serious subjects we have been writing about in my 30 Day Writing Marathon.  Feel free to add some other  "gasms" in the Comments.

Designgasm – the overwhelming excitement you experience when you see a perfect room, or house or shoe

Foodgasm – the moment your tastebuds cry out “more, more, Oh my GOD, MORE!” (often involves chocolate)

Scalegasm – the fist-pumping joy you feel when you step on the scale and are down 5 lbs without even trying

Bookgasm – when you close an incredible book you just read, pause, and let it melt into your memory and sigh

Eargasm – when you hear a song or piece of music that moves you to tears (because it is good)

Composigasm – when a writer strings together what he/she considers a perfect sentence, analogy or metaphor and reads it over and over and over again basking in their own brilliance. (sometimes followed by a cigarette)

I Want....

I also want to read this book again.

Today's Writing Marathon prompt was to write a poem where each stanza started with the words, "I want".

I wrote this pretty quickly and the truth is, I could add many more "I wants", but these were the wants that sprang to mind right away.

I Want

I want to move forward
and stop looking back
quit changing direction
focus my track

I want people to see 

beyond acquiring things 

know happiness is not 

owning fat diamond rings 

I want deeper connection 

more face to face talk 

less cell phone obsession 

more time for a walk 

I want meaningful sharing 

my soul being fed 

not dead boring small talk 

that leaves things unsaid 

I want to live in a world 

where the spiritually depleted 

wake up one fine morning 

feeling joy, not defeated 

I want to see my girl’s life 

flourish and grow 

watch her follow her dreams 

don’t let them go 

I want just one more thing 

to hear people say, 

Have you read her book yet? 

Go read it today! 

(Had to throw in that last verse to lighten this wish list up a bit!) :-) 

Yabbies for Breakfast Anyone?

So, imagine this. It's about 6:30 am. I am about a block from home, heading back after my early morning walk. It's already starting to heat up here in Queensland. If I don't go by 5:30 or 6:00 at the latest, it becomes too uncomfortable. The combination of the humidity and the seering sunshine just hurts this Canadian gal's skin way too much.

I notice about halfway up the block a young boy emerging from the drive of his house. He is shirtless, barefoot, about 9, maybe 10 years old. I watch as he makes his way across the street to the corner where his mate or brother (not sure which) is standing waist deep in the storm drain on the road. He has lifted the heavy cast iron grate off and it is leaning against the curb. I cannot hear their conversation yet, but as I get closer, I can see that the kid in the sewer drain is about the same age, also shirtless and he is using a small net with a short handle and he is scooping guck and slime and gross sludge about 2 cups at a time and emptying it on the concrete next to the hole.

The two of them then sift through this disgusting sludge with their bare hands and are pulling the odd "treasure" out of the glup. My first thought is, "isn't this a bit dangerous.? What could they possibly be looking for and where is their mother?" Initially, I figured I would just keep walking past them, leaving them to their search, but my curiosity got the best of me, so I stopped and asked them if they had  lost something.

They looked up at me and the one in the hole says, "I lost two dollars in here the other day." Now that I am standing right over them, I see there is a secondary prize being found. He has collected at least 4-5 small creatures that look a bit like a small crab. "Eeewww, what are those?", I ask. "Yabbies," says the kid in the hole like I must be a complete idiot for not knowing. I ask him what they do with them. "Do you use them for fishing bait?" The kid on the street says, "yeah, you can use them for fishing." "Aaahh,  I see", I say trying not to be grossed out by their grubby, slime covered fingers as they grasp the wriggly crustaceans up for me to examine. I see they have not found their gold coin however and as I am about to leave them to their hunt, the kid in the hole, looking as feral as a character from Les Miserables shouts after me, "I'll eat one if you dare me!"

I gotta tell ya, the mere fact that this kid was willing to pop one of those filth covered yabbies in his mouth was as horrific to me as it would have been if he actually did it. I assured him I did not need to see him eat a yabby from the storm drain and he seemed disappointed that I didn't egg him on. He shouted out, "have a nice day" as politely as would be expected from an urchin standing in a pool of black goo at 6:30 am., and as I turned the corner toward my street, I looked back and saw they had continued their mission, unphased by the likes of me. Part of me wanted to give them each a 2 dollar coin just to get them out of the hole, but I reckon that would have ruined the fun.

Just another day here in my hood. In Maryborough. In Queensland. In Australia.

A Letter to my Muse

I had fun with this assignment today. It was a writing prompt on Day 17 of my 30 Day Writing Marathon. We were to write a letter to our Muse, AKA, our inspiration. This was mine.

Dearest M,

Please forgive me for ignoring you. I want to drop everything when you come around, but sometimes it is just not possible. It does not mean that you are not precious to me. Please don’t for a minute think that I don’t appreciate you. I do. I truly do. You are my moment of brilliance, my shining star, my guiding light. You make everything flow and flower and flourish. You shower me with metaphors and analogies and illiterations. I owe you so much.

It’s just that I am annoyed when you show up at inopportune times. We really have to talk about the 3 am. visits. Give me a break. I need my sleep. You know I am a morning person. Are you mad at me for giving up our wine? I know you used to enjoy that. We did seem to come up with some great material after a couple of glasses of Shiraz. I did mention that I was having some digestive issues, right? The wine is off the menu for awhile M. You’re not alone, I miss it too. We had some really crazy ideas some nights, didn’t we? Funny though, looking back at what we wrote, it wasn’t as stellar as we thought it was at the time, was it? It was pretty good, but nothing earth shattering.

Also, I know you have asked me in the past to write down the ideas you feed me. I realize I have become a little forgetful over the years. But seriously, it’s not always convenient. Could you do me a favour and stop showing up while I am driving? It’s very distracting. Sometimes I get home and can hardly remember how I got there. Your’re like a rambunctious puppy when it comes to car rides. You just love nothing more than sitting shotgun with your head out the window, tongue hanging out, wind whistling in your ears. I get it. It is one of your favourite times to appear. Just remember, I need to be concentrating on driving, not on you and another one of your crazy notions.

Did I just hurt your feelings? Please don’t take it that way. I love you M. You just need to consider me a little more. Can we schedule you in perhaps? Make a date? Could you do that? Could you adhere to a schedule? Is that asking too much? Does that spoil the spontaneity for you? Does that seem too robotic for you? I know the answers already. Yes, no, no, no, no. yes and yes. Okay, so it looks like I am the one who will need to adapt to your schedule. I try you know. I really do try. You are everything to me. You do know that, don’t you? Without you I would be empty. My life would be meaningless. Shit, I just heard Sam Smith singing and the radio is off. “Oh, won’t you stay with me?, ‘Cause you’re all I need.”

But wait, isn’t that a song about one night stands? That’s not about us. Although, I must tell you that when you disappear for days at a time, I wonder if you really do care about me. Please stop doing that. We’ve been together for long enough now, that I do trust you will always come back, but even I can get insecure when you are gone for too long.

I do have one rather large favour to ask of you M. Could you send me a sign? You know I am struggling with which direction to take with this novel. Should I focus on the actual story verbatim or should I turn it into more of a spiriitual, self/help guide? I’m a bit lost and confused. Step in would you? Yank my reins a bit. Push me one way or the other. I will be waiting for your guidance.

Yours,
Forever and ever,

Deb xoxo 

Writing Myself Alive

Where I wish I could be writing. The Red Cottage on Mabel Lake

Figured I might hop on my blog here today and let my loyal readers know why they are not seeing much from me these days. I have joined a 30 day Writing Marathon to kick start my creative juices and get over some writer's block that has taken hold lately.

The good news is, I am really enjoying the process and the program is really getting me deeper into my passion which you all know is the written word. The program requires accountability and writing exercises that are stretching me in different directions and just generally making me commit more time to my novel.  Today, one of the prompts was to summarize your creative path and growth to date.  I will share what I wrote with you and perhaps a few other snippets  as I move through the marathon. Most of you are aware of most of this already, but others may not know me as intimately. I give you Day 11.

Dig Deeper…Day 10…recall your artistic growth/path 

Colouring. It all started with colouring. Brightly coloured construction paper and fat Crayolas in Kindergarten. These brought me joy. This was followed by the primitive musical instruments that we would clang together like an untrained chaotic orchestra. But the teacher would really up the creative ante when she would say, OK, today boys and girls, I would like you to write a poem." That was the real music to my ears. Rhyming words. Roses are red, violets are blue, pass me a pencil, I’ll parlez-vous. For a shy, dreamy little girl, poetry was my Nirvana. There was something about the focused searching for the right words, the rhyming words that would still convey the context of the story being told in the poem that truly could engage me for hours. 

Later on it was word puzzles. I couldn’t wait for the Saturday paper to land on the front porch so I could grab the giant Word Find and then when I got a little older, it was the weekend Crossword. It was a great brain workout that didn’t seem like work to me. It also helped earn me A’s in spelling. In seventh grade, I summoned up the courage to submit one of my poems to the annual school yearbook for publication, not knowing if it would actually end up making it into the Poetry Section. I wasn’t even sure if I really wanted it to appear, as it was an angst filled sonnet of pre-teen heartbreak. When it did get printed for the whole school to see, I realized the incredible light it shone on my already shaky vulnerability and I was embarrassed and regretted sharing something so personal. It was the end of my poetry career, publicly anyway. 

I continued to write poems and love letters and journals for years. Years later when I was not accepted into one of Canada’s top Journalism schools, it was my skill as a letter writer and journal writer that helped me turn that “decline” letter to an “accepted” letter after refusing to accept their decline decision. I called the chairman of the department and begged for a face to face interview. An appointment was made and I pleaded my case and convinced them that I would show them what a great reporter I could be even though I had never worked on my high school paper. (that was pretty much a prerequisite for entry at the time) What I had done, was set off to see the world after high school and I had what could only be defined as “street smarts” and had recorded my adventures in journals. I was accepted as a “mature student” at 24. 

It was there, in my years at Ryerson’s Journalism school that I developed another love. Photography. It was part of the curriculum to be able to wield a camera. so I turned my focus to photojournalism. I could already write. This was exciting and new. I wanted to turn it into a career, but as fate would have it, I ended up taking a job in PR after graduation and I wrote advertising copy and public relations materials and put the silly notion of becoming a photojournalist or reporter behind me. There were few jobs in my field at the time and they went to the superstars of the program, not me. 

Over the next decade I made the mistake of working for money versus doing what I loved. I got married, had a child, stayed at home and went back to colouring with my toddler.  And decorating my house. I was bored. I went back to school to get some accreditation for my decorating and studied at night for 3 years. I started my own interior decorating business and it worked for me for another decade until I got fed up with the design world. I still enjoyed the field, but didn’t want to work for other people any longer. I missed writing. I knew I had to return to my passions. I read a quote – I forget who said it, but it was simply…“If you want to be a writer, start writing.” 

I launched my blog shortly after I read that. I had no idea what I wanted to write about, but I stopped worrying about all that and just started writing again. Since 2009 I have kept my blog going. It is not a money earner and I don’t care about that. It is simply a place for me to write. A place that I go to hone my skills, pour my heart out, rant, rave and ponder. Sometimes I even write poetry. I do whatever the hell I feel like doing there and it has been a wonderful tool for examining my life, commenting on the world, expressing my creativity and simply stringing words together to form some meaning to myself and others. It is something I do for the sheer love of doing it. And that has been enough until now. Joining this 30 day marathon is my next step. Not sure where it is leading, but I am enjoying the ride. 

Best Original Screenplay

My image board-made this in 2011

Wow! Before I start thanking everyone, let me just say this - image boards work! (audience chuckles). Secondly, all you bloggers out there, persevere, keep writing. Even if I never ended up standing here tonight, my blog was always a place to go to express myself. It is a creative adventure that has fed me for years...and that alone is worth the effort to keep it going. Some people paint or sing or dance - I blog.

This screenplay would never have manifested without the characters in the story and since this is a true story, I want to thank all of you, especially my sweet daughter and my Mick for filling my life with the only thing that matters - love. (camera pans to Steve and Emma sitting next to each other in the audience-they are smiling and I make tear-filled eye contact with them). 

Thank you John Madden, your genius direction made my story unfold truthfully and authentically...so grateful you "got" me. Thank you to Drew Barrymore for recognizing a love story that needed to be told. Thank you to the awesome cast - Rachel, Bruce, Richard - all of you! Thank you to the Academy for voting with your heart.

And last but not least, I thank the great poet Rumi whose words lifted me through my most difficult days and pushed me to face my fears and follow my intuition and listen to my gut. "Gamble everything for love or leave this gathering.  There is some kiss we want with our whole lives." 

That was fun. Have you ever imagined your acceptance speech if you won an Oscar? This is the first time I ever actually wrote it down. 

Now I need to write the damn screenplay. 

Right after I figure out what I am going to wear to the ceremony. 

:-)

Be like Casey

Not all "aha" moments are minor epiphanies. At least that has been my experience. It's great when they are, but yesterday I had one that was more like a kick in the gut or a slap in the face or more accurately the "holy fuck, I just noticed a grey pubic hair" moment.

So I have spent the last few days watching the Australian Open tennis and as much as I love tennis, watching the pros is always a reminder that I am no longer twenty-something or thirty-something or even forty-something and I am never going to hoist a trophy before the throngs and cameras at Rod Laver Stadium or Wimbledon or even my local tennis club. Those days are behind me. I will keep playing until my body won't allow it anymore and that is a good thing and I will make the occasional  shot that gives me a glimpse of what could have been but I will never be the subject of a wikipedia page citing my career hi-lights and stats and details of my personal life that I likely would prefer remain private.

Now, I am a realist and I am well aware that even if I had grown up with parents who had pushed me, or parents who were rich enough to hire coaches and send me to training camps, or parents who even noticed that I was a wee bit athletic and encouraged me I still may not have succeeded like thousands of other hopeful young athletes, but I often do imagine..."what if"? This is not a blaming or shaming thing either. Who knows? Even if they had cracked that whip, maybe I would have rebelled and said screw you, I don't want to work that hard. I would rather hang with my friends and smoke cigarettes behind the school gym. It takes more than just a push from mummsie and poppsie to turn out a star athlete. The kid has to want it too. It's easy to look back and think would've could've, should've, but as the saying goes, "don't look back, you're not going that way".

These are not thoughts I tend to dwell on. I accept that it is too late in life to turn tennis into a career and am happy to be able to still play doubles with the ladies 2-3 times a week. It's fun. It's social and it gets my body moving. Sometimes it moves parts of my body beyond what is comfortable and I wince or limp around for a few days, but that comes with the territory. Heal and get on with it. The alternative of not playing anymore is more painful as it is always a great spirit booster as well.

Enough about tennis. Back to the "aha" moment. I suppose it may have been even more impactful because of the young tennis players in my aging face all weekend but this is what happened. I was scrolling through my FB feed and came across a video of a couple of young dudes who decided to take advantage of the snow in Manhattan to make a video of themselves being towed through the streets by a rope attached to an SUV on snowboards. This is the sort of youthful shenanigan that "old" people might scoff at as dangerous or foolish or irresponsible but I thought it was brilliant. 

The clip had already been viewed by over 27 million people. Of course it had. It was Casey Neistat. If you don't know Casey by now, you will one day. It is inevitable. Until yesterday, my knowledge of Casey was limited. I had heard him interviewed by one of my other favourite success stories, Rich Roll and I followed him on Instagram, but this latest video made me dig a bit deeper. Who the hell was this guy anyway? As I sat on my sofa, reading through his Wikipedia profile, awestruck by his achievements in his life thus far (he is 34), now I was really impressed. I thought he was just some other "one hit wonder internet sensation", but now I see how wrong I was. This is a guy who dropped out of school at 15, lived in a trailer park, on welfare with his girlfriend and their son from 17-20 and then all that changed when he moved to NYC. He has worked as a dishwasher, a short order cook and a bike messenger. Now he has over a million YouTube subscribers, is co-founder of a social media company called Beme, is a film director, film producer and Vlogger. Geez Casey, maybe you should get a life. 

And that is when I had my "grey pubic hair" moment. Fuck. I have been sitting on the sidelines my whole life. This is how it is done. This is the kind of creative fearlessness I have always wished I possessed. (I know, I do possess it, I just need to utilize it) This "just do it" energy that Casey oozes - that is da bomb! This guy is idolized by millions who wish to be more like him but fear holds them back. His followers on Twitter and Instagram seem to worship him. They can't wait for his next move. What will Casey wow us with today? What crazy comment or video or stunt will he hit the Internet world with tomorrow? He does not hold back. As ridiculous or useless as his ideas may seem, he throws it as us and who cares if it bombs? Tomorrow is another day and he ain't looking back. He just keeps moving forward. And that is what it is all about. So many of us get mired down in the 'what ifs?" and it paralyzes us.

So, forget about Bill. Bill is boring.

Be fearless. Be like Casey.

Better still. Be the you that is lurking and always has been.



Enjoy this video...Casey at his best!

Put on Your Red Shoes

I once served a guy a draught beer at a bar I worked at in my twenties and when I set the frothy cold glass down in front of him he gave me an unusually wide smile and held his face in that position like a mad man clearly trying to get my attention. I was slightly unnerved by his behaviour and then he ran his tongue over the tooth to the right of his two front teeth and said, "you, me, Cher and David Bowie". That's when the light came on and I realized he was referring to our "fangs".  Not exactly a fang, but a slightly crooked, protruding tooth that the four of us shared. I thought it was great that he took such a positive approach to our common flaw. Shit, if Cher and Bowie with all their money never bothered to fix their fangs, maybe it was kind of cool after all. 

Somehow knowing that even David Bowie likely got food caught in his "fang" (soft white bread comes to mind), created some sort of weird kinship between me and him thereafter. I had always liked his music, we shared the same initials and he was a Capricorn just like me, always appearing on all those "fellow Capricorn" lists that seem to pop up all the time. He probably even knew that he had to face cameras in a certain way to avoid accentuating the imperfect tooth. As I scrolled through countless photos on line of him today, I noticed that depending on the angle, his teeth either looked nearly perfect or the "fang" stood out like dog's balls. I noticed that in later photos it seems to have disappeared completely so it looks like he eventually did have it fixed (hmmm, maybe it's not too late for me either).

That however is really only a silly lead in to what I want to say today which is how profoundly sad I am that he has passed. I am no doubt not alone with these feelings and I bet there are few Bowie fans out there today who are not spinning some of his old records today. Before I sat down to write this, I did a private little tribute dance in my living room which conjured up soooo many memories of days gone by that my brain could barely slow up enough to really drink in each past moment. Bouncing up the aisle at work, dance floors all across Canada, cleaning my apartment on a Saturday afternoon, sober, drunk, you name it, I was moving my body.

I was reminded in a Facebook message from my dear old friend Heather how we loved Let's Dance, a song that we heard nearly every shift we worked together at the old Hargrave Exchange. It was on the reel to reel tape that played over and over night after night. I recall there was some criticism of Bowie going "all disco" with that song, but I loved it anyway and it always made me want to do exactly that...dance! If I was beginning to slump half way through a busy night, that song could pick me up like no other, even if I wasn't wearing red shoes.

His music has always been able to stir me emotionally. When I hear him sing Under Pressure with Freddie Mercury and he sings that last verse, something inside me feels like it is going to burst out of my chest. When music and lyrics can impact you like that, it's powerful and meaningful and important. It's art. It's poetry as therapy. 

Just as his music is loved by millions, the sadness of his death will be felt by millions more. 

So, today as he passes from Ashes to Ashes, barely making it to his Golden Years, his Fame illuminated brighter than ever, take a moment, pay tribute and listen to Heroes or Modern Love or Fashion or Changes or China Girl or Rebel Rebel - pick any song and LET'S DANCE!

My Christmas Miracle

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus and he came a little early to my house this year. There is little I can say that can convey how thrilled I am about my new kitchen, so I will let the photos speak for themselves. I still have to install the window treatment, so the window is currently bare, but I just couldn't wait to share the new space with all of you who have been following my renovation journey. 

In case you are skeptical of miracles, allow me to start with the BEFORE photo. You may change your mind. 

Kitchen BEFORE 

(not shown - a florescent overhead light-the only light)

Drum roll please.......

Flooring Detail

Pull-out Pantry (much needed)

Benchtop (countertop) Detail

This happened in six weeks. There are people to thank. Our cabinet maker, Brad Weis and his wife Sheree, who put up with my many detail changes during the planning stage and assured me the time-line was doable,  Steve's brother, Brad Shields, who is the electrical genius in the family and offered up his services at the family rate! Rob Griinke the builder who added a partition wall and seamlessly covered up all the old powerpoint holes in the walls and ceiling - I even forgive the drywall dust that still lingers! Thanks also to our very sweet and kind next door neighbour, Trudie, who provided a few home cooked dinners and volunteered to give the place a once over before I arrived home.

But most of all I want to thank my amazing, hardworking man, master of demolition, tiling, plumbing, painting and project management, Stephen Shields who managed to pull off this job in six short weeks motivated by a deadline, but more importantly, and this I know for sure, his desire to make a dream come true for me...my first ever brand new kitchen designed by both of us and inspired by our favourite kitchen at Kyeema, our Fraser Island treehouse getaway where we have cooked and shared many memorable meals.  Thank you so much my darling, my Santa, my love. 

Manufacturer Credits

Cooker - Smeg (gas cooktop, electric oven)

Dishwasher - Bosch

Fridge - Samsung

Microwave - LG

Cabinetry - B.S. Weis Cabinets

Mixer - Gessi Emporio

Sink - Oliveri

Milestones and Memories

One of my favourite mother/daughter movie scenes

from Easy A

I think typical milestones are often over rated. I know we all tend to remember the big birthdays, the weddings, the graduations and we have the photos to remind us as these are usually times when the cameras are flashing. We look back at the photos weeks , months and years later and pause and reflect. We remember the day, the weather, what we wore, who was in attendance and all those wonderful things. These are standard, typical passages of time that most of us, especially parents tend to celebrate with our kids. 

But I think there are other milestones. The less elaborate ones. Moments that become etched in our memory that are perhaps even more important in some ways. I experienced exactly such a moment this past weekend. It was the first time I witnessed my daughter in charge. For the first time in our 21 years together on this planet, it was she who took the reins. I was visiting her in her world. Her hood. She was my guide. She knew the Ottawa transit system, the names of the various neighbourhoods, the best spots for coffee, for vintage records, for bargain clothing shopping and she took me by the hand and led the way. It was a shift I will forever remember. Oddly, we did not take many photos, no selfies at all in fact. We just hung together, walked together, ate together, chilled together and neither of us felt the need to record it with our cameras. 

As you know, if you know me at all, I am a bit of a chronic capturer of images. What we did this weekend though was not all that photo worthy. It was really just memory worthy. We had a girly spa morning at the hotel. I put a colour rinse in her hair and shaped her brows. We ordered in Thai food on Saturday night and watched a movie together and laughed, a lot. We talked. We napped. We kind of just kept the schedule light and spontaneous. She got to meet an old high school girlfriend of mine and although she could have been bored with all the conversation that steadily tripped down memory lane, she was mature enough to realize that just being present and listening would likely let her in on some of her mother's past that until now she might not have known. (thank you Tracy for not telling her everything!).

I knew saying goodbye was coming this morning and I felt the emotion rising in me as early as last night. We don't have a date planned for our next visit. We won't have one planned until at least the new year and that is unsettling. The full-on Christmas decorations in the shops tugged at my heart and at least once I had to exit a shop before it became too much to bear. It is the one holiday that I find most difficult to navigate now that we are living on opposite sides of the globe. In many ways, I just wish it would disappear. There are way too many memories and far too much sentimentality attached to that time of year. I asked her if she was bothered by the fact that we would not be together again this year and as I searched her face and her eyes for any trace of emotion, she calmly told me she was not. It made me realize that it is not a problem for her, it is only a problem for me. So, if it is OK with her, maybe, just maybe, I can let go of this burden of guilt I heap upon myself every time I hear that damn Charlie Brown Christmas CD playing everywhere for what seems like the entire month of December. And, since it has always been our favourite yuletide music, maybe this year, I can listen to it and smile and think back to this past weekend and really feel OK, knowing she is perfectly OK.

That might be the second milestone of 2015.

Opening Pandora's Box

An opal ring flanked with two diamond chips. A silver palm tree charm. A vintage ivory necklace. A ruby and diamond bumble bee pin. A cabochon amethyst and diamond ring. Tiffany boxes filled with silver x's and o's. 

Jewelry I don't wear anymore. 

Jewelry that marks my relationship journey.

As I sifted through these remnants of my past last night, it took me to times and places of joy and sadness that I had not visited in awhile. These are bittersweet time travels. Recollections of happy times intertwined with heavy emotional decisions and conversations with the men who were significant in my life. Some, more so than others. 

None of the jewelry worked for me anymore. Some looked dull, some ill-fitting, some I once found beautiful, but now did not suit my tastes. I inspected each piece and recalled the moment I received it and how I felt when I wore it, before moving on to the next and the next and the next. There was a heaviness in my heart as I worked my way through this box that held these symbolic markers of my life's journey thus far. 

At the time, each piece was meaningful to me. Now, each piece is still meaningful, but in a different way.  They are reminders of who I was and where I have been and times of celebration  that I cherished before now.  As my life has changed and I have moved on, these remnants of past relationships remain. But they remain tucked away in a box, in a safe, with the bits of me that wore them then. I can't get rid of them. I don't really want to get rid of them. It would be like casting parts of myself away and even the parts that failed to succeed in love are some of the many bits that make me who I am today.

The woman that I am today is an accumulation of all those chunks of gold and silver and diamonds and gemstones that rest quietly in that box, influencing my choices and reminding me that I can and have gone on without them.

Even though they are locked away, I can always see them.

And I am grateful to have them.

There's no Place like Home, There's no Place like Home

My new flag?

I have always been a morning person but since I moved to Australia, I am even more of an early riser. It is no doubt a combination of the hot weather and the kookaburras that start their laughing around 4:15 am and the fact that the sun goes down earlier than it does in Canada in the summer. In the peak of summer here, we start tennis at 6 am and by 8 am you are feeling the sun's bite and drenched in sweat. There is no other option than to play early. If you want to do any gardening, it has to be done at the crack of dawn as well. 

After two years I am sort of into a rhythm. I rarely stay up past 10 pm. If I have had a really physically active day, I am under the covers (or laying on top of them) by 9 pm. It won't be long before I have become my parents who are in bed by 7 and up at 4 (kid you not). Maybe it has something to do with aging. Frankly, in their case, I think it is just plain crazy. But, to each his own. I have never been a fan of getting up before the sun is at least threatening to appear.

I am telling you all these riveting facts as a lead in to what I really want to say today, which is how much I am going to miss my new home over the next 6-7 weeks. I am going to miss my avian wake-up call and observing the play of light on the palm fronds out my patio window and the grazing kangaroos up at the soccer field at the end of my street. After the many challenges that changing countries has presented to me, it occurred to me this morning that I finally feel settled here in the land down under and in this quirky small town I now call home. 

However, even though this is my new home, I still call Canada my real home. I have been telling people all week that I will be gone for a few weeks. The mother/daughter team at the local Organic Patch grocery shop, my tennis ladies, my hairdresser, my neighbours, the stall holders at the weekly markets and anyone else who has gotten used to seeing me regularly. I don't want anyone to think I have disappeared and that I will be back. 

For the next few weeks, I will be deer-spotting and quail watching in B.C. and playing the role of Great Aunt Deb. After that, I will be looking out for elks and big horn sheep near Calgary and Banff with my dear friend Patti before heading east to Ontario where with any luck I will spot some brilliant red cardinals and blue jays and some pesky raccoons. The days will be shorter and colder but my heart will be warmed with many hugs and time spent with my family and cherished friends. I might even get a glimpse of that cute new PM of ours when I spend a few days in Ottawa with my girl. I wonder if there will be Trudeau groupies hanging out on Parliament Hill? Am I too old to join them? 

I have two homes now. 

It is possible to love two places at the same time.