I dash upstairs to my colleague’s office, but I’m quickly interrupted by a friend,
“How’s it going?” he asks.
“Good and you?” I reply.
I’m trying to catch my breath. Lassoing it into submission before it is noticeable to my friend. I haven’t run a marathon or have been chased by a vicious animal, and the few steps I took upstairs is hardly enough to increase my heart rate. So why the response?
As we continue the small talk, I disguise my rapid breathing by lifting my foggy eye glasses away from my mask, combing them back like a hairband. I am fully aware of the stress I am experiencing and adjust my posture to appear more relaxed and in control. (I hope it isn’t obvious to him.) We’re talking about vacations – sunshine, restaurants and natural wonders. The conversation is light-hearted and enjoyable yet I am forcing what mental capacity that is not reserved for survival to grab ahold of his words and make sense of them. It’s not that I’m not listening or that I’m bored with the topic. My mind is cloudy. I respond, spitting out words describing my vacation while my nervous system overrides any pleasure. We end the conversation after five minutes. I am exhausted and buzzing with adrenaline.
A notification that brightens a dreary October day. A click that took me to Pastern Corner Blog. A field of sunflowers and in the centre, a logo shaped like the sun reading “Sunshine Blogger Award.” A quick read and scroll down to 11 Nominees. A grin curling my lips upward with joy. I quietly say to myself, “I’ve been nominated.”
Thank you to Pastern Corner for the nomination. 💛
The Sunshine Blogger Award “is a peer recognition of the inspiring, creative and motivational work done by bloggers. It is given by bloggers to bloggers who inspire positivity and creativity in the blogging community.”
“Gentle hands,” my sister says to my nephew as she passes him a delicate angel ornament. She has been teaching him many lessons about sharing, tidying up and how to use gentle hands. Her lesson caught my attention and became a discipline I could practice in my life.
Brix is one-and-a-half years old and is a busy little guy who needs to explore everything in sight. He loves construction machinery, storybooks, all things nature and cooking in his kitchen like Mom and Dad do. When playing he literally leaves no stone unturned. He’ll empty cupboards, push over logs used as makeshift tables at my parents trailer, and look for food anywhere he can find it. My sister and brother-in-law understand the importance of teaching him how to use gentle hands – a lesson in respect for both objects, nature and in play.
When I started my blog five years ago a fellow blogger and friend gave me valuable advice. He said, “Remember that blogging is a community of writers. You need to participate in the conversations.” It was helpful advice that didn’t come naturally. At the time I was struggling to find my voice and have the courage to share my experience with potential readers. I was shy and uncertain but slowly began to participate with other writers. As I began reading, liking and following blogs from around the world, I felt connected to personal experiences around mental health and grief, and inspired by travel and nature photographs, poetry and well-being tips. August 2021 marks my five year anniversary writing with WordPress and I want to celebrate a fellow writer.
A velvety poppy red sofa (a love seat to be exact) in a brightly lit open space living room. I squeeze myself in between Grandma and Grandpa. Grandpa is on my right and Grandma on my left. She is closest to the end table dressed with odds and ends, and close enough for her to darn a rip, read the news, coupon clip or sip a small glass of water. I envision myself holding Grandpa’s hand. He is ill and I want to remember his touch. His large weathered soft hand in mine. A hand that built his home in Europe and cottage in Canada. A hand that tended to the soil, untangled necklaces, stitched small pouches and washed dishes. Nestled on the couch together we say very little and feel very much. We know this moment is precious and conversation may spoil the felt exchange. The quiet closeness comforts us. I am at peace here in this memory. I am at peace. I am loved.
In an attempt to make sense of the past, I find I am interrupting the process by having very narrow assumptions. I’ve wanted a quick resolve to my troubles, much like removing a cast from a broken arm after a few short weeks of healing. Sadly, this has not been the case. It’s been a full three years of ups and downs and I still feel like I’m only scratching the surface.
My neighbourhood has not been the same since the pandemic. Not too long ago, a quick wave from a car window on our way to and from work was all we had time for. Nowadays cars remain in the driveways, and we sport comfy joggers and uncut hair or home haircuts instead. A more relaxed and slower pace of life, along with the common concern and responsibility for the global pandemic has generated fertile soil for more meaningful conversations.
Last week while on a dog-walk, an unrecognizable car pulls up beside me and the driver rolls down her window, “My dear I haven’t seen you in a while. I was hoping to see you.” A lovely grandmother (and neighbour) who lost her dog about a year ago wanted to stop and catch up with me. She bypasses the small talk and tells me everything that has been going on in her life (tears included). I wondered why this neighbour felt so comfortable sharing such meaningful conversation with me. Could it be just the type of person she is? Or was it the fact that I listened happily to her? Maybe both?
The phrase “holding space” comes to mind when reflecting on the changing dynamics of my neighbourhood. Holding space is a way of intentionally settling into a moment and being fully present in your body and mind, and observing both your inner and outer world. Holding space also refers to making room for conversation that goes beyond talk about the weather. This phrase used by yoga instructors, online meditations, podcasts and in therapy has made it’s way into my personal practice as well as my neighbourhood.
Dinner was served on hand-me-down plates from my late grandparents. Our everyday dinnerware was loaded into the dishwasher, hence the need for the ‘fancier’ plates. It worked out nicely since we were having a fancier meal: strip loin steak, baked potatoes and grilled asparagus.
Whenever I plate food or pour a drink into their antique dinnerware, I think back to memories I’ve shared with them. An odd but timely memory was activated during our steak and potato meal. I remember when I was a teenager my grandmother having to leave the kitchen anytime my grandfather ran the dish water. She couldn’t handle the violent sound the rushing water made as it filled up the sink. I thought that this was so peculiar and the reaction was just her being fussy.
When I was younger I thought success was an onward and upward journey mapped out by culturally embedded markers: high-school, post secondary education, a career, love and marriage followed by children. If I followed this map, I would know that I had arrived. Reality hit hard when I missed some of these predetermined markers by my late twenties. I felt unaccomplished because of the value I had placed on this familiar timeline. It was during this time in my life I began to question the notion of success and reexamined the many constructs I had built around it.