2013 was a bumpy one. The first year of the separation brought much anxiety, worry, stress, and fear. The second year, this past one, brought self-discovery and all the chaos that goes with it. Good decisions and bad. And lots of learning. I read a list recently of 20 things to let go of. One of them was regret - an obvious choice. But the explanation caught me off guard: at one point in your life, that "whatever" was exactly what you wanted. While the "whatevers" were not always my healthiest or best choices, they were my desires. And I have learned a great deal from them.
I feel like I've come out of a long, drawn-out fever. An adolescence I never really had. A great big ME phase. Of course the girls always come first, but when they weren't around, I was busy thinking of my next adventure, the next thing that was going to make me happy. The pendulum swung hard.
My plan for 2014 is simple: continue to have fun AND be a grown up about it. And love life.
To that end, I'm instituting a Cool Happenings 2014 jar. Whenever something wonderful - big or little - happens in our lives, we will write it down and put it in the jar. At the end of the year, we can read them out and remember. Be grateful. Giggle. I wonder if any "whatevers" will make it in? Wouldn't be the worst thing to remember those, to be grateful, to giggle.
Here's to the new year and to goodbyes to this past one. Cheers.
Monday 30 December 2013
Tuesday 24 December 2013
being thankful
Thanksgiving makes sense as a holiday to me in that we are thankful for the harvest. These days, when you can find cherries at the supermarket in December - albeit from Chile - it's hard to remember times when the outcome of the local harvest meant either a winter of plenty or one of great hardship. But because I live in these times of more-than-plenty, Christmas has always been my time of thanksgiving.
I am thankful not because of all the gifts I get or get to give. In fact, most times I feel thankful despite the gifts and the plenty. It feels overwhelming, with the shopping, the kids' excitement, the preparing, the expectation.
This year I am thankful for home and all that it means. I live in a land of plenty where I have more than most. I have had (shameful) moments of being dissatisfied with my house; gee, it's really small, it needs more work, the floors are slopey, there's no yard. I have seen the slums of Cairo, stayed in the hilltowns of southern Mexico, homestayed with the poor in Peru. I know that millions don't have enough to eat, don't have access to clean water, don't have enough to sustain themselves and their children. So when I have complained about having only one functioning toilet in the house and that oh no, it's in the basement, I must admit that I am embarrassed.
My girls and I are so blessed. We have a warm home, clean water, more than enough food, warm clothes to protect us from the cold, and so, so much more in terms of material goods. And then we have our health. And each other. And so much family and friends to carry us, love us, and simply be with us.
In this time of remembering the Word that came into the world on a dark night filled with anticipation and likely more than a little fear, I am thankful for all that we have.
I am thankful not because of all the gifts I get or get to give. In fact, most times I feel thankful despite the gifts and the plenty. It feels overwhelming, with the shopping, the kids' excitement, the preparing, the expectation.
This year I am thankful for home and all that it means. I live in a land of plenty where I have more than most. I have had (shameful) moments of being dissatisfied with my house; gee, it's really small, it needs more work, the floors are slopey, there's no yard. I have seen the slums of Cairo, stayed in the hilltowns of southern Mexico, homestayed with the poor in Peru. I know that millions don't have enough to eat, don't have access to clean water, don't have enough to sustain themselves and their children. So when I have complained about having only one functioning toilet in the house and that oh no, it's in the basement, I must admit that I am embarrassed.
My girls and I are so blessed. We have a warm home, clean water, more than enough food, warm clothes to protect us from the cold, and so, so much more in terms of material goods. And then we have our health. And each other. And so much family and friends to carry us, love us, and simply be with us.
In this time of remembering the Word that came into the world on a dark night filled with anticipation and likely more than a little fear, I am thankful for all that we have.
Tuesday 10 December 2013
patience is a virtue, especially when it comes to plumbing
Renos always go over time and over budget. That's the number one rule. So I am keeping it real, trying and often enough succeeding to stay positive and be happy that we have a home. A good home. A warm home. And more stuff than we will ever really need. We moved our stuff from the house that had been our home for the past two years into the house that is really, truly ours.
The stuff moved on November 29. We didn't move ourselves in until a week later. Most of the other work was done, but there was no toilet. Last Friday, there was a toilet, but the box had been missing a piece (are you KIDDING me, I thought). So on our first night in the house we flushed by throwing a pail of water down. Just like at our friends' cottage. Sure. It's an adventure, I told the kids, and tried to convince myself. The plumber surprised us Saturday morning with the missing piece he dug out from his own stash. I could have hugged him. YES! A flushing toilet! The children were completely bewildered at how happy that made me. Small things, at this point, make all the difference.
The tile continues to be put in and grouted. It's mostly done. And if I let myself take a really good look at it without all the emotional baggage that's attached to it at the moment, it looks fabulous. The tub finally went into the bathroom today - and it fit! (This was actually a very real concern; it's a tight squeeze.) But the shower fixture I bought to go with it has the wrong attachments. There was a miscommunication between the plumber and me; I thought he told me I had to buy the fixture I wanted. Turns out he would have preferred to order it (as would I have!), and he would have bought the right pieces to boot. So he has put in the order, and it could take up to two weeks for the piece to come in. For anyone checking the calendar, that's Christmas Eve. Sigh. At least I have a functioning bath tub; we can have baths! Somehow less exciting than a flushing toilet, but I will take it. I'm not really a bath person, but with my new-to-me (original to the house) clawfoot soaker, I'm determined to give it a go.
Another rule with renos is that it won't be perfect. I know of the few imperfections already. For example, the tub being closer to the wall than anticipated because the plumber measured before we put in the insulated outer wall. There's a ripple effect to this, and I'm trying not to think about it or to see that things aren't exactly where I had planned them to be. I know that if I were to have bought the house with the bathroom just as it is (or will soon be) I would never, ever see it. So I'm letting that go, too.
This whole thing is an exercise in patience, in acceptance, and in humility. For an impetuous, high energy decision-maker like me, it's rather grounding. Maybe this house has been good for me.
The stuff moved on November 29. We didn't move ourselves in until a week later. Most of the other work was done, but there was no toilet. Last Friday, there was a toilet, but the box had been missing a piece (are you KIDDING me, I thought). So on our first night in the house we flushed by throwing a pail of water down. Just like at our friends' cottage. Sure. It's an adventure, I told the kids, and tried to convince myself. The plumber surprised us Saturday morning with the missing piece he dug out from his own stash. I could have hugged him. YES! A flushing toilet! The children were completely bewildered at how happy that made me. Small things, at this point, make all the difference.
The tile continues to be put in and grouted. It's mostly done. And if I let myself take a really good look at it without all the emotional baggage that's attached to it at the moment, it looks fabulous. The tub finally went into the bathroom today - and it fit! (This was actually a very real concern; it's a tight squeeze.) But the shower fixture I bought to go with it has the wrong attachments. There was a miscommunication between the plumber and me; I thought he told me I had to buy the fixture I wanted. Turns out he would have preferred to order it (as would I have!), and he would have bought the right pieces to boot. So he has put in the order, and it could take up to two weeks for the piece to come in. For anyone checking the calendar, that's Christmas Eve. Sigh. At least I have a functioning bath tub; we can have baths! Somehow less exciting than a flushing toilet, but I will take it. I'm not really a bath person, but with my new-to-me (original to the house) clawfoot soaker, I'm determined to give it a go.
Another rule with renos is that it won't be perfect. I know of the few imperfections already. For example, the tub being closer to the wall than anticipated because the plumber measured before we put in the insulated outer wall. There's a ripple effect to this, and I'm trying not to think about it or to see that things aren't exactly where I had planned them to be. I know that if I were to have bought the house with the bathroom just as it is (or will soon be) I would never, ever see it. So I'm letting that go, too.
This whole thing is an exercise in patience, in acceptance, and in humility. For an impetuous, high energy decision-maker like me, it's rather grounding. Maybe this house has been good for me.
Monday 25 November 2013
Sistering
My dad worked in construction. His English was really limited, yet somehow a lot of the construction words have made their way into my lexicon, and they are familiar to me. My very favourite of all the words is "sistering" - a term I've become intimately acquainted with over the past week.
When a beam or joist becomes old or otherwise weakened, another, new beam or joist is fastened to it to strengthen it.
As I was telling the girls about the work that needed to be done to the bathroom floor before any of the bathroom could be put back together, I explained the term to them. The metaphor is so apt and beautiful that I expected them to have the same experience of it as I had: one of wonder and understanding of the precious relationship between two girls. They shrugged it off a bit, as though it was a no-brainer: of course if your sister needs you, you'll be there to hold her up. D-uh.
Then I experienced it myself this weekend, not with real sisters - I don't have any - but with family of a different sort. While I was pretty happy with whatever state the house would be in when I moved, I was running out of steam. I was weakened and more than a little tired. And in what I can only describe as a whirlwind of love, friends came and swept through the house, seemingly leaving no to-do task undone. Those lovely people fastened themselves to me and made me stronger and helped me to keep holding on.
In less than 48 hours, all of the wood trim on the main floor was scrubbed (no mean feat!), almost my entire house got painted (two coats, thank you), trim was replaced on three walls, four rooms had their flooring scraped and removed, all of the garbage in my house and garage was taken away, many awkward or fragile items were moved to the new place, a new platform for my washer and dryer was built and secured to my ridiculously crooked basement floor, and a beautiful walk-in closet system was built (not assembled; built from scratch).
Today, the house is inaccessible because the floors are being sanded and refinished over the next three days. Yet I am at peace with it. The house is ready for us. Thanks to sistering. I'm still tired, but boy am I strong.
When a beam or joist becomes old or otherwise weakened, another, new beam or joist is fastened to it to strengthen it.
As I was telling the girls about the work that needed to be done to the bathroom floor before any of the bathroom could be put back together, I explained the term to them. The metaphor is so apt and beautiful that I expected them to have the same experience of it as I had: one of wonder and understanding of the precious relationship between two girls. They shrugged it off a bit, as though it was a no-brainer: of course if your sister needs you, you'll be there to hold her up. D-uh.
Then I experienced it myself this weekend, not with real sisters - I don't have any - but with family of a different sort. While I was pretty happy with whatever state the house would be in when I moved, I was running out of steam. I was weakened and more than a little tired. And in what I can only describe as a whirlwind of love, friends came and swept through the house, seemingly leaving no to-do task undone. Those lovely people fastened themselves to me and made me stronger and helped me to keep holding on.
In less than 48 hours, all of the wood trim on the main floor was scrubbed (no mean feat!), almost my entire house got painted (two coats, thank you), trim was replaced on three walls, four rooms had their flooring scraped and removed, all of the garbage in my house and garage was taken away, many awkward or fragile items were moved to the new place, a new platform for my washer and dryer was built and secured to my ridiculously crooked basement floor, and a beautiful walk-in closet system was built (not assembled; built from scratch).
Today, the house is inaccessible because the floors are being sanded and refinished over the next three days. Yet I am at peace with it. The house is ready for us. Thanks to sistering. I'm still tired, but boy am I strong.
Thursday 21 November 2013
surprise!
I kept waiting for it. I've never undertaken a big reno (never mind a whole bunch at the same time!), but I knew that there would be unexpected surprises. Like mould in the walls. Or knob and tube where you thought you had updated electrical. Or a wall that just could not be moved.
Until today, everything had been going pretty smoothly. The timelines on a few things, mostly the replastering, were slipping a bit, but nothing to be alarmed about. And the electrician had made more holes and been a little rougher with my old walls than expected, so my contractor/plasterer had more work to complete than expected. But it was all under control, and nothing really out of the ordinary.
Tonight, I went to see the house and was rather annoyed that the subfloor in the bathroom still wasn't in. This is one of those things that just kept slipping; it was supposed to start a week ago Monday, then the Thursday, then the Saturday, then this Monday, then yesterday… And still, tonight, it wasn't done. Before I could call my contractor, he gave me a call.
He sounded the way your mom sounds when she calls to tell you your uncle is in the hospital in critical condition. Literally, my first thought when he said, "well, things aren't great" was that he was sick - like really, really unwell. And I was worried about him.
It turns out that the joists in the floor in the bathroom are in really rough shape. One of them had been hacked away years ago when they put in or moved the plumbing for the toilet waste. My plumber had to cut away the rest of it to move the plumbing to an adequate spot. My contractor thought he'd be able to sister that one up and reinforce other parts, but it would seem that there's not much to hang onto in there. It doesn't help that the joists are two feet apart - not nearly up to today's code. So he's bringing in a heritage carpenter tomorrow to consult on what needs to be done. Most likely, they'll have to cut away about half of my kitchen ceiling to do the work.
My reaction: cool; that ceiling is a mess anyway. Now I'll have new drywall up there! Second thought: great; now I know the floor will be good and strong (it was a concern what with the really heavy tub, that is deep and thus can hold lots of heavy water).
I'm rolling my eyes a bit because I know it means that the tiling will definitely not all be done before we move in (the floor will be done, but probably not the walls), and it means more plaster dust and sawdust in the kitchen - just when I thought I'd seen the end of that.
But I am surprised at how calm I'm feeling. Zero anxiety. Some switch went off last weekend that made me realise that it doesn't all have to be done when I move in. I also realised that I like the process of all this - and yes, I may be crazy. So no need to rush it all. I don't want to live in a construction zone, but it's okay if I still have little jobs here and there over the coming months to make it just the way I want it. There is time.
Meanwhile, my light fixtures were installed this week. They are beautiful. And they make the house look amazing. As I stood in my half-painted (and thus totally garish) kitchen this evening, I actually wept with joy. This house really is going to be beautiful. And it feels like home. For the very first time, today it feels like home.
This is going to be good. Surprises and all.
Until today, everything had been going pretty smoothly. The timelines on a few things, mostly the replastering, were slipping a bit, but nothing to be alarmed about. And the electrician had made more holes and been a little rougher with my old walls than expected, so my contractor/plasterer had more work to complete than expected. But it was all under control, and nothing really out of the ordinary.
Tonight, I went to see the house and was rather annoyed that the subfloor in the bathroom still wasn't in. This is one of those things that just kept slipping; it was supposed to start a week ago Monday, then the Thursday, then the Saturday, then this Monday, then yesterday… And still, tonight, it wasn't done. Before I could call my contractor, he gave me a call.
He sounded the way your mom sounds when she calls to tell you your uncle is in the hospital in critical condition. Literally, my first thought when he said, "well, things aren't great" was that he was sick - like really, really unwell. And I was worried about him.
It turns out that the joists in the floor in the bathroom are in really rough shape. One of them had been hacked away years ago when they put in or moved the plumbing for the toilet waste. My plumber had to cut away the rest of it to move the plumbing to an adequate spot. My contractor thought he'd be able to sister that one up and reinforce other parts, but it would seem that there's not much to hang onto in there. It doesn't help that the joists are two feet apart - not nearly up to today's code. So he's bringing in a heritage carpenter tomorrow to consult on what needs to be done. Most likely, they'll have to cut away about half of my kitchen ceiling to do the work.
My reaction: cool; that ceiling is a mess anyway. Now I'll have new drywall up there! Second thought: great; now I know the floor will be good and strong (it was a concern what with the really heavy tub, that is deep and thus can hold lots of heavy water).
I'm rolling my eyes a bit because I know it means that the tiling will definitely not all be done before we move in (the floor will be done, but probably not the walls), and it means more plaster dust and sawdust in the kitchen - just when I thought I'd seen the end of that.
But I am surprised at how calm I'm feeling. Zero anxiety. Some switch went off last weekend that made me realise that it doesn't all have to be done when I move in. I also realised that I like the process of all this - and yes, I may be crazy. So no need to rush it all. I don't want to live in a construction zone, but it's okay if I still have little jobs here and there over the coming months to make it just the way I want it. There is time.
Meanwhile, my light fixtures were installed this week. They are beautiful. And they make the house look amazing. As I stood in my half-painted (and thus totally garish) kitchen this evening, I actually wept with joy. This house really is going to be beautiful. And it feels like home. For the very first time, today it feels like home.
This is going to be good. Surprises and all.
Thursday 14 November 2013
to have and to hold
If I were the type to dole out unsolicited advice - and who am I fooling, I am - I would tell anyone who would listen that it's ill-advised to start up a new job while single. It is much worse if that new job comes after voluntarily leaving a job you had for more than half a decade, a job you happened to have loved. Because you will get home every evening that first week, and there will be no partner to talk to about it. No one to convince you that you made the right move, to remind you why you left in the first place, to tell you that you rock.
You will miss your colleagues who became friends, colleagues you relied on to share a quick bitch session with and move on from the doldrums and laugh off whatever absurdity has befallen you; if you work in government, there are many, many absurdities. These are the moments that coming home to your spouse, to someone who will simply hold you, get you through the tough spots. Yes, you miss those people, but here are a pair of arms to hold you, a comfy shoulder to cry on, and eager ear to listen.
That's the stuff I miss. I miss hugs from someone who weighs more than 75 lbs. Someone who can listen and actually understand what I'm saying. Someone for whom I'm not entirely responsible. Someone who can carry me a bit in the rough patches.
I have friends - and they are great. And they have supported me through a lot these two years. And have been there for me and with me through the insanity of my renos (and continue to support me). But it's just not the same when you come home to an empty house, or to two little kids who need you to be on. I'm running out of energy to be on. I just want someone to have and to hold right now.
You will miss your colleagues who became friends, colleagues you relied on to share a quick bitch session with and move on from the doldrums and laugh off whatever absurdity has befallen you; if you work in government, there are many, many absurdities. These are the moments that coming home to your spouse, to someone who will simply hold you, get you through the tough spots. Yes, you miss those people, but here are a pair of arms to hold you, a comfy shoulder to cry on, and eager ear to listen.
That's the stuff I miss. I miss hugs from someone who weighs more than 75 lbs. Someone who can listen and actually understand what I'm saying. Someone for whom I'm not entirely responsible. Someone who can carry me a bit in the rough patches.
I have friends - and they are great. And they have supported me through a lot these two years. And have been there for me and with me through the insanity of my renos (and continue to support me). But it's just not the same when you come home to an empty house, or to two little kids who need you to be on. I'm running out of energy to be on. I just want someone to have and to hold right now.
Monday 11 November 2013
change
I used to think I hated change. Maybe I did. Goodness knows I had enough change as a child: my brother moved out when I was three, my dad got really sick when I was six and died when I was 13. Friends moved away - and I was never really good at making friends. There were lots of changes and lots of goodbyes.
I am going through a whole lot of change these days. The divorce is on its way to being final, I've bought a house that needs more transformation that the average resale home, and now I'm starting a new job. I told my best friend a few weeks ago that I hate change. She laughed in my face.
"But you thrive in change."
I'd never really considered that. It's true, though. The work I prefer is high-intensity and constantly changing. I am always thinking of the next reno (even in my little rented house). And I am easily bored with routine.
Tomorrow, I start a new job. The responsibilities will be essentially the same as my previous job: manager of a team of seven or eight people, in public relations, in the government. But the files are new, the people are new, the culture is new, the processes are new. And I've heard that some things could use a bit of a shakeup and reorganization. I actually got excited about that part.
But with every new thing comes a goodbye to that which it is replacing.
I had a fabulous team at my previous job. I loved them, and I think the feeling was mutual. They are a bunch of professionals who excel at their job, who care, who put in effort. They are smart and funny and kind. Every one of them. I said goodbye to them on Friday. Not a final goodbye, of course, since I'll be seeing them again for sure, and I may even work with them in the future - this is a small town, and you never know who you might work with - or for - again. But goodbye to seeing them every day, to relying on them, to having them make me look good.
I'm a bit nervous about this next step. Fingers crossed that change really is good.
I am going through a whole lot of change these days. The divorce is on its way to being final, I've bought a house that needs more transformation that the average resale home, and now I'm starting a new job. I told my best friend a few weeks ago that I hate change. She laughed in my face.
"But you thrive in change."
I'd never really considered that. It's true, though. The work I prefer is high-intensity and constantly changing. I am always thinking of the next reno (even in my little rented house). And I am easily bored with routine.
Tomorrow, I start a new job. The responsibilities will be essentially the same as my previous job: manager of a team of seven or eight people, in public relations, in the government. But the files are new, the people are new, the culture is new, the processes are new. And I've heard that some things could use a bit of a shakeup and reorganization. I actually got excited about that part.
But with every new thing comes a goodbye to that which it is replacing.
I had a fabulous team at my previous job. I loved them, and I think the feeling was mutual. They are a bunch of professionals who excel at their job, who care, who put in effort. They are smart and funny and kind. Every one of them. I said goodbye to them on Friday. Not a final goodbye, of course, since I'll be seeing them again for sure, and I may even work with them in the future - this is a small town, and you never know who you might work with - or for - again. But goodbye to seeing them every day, to relying on them, to having them make me look good.
I'm a bit nervous about this next step. Fingers crossed that change really is good.
Sunday 10 November 2013
it still stings
Nearly two years in, the kids are still holding out hope. Maybe they will never stop.
Today in Sunday School, the lesson was about paradise. The kids were asked to list the things that would be in their paradise, and some even made a few drawings. Boo had a list consisting of "no violents," "more time with my hamster Henrietta" - just to name a couple. Then there was the drawing. There was little Henrietta with a big smile on her face, a great big tree in a beautiful field, and Mommy and Daddy were there. Holding hands. The Bean was more straight forward. Her list included "my Mom and Dad aren't divorced."
This afternoon, about half an hour before it was time for me to drop them off at Dad's, they both started complaining that they wanted more time with me. At one point, I told The Bean that I know how hard it is, and that I miss them more than anything when they aren't with me. Boo stormed out of her room and yelled at me: "That's not true. If you missed us, you would have tried harder." She meant, of course, that I would have simply made the marriage work, period. That I'd still be living with Dad.
I took them both by the hand and made them sit down with me right where we were - in the upstairs hallway. Boo wouldn't make eye contact.
"Listen. I won't take long to say this, but I need you to hear me," I waited for Boo to look up. "I DO miss you. And me and Dad not being together has nothing to do with that. At all. We worked hard, really, really hard. And..." My voice broke here. The Bean took my hand. "If I could have made it work so that I could be with you everyday, of course I would have done it."
Boo looked away, not quite satisfied. The Bean gave me a hug, wiped my tears.
Those are tough conversations. It hurts to think that they can imagine that I love them less than I do. I love them with every fibre of my self. And I can't be with their Dad. Those are two truths that coexist and that seem to be impossible for the kids to understand. I'm still working on it. I wish ... well, I'm not always sure what I wish. But I do wish that they were and are happy. That's all I really want for them.
Today in Sunday School, the lesson was about paradise. The kids were asked to list the things that would be in their paradise, and some even made a few drawings. Boo had a list consisting of "no violents," "more time with my hamster Henrietta" - just to name a couple. Then there was the drawing. There was little Henrietta with a big smile on her face, a great big tree in a beautiful field, and Mommy and Daddy were there. Holding hands. The Bean was more straight forward. Her list included "my Mom and Dad aren't divorced."
This afternoon, about half an hour before it was time for me to drop them off at Dad's, they both started complaining that they wanted more time with me. At one point, I told The Bean that I know how hard it is, and that I miss them more than anything when they aren't with me. Boo stormed out of her room and yelled at me: "That's not true. If you missed us, you would have tried harder." She meant, of course, that I would have simply made the marriage work, period. That I'd still be living with Dad.
I took them both by the hand and made them sit down with me right where we were - in the upstairs hallway. Boo wouldn't make eye contact.
"Listen. I won't take long to say this, but I need you to hear me," I waited for Boo to look up. "I DO miss you. And me and Dad not being together has nothing to do with that. At all. We worked hard, really, really hard. And..." My voice broke here. The Bean took my hand. "If I could have made it work so that I could be with you everyday, of course I would have done it."
Boo looked away, not quite satisfied. The Bean gave me a hug, wiped my tears.
Those are tough conversations. It hurts to think that they can imagine that I love them less than I do. I love them with every fibre of my self. And I can't be with their Dad. Those are two truths that coexist and that seem to be impossible for the kids to understand. I'm still working on it. I wish ... well, I'm not always sure what I wish. But I do wish that they were and are happy. That's all I really want for them.
Saturday 2 November 2013
faith, blessings, and God
I have had an up-and-down relationship with the divine. I grew up in an evangelical church, with the big feelings and the big faith. When I left home, I searched for something different. I fell into a beautiful family of faith: a liberal Anglican church full of love and acceptance.
But for a very long time, probably as long as my faith life itself, I have struggled with how to understand God - how do I conceptualize God? What or who, exactly, is God? I have allowed that to get in the way of actually having a relationship with God/the divine/the sacred. But I've never stopped having faith. I've never stopped thinking that God - whatever God is - is out there.
Over the past two years, I have had struggles. And during that time, I have had more blessings than I can count. Perfect strangers giving me furniture. Friends showing up at the exact right time for a conversation, a shoulder to cry on, or a pair of hands to help. Acquaintances simply sharing their experiences with me, that lifted me up and gave me hope.
Today, a friend came by to build a wall and insulate it; finally, the rebuilding in the house has begun. Another friend, with her husband, daughter and daughter's boyfriend, drove from out of town to pick up a fridge and stove I found used, and delivered them to my house; now I have appliances. The man who sold me the fridge and stove gave me some of my money back - simply out of generosity. I have more offers of help than I know what to do with some days.
And that's where I find God. Not out there, after all. But much, much closer. In the love. In the blessings. In the relationships.
So I believe. I have faith. I am truly blessed. And I thank God.
But for a very long time, probably as long as my faith life itself, I have struggled with how to understand God - how do I conceptualize God? What or who, exactly, is God? I have allowed that to get in the way of actually having a relationship with God/the divine/the sacred. But I've never stopped having faith. I've never stopped thinking that God - whatever God is - is out there.
Over the past two years, I have had struggles. And during that time, I have had more blessings than I can count. Perfect strangers giving me furniture. Friends showing up at the exact right time for a conversation, a shoulder to cry on, or a pair of hands to help. Acquaintances simply sharing their experiences with me, that lifted me up and gave me hope.
Today, a friend came by to build a wall and insulate it; finally, the rebuilding in the house has begun. Another friend, with her husband, daughter and daughter's boyfriend, drove from out of town to pick up a fridge and stove I found used, and delivered them to my house; now I have appliances. The man who sold me the fridge and stove gave me some of my money back - simply out of generosity. I have more offers of help than I know what to do with some days.
And that's where I find God. Not out there, after all. But much, much closer. In the love. In the blessings. In the relationships.
So I believe. I have faith. I am truly blessed. And I thank God.
Sunday 27 October 2013
enough with the demolition
There is something deeply therapeutic, in the purest sense, in doing serious house renovations.
I walked into that house knowing it needed lots of work. Not just TLC or a coat of paint, but rip-out-the-walls-and-start-fresh work. That little house had been minimally maintained over the years; enough so as not to be condemned, but certainly not enough to call it fresh. Things that used to work as they were supposed to - like the knob and tube wiring, or the ancient windows, or the old plaster walls - had become decrepit and were sorely lacking for today's needs.
I took evenings, a few weekend days, and two days off work, and with the help of some friends as well as paid workers, tore out some old walls and floors, and all the old wiring.
The house today is stripped down. There are holes everywhere in the walls and the ceiling. Some rooms have walls stripped back to the studs. The bathroom is gutted. There is dust and dirt everywhere. It is ugly.
And this is the starting point.
It is now time to rebuild. To reinforce some floors and sister up the joists. To put in a kilometre or two of new wiring. To put in copper piping where there was once lead. To put in new windows to keep out the drafts.
And over the recovered, stronger bones, it will be time to put up new drywall and smooth it out with fresh plaster. To sand down the floors. To roll on a fresh coat of paint.
I, too, have had creaky, unstable floors. Walls that were crumbling. Wiring that wasn't quite right. I've stripped that all back. And it was ugly. And exposed. And vulnerable. But it was a starting place. I still have moments when I feel I am there again, at that starting place. Still digging up some old habit that needs to be torn out. I'm ready. It's as ugly as it gets.
Time to get this thing put back together.
I walked into that house knowing it needed lots of work. Not just TLC or a coat of paint, but rip-out-the-walls-and-start-fresh work. That little house had been minimally maintained over the years; enough so as not to be condemned, but certainly not enough to call it fresh. Things that used to work as they were supposed to - like the knob and tube wiring, or the ancient windows, or the old plaster walls - had become decrepit and were sorely lacking for today's needs.
I took evenings, a few weekend days, and two days off work, and with the help of some friends as well as paid workers, tore out some old walls and floors, and all the old wiring.
The house today is stripped down. There are holes everywhere in the walls and the ceiling. Some rooms have walls stripped back to the studs. The bathroom is gutted. There is dust and dirt everywhere. It is ugly.
And this is the starting point.
It is now time to rebuild. To reinforce some floors and sister up the joists. To put in a kilometre or two of new wiring. To put in copper piping where there was once lead. To put in new windows to keep out the drafts.
And over the recovered, stronger bones, it will be time to put up new drywall and smooth it out with fresh plaster. To sand down the floors. To roll on a fresh coat of paint.
I, too, have had creaky, unstable floors. Walls that were crumbling. Wiring that wasn't quite right. I've stripped that all back. And it was ugly. And exposed. And vulnerable. But it was a starting place. I still have moments when I feel I am there again, at that starting place. Still digging up some old habit that needs to be torn out. I'm ready. It's as ugly as it gets.
Time to get this thing put back together.
Wednesday 23 October 2013
obituary
Henrietta (Henny) Hamster, passed away peacefully this evening in her sleep. She is survived by her two loyal companions and caregivers, The Bean and Boo, as well as her home-mom, Momma.
Henny lived life to the fullest. She enjoyed climbing, running, monkey bars, and chin-ups. When she wasn't busy doing exercise, Henny was constantly organizing her home. She built the most intricate and beautiful nests.
Henny will be remembered for her zest for life, and her deep love and devotion to her friends. Even in the deepest of sleep, when she heard her friends enter the room, she would poke out her little nose from her piled-up nest and get up to greet them. The greeting was almost invariably followed by a vigourous round of calisthenics to get her friends' attention. Her fervour and love for her friends, though she'd only known them a short time, was undeniable.
Her sense of adventure - and seemingly, her sense of humour - knew no bounds. Henny was known to do a flying squirrel imitation as she leapt from the arms of one friend over to the other, which would leave her them squealing with laughter.
Henny will be sorely missed. A private funeral will be held for her in the coming days. Henny's final resting place will be in the yard of the home she had not yet known, where she will be remembered for years to come.
Henny, we love you. Rest in peace.
Henny lived life to the fullest. She enjoyed climbing, running, monkey bars, and chin-ups. When she wasn't busy doing exercise, Henny was constantly organizing her home. She built the most intricate and beautiful nests.
Henny will be remembered for her zest for life, and her deep love and devotion to her friends. Even in the deepest of sleep, when she heard her friends enter the room, she would poke out her little nose from her piled-up nest and get up to greet them. The greeting was almost invariably followed by a vigourous round of calisthenics to get her friends' attention. Her fervour and love for her friends, though she'd only known them a short time, was undeniable.
Her sense of adventure - and seemingly, her sense of humour - knew no bounds. Henny was known to do a flying squirrel imitation as she leapt from the arms of one friend over to the other, which would leave her them squealing with laughter.
Henny will be sorely missed. A private funeral will be held for her in the coming days. Henny's final resting place will be in the yard of the home she had not yet known, where she will be remembered for years to come.
Henny, we love you. Rest in peace.
Tuesday 22 October 2013
tonight the house is dark
The electricity has been shut off. The house is completely dark. The electrician began his handy work promptly at 7:30 yesterday morning, and now there are holes in the walls and ceilings. There is plaster dust and sawdust everywhere. And wires poking out. And step ladders reaching up to work that has yet to be done.
There is more work to do at the house. There is always more work. I could have gone in to measure the bathroom walls to figure out how much insulation I need, how many 2x4s. I could have tidied a bit. Could have papered some more shelves in the kitchen. Swept. Taken out some trash. But it will have to wait.
Relief and panic: odd that I can feel both simultaneously. Relief that I get a break - at least from the work. (There is never a break from the endless to-do lists I have rolling around in my head.) But panic, too. The house, at this very moment, is a complete disaster and unliveable: no bathroom, no electricity, walls in pieces. If my crew - and that's what I have working at the house right now - were to abandon me, I would have nothing. My house is only as good as the promise of the work that will be done. I have to rely on Walter the Electrician, Will the Apprentice, Frank the Plasterer, Chase the Plumber and trust that they will do the work. These are the people in my neighbourhood. And while yes, I am paying them for their work, they are part of my community that are making this dream possible. Total strangers.
Then there those who have been part of my life, of my community, for a good long while, who have been pitching in, one way or another. Friends who helped me rip out walls. Who did more than half the plumbing in the house. Who scrubbed a kitchen that hadn't seen soapy water in at least a few years. Who will help me build a wall and insulate it. Who gave me advice on light fixtures. Who let me bounce countless decorating ideas off them. Who give me names of people they trust. Who just very simply, but very importantly, care for me. Who listen to my panic and tell me I've got this.
So for tonight, the house is dark. Gloomy. Unwelcoming. An empty shell. Soon, Walter the Electrician will install those gorgeous light fixtures, and Frank the Plasterer will make my walls beautiful and smooth, and Shane the HVAC specialist will install the new furnace, and my house - the bricks and mortar - will become a home. With a warm glow in the dead of a cold winter. I can just about see it.
There is more work to do at the house. There is always more work. I could have gone in to measure the bathroom walls to figure out how much insulation I need, how many 2x4s. I could have tidied a bit. Could have papered some more shelves in the kitchen. Swept. Taken out some trash. But it will have to wait.
Relief and panic: odd that I can feel both simultaneously. Relief that I get a break - at least from the work. (There is never a break from the endless to-do lists I have rolling around in my head.) But panic, too. The house, at this very moment, is a complete disaster and unliveable: no bathroom, no electricity, walls in pieces. If my crew - and that's what I have working at the house right now - were to abandon me, I would have nothing. My house is only as good as the promise of the work that will be done. I have to rely on Walter the Electrician, Will the Apprentice, Frank the Plasterer, Chase the Plumber and trust that they will do the work. These are the people in my neighbourhood. And while yes, I am paying them for their work, they are part of my community that are making this dream possible. Total strangers.
Then there those who have been part of my life, of my community, for a good long while, who have been pitching in, one way or another. Friends who helped me rip out walls. Who did more than half the plumbing in the house. Who scrubbed a kitchen that hadn't seen soapy water in at least a few years. Who will help me build a wall and insulate it. Who gave me advice on light fixtures. Who let me bounce countless decorating ideas off them. Who give me names of people they trust. Who just very simply, but very importantly, care for me. Who listen to my panic and tell me I've got this.
So for tonight, the house is dark. Gloomy. Unwelcoming. An empty shell. Soon, Walter the Electrician will install those gorgeous light fixtures, and Frank the Plasterer will make my walls beautiful and smooth, and Shane the HVAC specialist will install the new furnace, and my house - the bricks and mortar - will become a home. With a warm glow in the dead of a cold winter. I can just about see it.
Tuesday 8 October 2013
"it's going to be so beautiful!"
Thank goodness for the optimism of a child.
I got the keys to the house yesterday. As I was walking away from the lawyer's office, with the legal-size envelope and its contents - including my new keys - I started to panic a little. It felt exactly the same as the day I visited the house I'm currently renting. That day, nearly two years ago, I walked down the street, having left what seemed like a hole of a house, realising that it was the only thing in the neighbourhood that was affordable, big enough, and available. I nearly had a panic attack. But I got through it by giving myself a pep talk. It's going to be fine. Everything is going to work out. It's good.
Those were the exact same words I whispered to myself yesterday as I walked out with my new keys and the biggest debt load I've ever carried. By the time I got to the bus stop, I was adequately calmed and ready to pick up my girls to go see the house.
It was their first time inside. I had warned them that there are lots of renovations and cleaning up to do, so it doesn't look perfect now. But it will be better before we move in.
We got to the house, I pulled out the key, and turned it in the lock. This is it. No going back. And we went in.
The first thing that hits you is the smell. The entire first floor of the house smells rancid; like an old, sick woman. And it's dark. And the light switches, if they work at all, are fritzy and fiddly (that's knob and tube for ya). And the colours are horrid: a 1950s turquoise in the living room, pink in the dining room, and a sickly yellow in the kitchen. The sticky tiles in the kitchen are coming up, and the cupboards are cheap and ugly.
Upstairs is not much better. The bathroom is at least 60 years old; the floor is mungy, the toilet scary-looking, the sink likely original to the house (80-90 years). The Bean's room, with the sink, has cupboards that need to come out, and that neat sink? The plumbing is wonky. Boo's room looks okay, but the pine floor has been painted - but only along the edges where it's not covered by the cheap roll-out cushion floor. Same for the floor in my room. And both our rooms have skinny closets that are too narrow to hang a hanger.
The windows throughout are original and falling apart. Some don't open. Some open with effort and are hard to close. Some have unattractive and broken roller blinds on them.
And that's all I could see yesterday: the problems, the work, the cost. I felt so defeated in that moment. And then Boo, in her cheery manner said, "it's going to be so beautiful!"
She had heard all the stories I told about what work we were going to have done. She had seen the tile I picked out for the bathroom, and listened to the design ideas I had for it. She knew the floors were going to be restored to gleaming hardwood throughout. She knew that I can work magic with a paintbrush and the right colour and that the kitchen was going to rock, despite its long pedigree. She knew that her room and her sister's were going to be fabulous, just like they are in our current, rented home. She just believed and overwrote the plans onto the current mess, and she saw.
I'm still in a bit of a lingering panic. I don't have all my workers lined up yet - that's my project for this week. I'm not 100 percent certain that it'll all be ready when we move in. Maybe it won't be. But it's livable. Completely and totally livable. With a bit of an airing out and a fresh coat of paint, of course. Boo is right: it'll be beautiful. It will just take some time and a lot of work. One bit at a time.
I got the keys to the house yesterday. As I was walking away from the lawyer's office, with the legal-size envelope and its contents - including my new keys - I started to panic a little. It felt exactly the same as the day I visited the house I'm currently renting. That day, nearly two years ago, I walked down the street, having left what seemed like a hole of a house, realising that it was the only thing in the neighbourhood that was affordable, big enough, and available. I nearly had a panic attack. But I got through it by giving myself a pep talk. It's going to be fine. Everything is going to work out. It's good.
Those were the exact same words I whispered to myself yesterday as I walked out with my new keys and the biggest debt load I've ever carried. By the time I got to the bus stop, I was adequately calmed and ready to pick up my girls to go see the house.
It was their first time inside. I had warned them that there are lots of renovations and cleaning up to do, so it doesn't look perfect now. But it will be better before we move in.
We got to the house, I pulled out the key, and turned it in the lock. This is it. No going back. And we went in.
The first thing that hits you is the smell. The entire first floor of the house smells rancid; like an old, sick woman. And it's dark. And the light switches, if they work at all, are fritzy and fiddly (that's knob and tube for ya). And the colours are horrid: a 1950s turquoise in the living room, pink in the dining room, and a sickly yellow in the kitchen. The sticky tiles in the kitchen are coming up, and the cupboards are cheap and ugly.
Upstairs is not much better. The bathroom is at least 60 years old; the floor is mungy, the toilet scary-looking, the sink likely original to the house (80-90 years). The Bean's room, with the sink, has cupboards that need to come out, and that neat sink? The plumbing is wonky. Boo's room looks okay, but the pine floor has been painted - but only along the edges where it's not covered by the cheap roll-out cushion floor. Same for the floor in my room. And both our rooms have skinny closets that are too narrow to hang a hanger.
The windows throughout are original and falling apart. Some don't open. Some open with effort and are hard to close. Some have unattractive and broken roller blinds on them.
And that's all I could see yesterday: the problems, the work, the cost. I felt so defeated in that moment. And then Boo, in her cheery manner said, "it's going to be so beautiful!"
She had heard all the stories I told about what work we were going to have done. She had seen the tile I picked out for the bathroom, and listened to the design ideas I had for it. She knew the floors were going to be restored to gleaming hardwood throughout. She knew that I can work magic with a paintbrush and the right colour and that the kitchen was going to rock, despite its long pedigree. She knew that her room and her sister's were going to be fabulous, just like they are in our current, rented home. She just believed and overwrote the plans onto the current mess, and she saw.
I'm still in a bit of a lingering panic. I don't have all my workers lined up yet - that's my project for this week. I'm not 100 percent certain that it'll all be ready when we move in. Maybe it won't be. But it's livable. Completely and totally livable. With a bit of an airing out and a fresh coat of paint, of course. Boo is right: it'll be beautiful. It will just take some time and a lot of work. One bit at a time.
Sunday 6 October 2013
anniversary
Today would have been our 12th wedding anniversary. For the record, it was a beautiful day, full of love and joy and hope. I wouldn't trade it for anything.
It is good to be able to hold the past close, to own it and not colour it with too much of the present. No regrets.
It is good to be able to hold the past close, to own it and not colour it with too much of the present. No regrets.
Monday 30 September 2013
the s&*% just got real
There's nothing like forking out hundreds of thousands of dollars - most of which isn't your own money - to make things feel really real. Especially when you're the only one on the hook for it.
I remember buying our first house over five years ago. It was stressful and hard and there were moments of wondering if this was the right thing. But there were two of us in it. There was someone to bounce ideas off, to be there as a reality check: is this crazy? Is this the right decision? Is this too much money? Is this the right place for us? And we'd talk it over and calm each other down and laugh and dream, together.
Now when I wake up in the middle of the night, worrying that maybe this is the single biggest financial mistake ever, there is no one to talk me off the ledge. No one to say: this is a great deal! And we're going to rock it! One evening last week, I discovered a weird banking snafu; I realised that I wouldn't be able to close on the date I'd negotiated. I started to panic. What if the seller refuses to change the date? What if this all falls through? What if this house isn't going to be mine after all? How am I going to be able to afford anything in this (freaking) neighbourhood?
I felt so alone. It was too late in the evening to call anyone. So I lay awake, wondering what I would do. Of course, the wrinkle got ironed out the next day between my lawyer, real estate agent, and mortgage broker. But not before I cried with relief after talking to my agent.
It's all become very real for the kids, too. Boo has been especially emotional lately. She doesn't like talking about her feelings all that much. On the odd occasion when I'm feeling down and The Bean asks me why I'm sad, Boo will pipe up: "Don't ask her that! It will make her feel more sad!" I try to tell her that talking about how we're feeling helps, but she refuses to listen.
Last week, after Dad dropped them off, Boo was very sad. She said she missed Dad, and she started to cry. After a bit of cajoling, I got out of her that she wants the four of us to be living together. I found it a little odd that this would be coming up now, after nearly two years of being in separate houses. My mom pointed out to me that it makes sense: the kids have probably been holding out some sort of hope, even if unconsciously. My buying a house makes things a lot more formal - and final. Momma and Dad aren't going to be living together anymore.
In the excitement and nervousness about the new house, I do feel the sadness from time to time, too. This really is it. The house title has been transferred over to Dad. I have my portion of the principal on what divorce lawyers call "the marital home." And I'm about to use those funds to buy a totally separate house that is just mine, for just the girls and me. This is big. And very, very real.
I remember buying our first house over five years ago. It was stressful and hard and there were moments of wondering if this was the right thing. But there were two of us in it. There was someone to bounce ideas off, to be there as a reality check: is this crazy? Is this the right decision? Is this too much money? Is this the right place for us? And we'd talk it over and calm each other down and laugh and dream, together.
Now when I wake up in the middle of the night, worrying that maybe this is the single biggest financial mistake ever, there is no one to talk me off the ledge. No one to say: this is a great deal! And we're going to rock it! One evening last week, I discovered a weird banking snafu; I realised that I wouldn't be able to close on the date I'd negotiated. I started to panic. What if the seller refuses to change the date? What if this all falls through? What if this house isn't going to be mine after all? How am I going to be able to afford anything in this (freaking) neighbourhood?
I felt so alone. It was too late in the evening to call anyone. So I lay awake, wondering what I would do. Of course, the wrinkle got ironed out the next day between my lawyer, real estate agent, and mortgage broker. But not before I cried with relief after talking to my agent.
It's all become very real for the kids, too. Boo has been especially emotional lately. She doesn't like talking about her feelings all that much. On the odd occasion when I'm feeling down and The Bean asks me why I'm sad, Boo will pipe up: "Don't ask her that! It will make her feel more sad!" I try to tell her that talking about how we're feeling helps, but she refuses to listen.
Last week, after Dad dropped them off, Boo was very sad. She said she missed Dad, and she started to cry. After a bit of cajoling, I got out of her that she wants the four of us to be living together. I found it a little odd that this would be coming up now, after nearly two years of being in separate houses. My mom pointed out to me that it makes sense: the kids have probably been holding out some sort of hope, even if unconsciously. My buying a house makes things a lot more formal - and final. Momma and Dad aren't going to be living together anymore.
In the excitement and nervousness about the new house, I do feel the sadness from time to time, too. This really is it. The house title has been transferred over to Dad. I have my portion of the principal on what divorce lawyers call "the marital home." And I'm about to use those funds to buy a totally separate house that is just mine, for just the girls and me. This is big. And very, very real.
Saturday 21 September 2013
EEEEeeeeee!
That, my friends, is the sound of a pre-teen squeal of sheer excitement. But it is not coming out of The Bean; it's coming out of me.
I've bought a house. It's been nearly three weeks of visiting the house, visiting it again, putting down an offer, negotiating the price, settling on a price, getting quotes, lining up the financing, signing myriad papers, lost sleep (lots of lost sleep), house inspection, second guessing, more lost sleep, and one final decision: I'll take it.
The house, not unlike my life right now, is a project. It is 80 to 90 years old, and the last time it was on the market was in the 1950s! So the little old lady who had lived there had been there for a while. And it shows. The kitchen is classic 1950s - ugly. The bathroom is ancient and needs gutting. The windows are original wood casing. The furnace is actually older than me. But because it hasn't been touched in 60+ years, there are advantages. All of the wood trim in the main floor and most of the second floor is unpainted and gorgeous. The dining room still has the unpainted wood wainscotting. There is hardwood throughout, some of it covered by other flooring. And, as the house inspector pointed out, when work hasn't been done, at least it hasn't been done wrong or poorly. You get to do it and make sure it's done right.
The new place is in the same neighbourhood as Dad, and just a block from my current house, which I'm renting. Given the neighbourhood, I'm getting the house for a song. Oh, and I get it in nine days (yes, NINE!). I'll be giving my notice in the house I'm in now. I'll have just under two months to pull up floors in three rooms, update some of the electrical, gut and redo the bathroom, get a new furnace, replace the windows, paint, and get the floor refinished.
I've got quotes on all the work. I'll be doing some of it myself and already have at least a couple of volunteers to help with some of the demolition.
The house itself is a little quirky. Like there's a sink in one of the bedrooms. As soon as I told the kids about it, The Bean called dibs. And the closets are weird: there is none in the room with the sink, and the other two bedroom closets aren't deep enough to put a hanger in. Thank goodness we're already experienced with small or non-existent closets and have armoires.
It is time to start building new dreams. And they start in this new little house. The three of us are very excited. And happy.
I've bought a house. It's been nearly three weeks of visiting the house, visiting it again, putting down an offer, negotiating the price, settling on a price, getting quotes, lining up the financing, signing myriad papers, lost sleep (lots of lost sleep), house inspection, second guessing, more lost sleep, and one final decision: I'll take it.
The house, not unlike my life right now, is a project. It is 80 to 90 years old, and the last time it was on the market was in the 1950s! So the little old lady who had lived there had been there for a while. And it shows. The kitchen is classic 1950s - ugly. The bathroom is ancient and needs gutting. The windows are original wood casing. The furnace is actually older than me. But because it hasn't been touched in 60+ years, there are advantages. All of the wood trim in the main floor and most of the second floor is unpainted and gorgeous. The dining room still has the unpainted wood wainscotting. There is hardwood throughout, some of it covered by other flooring. And, as the house inspector pointed out, when work hasn't been done, at least it hasn't been done wrong or poorly. You get to do it and make sure it's done right.
The new place is in the same neighbourhood as Dad, and just a block from my current house, which I'm renting. Given the neighbourhood, I'm getting the house for a song. Oh, and I get it in nine days (yes, NINE!). I'll be giving my notice in the house I'm in now. I'll have just under two months to pull up floors in three rooms, update some of the electrical, gut and redo the bathroom, get a new furnace, replace the windows, paint, and get the floor refinished.
I've got quotes on all the work. I'll be doing some of it myself and already have at least a couple of volunteers to help with some of the demolition.
The house itself is a little quirky. Like there's a sink in one of the bedrooms. As soon as I told the kids about it, The Bean called dibs. And the closets are weird: there is none in the room with the sink, and the other two bedroom closets aren't deep enough to put a hanger in. Thank goodness we're already experienced with small or non-existent closets and have armoires.
It is time to start building new dreams. And they start in this new little house. The three of us are very excited. And happy.
Tuesday 17 September 2013
can't fight the tears
There is much going on, at home, at work, in my personal life. It's only Tuesday, and it feels like it should be Friday; that's how eventful it's been.
Today, I signed the divorce papers. These are the documents that will be filed with the court. In a few months, I will receive the final papers, declaring the divorce complete. I wasn't sure how it was going to go. I didn't feel anything getting ready to go into the mediator's office this morning. I was careful not to apply my mascara, and even to pack some of my makeup for afterwards (crying can make an awful mess of blush, too). I am nothing if not at once pragmatic and vain.
But there was nothing. I went it, read through the documents, signed and initialed in the spots marked off with tiny Post-It notes. Within ten minutes, I was back on the road, heading toward work. I didn't cry. I listened to the radio, which is sometimes a mistake in such circumstances, and I did get teary when I heard the GooGoo Dolls' "Iris" - specifically the line, "You can't fight the tears that ain't comin'." Yes, I do see the irony. But once the song was done, I was fine again.
The moments I see coming like this - those ones I can brace myself for. And I think, for better or for worse, I am good at that. It's the unexpected moments that throw me facedown into an emotional pit. Like looking for and finding the marriage certificate. Or any Blue Rodeo song that comes up on the radio. Or coming across one of the kids' baby pictures. They all remind me of what we had. Of the things that, while I don't actively try to forget, I still keep to the side. The memories are both beautiful and painful. I think that's called melancholy. That's the phase I'm moving into.
Today, I signed the divorce papers. These are the documents that will be filed with the court. In a few months, I will receive the final papers, declaring the divorce complete. I wasn't sure how it was going to go. I didn't feel anything getting ready to go into the mediator's office this morning. I was careful not to apply my mascara, and even to pack some of my makeup for afterwards (crying can make an awful mess of blush, too). I am nothing if not at once pragmatic and vain.
But there was nothing. I went it, read through the documents, signed and initialed in the spots marked off with tiny Post-It notes. Within ten minutes, I was back on the road, heading toward work. I didn't cry. I listened to the radio, which is sometimes a mistake in such circumstances, and I did get teary when I heard the GooGoo Dolls' "Iris" - specifically the line, "You can't fight the tears that ain't comin'." Yes, I do see the irony. But once the song was done, I was fine again.
The moments I see coming like this - those ones I can brace myself for. And I think, for better or for worse, I am good at that. It's the unexpected moments that throw me facedown into an emotional pit. Like looking for and finding the marriage certificate. Or any Blue Rodeo song that comes up on the radio. Or coming across one of the kids' baby pictures. They all remind me of what we had. Of the things that, while I don't actively try to forget, I still keep to the side. The memories are both beautiful and painful. I think that's called melancholy. That's the phase I'm moving into.
Friday 6 September 2013
dreaming my dreams
I've come to realise that while I am a realist and a pragmatist in many ways, at my core I am a dreamer. I make plans in my head - constantly. Sometimes, it's mundane plans like what route I'll take home, or what chores I'll do and in what order. Those are the plans that organise my life. But then there are the bigger, wide-open, blue-sky plans. Like travelling. Or a new course. Or what kind of life I'm going to build. Those are the plans that create my life.
There are many things that are hard about separation and divorce. One of the ones I hadn't really counted on was mourning the loss of dreams. We had planned so many things. We had started travelling with the kids. We'd even done some adventure-type travelling, including a five-day hike in the Andes with the girls. We were planning more of it. And then there were plans for our house, various renovations we wanted to do to make it just the way we wanted it. And the plans to simply grow and be together. All of these plans were dreams, really, of building something amazing. We did a lot of dreaming together.
Our wedding song was the Cranberries' "Dreaming my Dreams"
I'll be dreaming my dreams with you
And there's no other place
That I'd lay down my face
And be dreaming my dreams with you.
Just thinking of that song makes me weep. I can't even bring myself to listen to it. Because it all just evaporated. Not the past, or the good memories, but the future. Poof! Like that, my future was gone, in a sense.
I am mourning those old dreams, still. And it's hard to take the old dreams and just remove him from the pictures and imagine them just as my own now. It's like I have to start fresh. Do something totally different, otherwise it just feels like refurbished dreams. And it still hurts.
I am stepping out of the in-between phase and into my new life. Inventing it all takes time, I suppose. But I'm starting to dream new dreams, little by little. One by one.
There are many things that are hard about separation and divorce. One of the ones I hadn't really counted on was mourning the loss of dreams. We had planned so many things. We had started travelling with the kids. We'd even done some adventure-type travelling, including a five-day hike in the Andes with the girls. We were planning more of it. And then there were plans for our house, various renovations we wanted to do to make it just the way we wanted it. And the plans to simply grow and be together. All of these plans were dreams, really, of building something amazing. We did a lot of dreaming together.
Our wedding song was the Cranberries' "Dreaming my Dreams"
I'll be dreaming my dreams with you
And there's no other place
That I'd lay down my face
And be dreaming my dreams with you.
Just thinking of that song makes me weep. I can't even bring myself to listen to it. Because it all just evaporated. Not the past, or the good memories, but the future. Poof! Like that, my future was gone, in a sense.
I am mourning those old dreams, still. And it's hard to take the old dreams and just remove him from the pictures and imagine them just as my own now. It's like I have to start fresh. Do something totally different, otherwise it just feels like refurbished dreams. And it still hurts.
I am stepping out of the in-between phase and into my new life. Inventing it all takes time, I suppose. But I'm starting to dream new dreams, little by little. One by one.
Sunday 25 August 2013
sorrow and thankfulness
My kids are pretty tough cookies; it takes quite a bit to make them cry or need to come into bed with me when they wake up at night. So I knew something had shaken Boo when she came into my room a few weeks ago and asked if she could sleep with me. She had had a nightmare and was in tears. As she nestled into me, she told me in whispers of the terrifying things she had dreamed. She had been wandering around a city, and she knew that there was a war. She was alone and was looking for me but somehow knew that I had died. But she kept looking because she knew she just needed to find me. I held her close, trying not to cry myself.
When she was tiny, she would have dreams or imaginings about monsters and frightening imaginary creatures. I could always calm her down by telling her that I was here, and I could keep her safe. That everything was going to be fine. That those things weren't real.
Suddenly, I couldn't do it. I couldn't tell her that war isn't real. That children losing their parents isn't real. That me being right beside her was going to make everything okay. I just held her as close as I could without making her more scared. I must have done something right because she was fast asleep within a few minutes. But I lay awake, thinking of all those children in the world living Boo's nightmare for real. With no one to hold them close, to promise them that everything was going to be okay. That the things they fear aren't real. My heart broke for them and I cried and cried in the quiet darkness.
Today the floodgates of sorrow opened again, this time for a real person with a real story; not an idea of the millions of frightened people facing war and hunger and death, but a real person who has tasted freedom and peace and life, who will soon lose it all again.
Over the past few years, our little church, which is very welcoming yet had been surprisingly homogenous (read: white), became home to a growing number of Burundian parishioners. Many of them are refugees who came to Canada recently and made their home in our city. They had found a home with us and told their friends and family members. And more came. Those in our midst are refugees who came here to seek asylum, to ask our government to let them stay because they faced certain violence or even death if they returned. Some still had family members back home, living in fear. We saw many of them reunited over the years and have rejoiced much with the arrival of spouses and children. And even with the birth of new children.
So today was especially heartbreaking: we said goodbye to a member whose refugee hearing came and went and who got a negative decision. Appeals failed. Requests for humanitarian consideration failed, as did a last-ditch plea to stop the deportation. She will be leaving in two days. We surrounded her and put our hands on her and her husband, and we prayed. I don't know this woman well, but the tears streamed down my face for the fear she must feel that I can't even imagine. For the loneliness that must surround her. For her. And for so many more like her whose lives and safety are so precarious.
In that profound sorrow, I understood something real. I have a gift. So many, many gifts. The sorrow I've been carrying around for the past few weeks has felt very real, but it has made me blind to the beauty of what I have. The black cloud has made me rather self-centred. It has blocked the view of the blessings - the many, many blessings - that I have. My life, my children. The fact that we have never wanted for food, or shelter, or clothing. In fact, we have more of each of those than we need. That we do not fear for our lives or our safety. That we can freely speak our minds and our hearts. That we have friends and family that we love and with whom we can be in contact. I have a good job; the girls are free to go to school and be as educated as they please.
The angst that I've been feeling can be diminished to a flippant hashtag: #firstworldproblems. And they really are. I feel like I should beg forgiveness, of God, of the universe, of those suffering around the world, for being so whiny. For forgetting my blessings. For not being more generous with the blessings I do have. For not opening my heart and mind and whole being to seeing what good I do have and working to somehow share that with the world.
I feel completely helpless in the case of this Burundian woman who will be sent back to a situation she fears may kill her. I can do nothing to help her. And I could let that get me down, too. Somehow, though, I think that if I were in a terrible situation and I saw people around me who had so many, many blessings, I'd want them to be happy. I'd envy them - no question. But I'd want what they have so that I, too, could be happy.
It is said that the thankful heart will find, in every hour, some heavenly blessings. It is time to start being thankful.
When she was tiny, she would have dreams or imaginings about monsters and frightening imaginary creatures. I could always calm her down by telling her that I was here, and I could keep her safe. That everything was going to be fine. That those things weren't real.
Suddenly, I couldn't do it. I couldn't tell her that war isn't real. That children losing their parents isn't real. That me being right beside her was going to make everything okay. I just held her as close as I could without making her more scared. I must have done something right because she was fast asleep within a few minutes. But I lay awake, thinking of all those children in the world living Boo's nightmare for real. With no one to hold them close, to promise them that everything was going to be okay. That the things they fear aren't real. My heart broke for them and I cried and cried in the quiet darkness.
***
Today the floodgates of sorrow opened again, this time for a real person with a real story; not an idea of the millions of frightened people facing war and hunger and death, but a real person who has tasted freedom and peace and life, who will soon lose it all again.
Over the past few years, our little church, which is very welcoming yet had been surprisingly homogenous (read: white), became home to a growing number of Burundian parishioners. Many of them are refugees who came to Canada recently and made their home in our city. They had found a home with us and told their friends and family members. And more came. Those in our midst are refugees who came here to seek asylum, to ask our government to let them stay because they faced certain violence or even death if they returned. Some still had family members back home, living in fear. We saw many of them reunited over the years and have rejoiced much with the arrival of spouses and children. And even with the birth of new children.
So today was especially heartbreaking: we said goodbye to a member whose refugee hearing came and went and who got a negative decision. Appeals failed. Requests for humanitarian consideration failed, as did a last-ditch plea to stop the deportation. She will be leaving in two days. We surrounded her and put our hands on her and her husband, and we prayed. I don't know this woman well, but the tears streamed down my face for the fear she must feel that I can't even imagine. For the loneliness that must surround her. For her. And for so many more like her whose lives and safety are so precarious.
In that profound sorrow, I understood something real. I have a gift. So many, many gifts. The sorrow I've been carrying around for the past few weeks has felt very real, but it has made me blind to the beauty of what I have. The black cloud has made me rather self-centred. It has blocked the view of the blessings - the many, many blessings - that I have. My life, my children. The fact that we have never wanted for food, or shelter, or clothing. In fact, we have more of each of those than we need. That we do not fear for our lives or our safety. That we can freely speak our minds and our hearts. That we have friends and family that we love and with whom we can be in contact. I have a good job; the girls are free to go to school and be as educated as they please.
The angst that I've been feeling can be diminished to a flippant hashtag: #firstworldproblems. And they really are. I feel like I should beg forgiveness, of God, of the universe, of those suffering around the world, for being so whiny. For forgetting my blessings. For not being more generous with the blessings I do have. For not opening my heart and mind and whole being to seeing what good I do have and working to somehow share that with the world.
I feel completely helpless in the case of this Burundian woman who will be sent back to a situation she fears may kill her. I can do nothing to help her. And I could let that get me down, too. Somehow, though, I think that if I were in a terrible situation and I saw people around me who had so many, many blessings, I'd want them to be happy. I'd envy them - no question. But I'd want what they have so that I, too, could be happy.
It is said that the thankful heart will find, in every hour, some heavenly blessings. It is time to start being thankful.
Friday 23 August 2013
loneliness
We all have our own kryptonite. It usually dates back to our childhood; it's that intangible thing that we couldn't have. For some it's recognition, for others it's respect. Or feeling capable, or safe, or important. Its opposite becomes our Achilles heel, the weakness that will destroy us. Mine is loneliness.
I think the hardest part of this separation has been feeling lonely. I have no one to come home to and share my day with. No one to commiserate about work, or the loads of house work piling up. No one to share the pain of losing a loved one. No one to share a laugh about something the kids did. No one to share memories with. It is quiet and lonely. Damn lonely.
It drives me to distraction. I have filled evenings with all kinds of things: hanging out with friends, exercising, surfing the internet, work, food, HBO, late night dancing, singing at the top of my lungs. Anything to keep me from remembering that I am lonely. I would almost sell my soul some days to keep from being lonely. The nights are the worst, with the crickets chirping and darkness waiting. The resolutions I'd made to be good, to do the right thing, to be healthy, they evaporate.
In the morning, I become sane again. My promises to myself seem so clear. My reassurances that loneliness is okay resurface. And I breathe.
I think the hardest part of this separation has been feeling lonely. I have no one to come home to and share my day with. No one to commiserate about work, or the loads of house work piling up. No one to share the pain of losing a loved one. No one to share a laugh about something the kids did. No one to share memories with. It is quiet and lonely. Damn lonely.
It drives me to distraction. I have filled evenings with all kinds of things: hanging out with friends, exercising, surfing the internet, work, food, HBO, late night dancing, singing at the top of my lungs. Anything to keep me from remembering that I am lonely. I would almost sell my soul some days to keep from being lonely. The nights are the worst, with the crickets chirping and darkness waiting. The resolutions I'd made to be good, to do the right thing, to be healthy, they evaporate.
In the morning, I become sane again. My promises to myself seem so clear. My reassurances that loneliness is okay resurface. And I breathe.
Sunday 11 August 2013
meet The Bean
The Bean's nickname dates back to before her birth, to that little grainy picture of her we got when she was about 13 weeks in utero. She had a sweet little turned up nose (still has), a funny brow-ridge inherited from her Dad (mercifully non-existent now), and she appeared to be the size of a bean. A little kidney bean with a perfect little profile. We didn't know if we were having a boy or a girl, so we took to calling this little creature The Bean. And it stuck. Even years later I would walk into a room and tell her Dad, "The Bean is sleeping soundly," or "The Bean doesn't look too well today."
The name is more nostalgic these days than descriptive. Perhaps The Bean Pole would be more apt, given that she is a ten-year-old who is all elbows and knees. And hair. Long, thick, beautiful hair that is at times stunning and elicits stares from boys (oh, I see them), and at times snarls up like a three-year-old's whose mane hasn't seen a brush in a month. She is in that in-between zone right now, being both a child and on her way to adolescence.
The Bean, once we had figured out how to get food into her, was an easy baby. She slept 10 to 12 hours a night by the time she was six months old. She would crawl into her room to play on her own when she was ten months. She hardly ever had tantrums. She listened well and was quite quiescent. Unless it had to do with us helping her. You see, The Bean has an independent streak a mile long. Her first full sentence was "me, stairs self!" At 18 months, she didn't want anyone holding her hand to go up and down the concrete stairs to our apartment. If I tried to put her shoes on for her, she would kick and scream and then simply take them off so that she could do it herself. It drove me mad.
Besides the independence, The Bean is a sweet, kind hearted kid. She is sensitive, but doesn't show it. Outgoing, but has the voice of a fairy: light and ephemeral.
I am careful to describe her because I don't want to put her into a box. As parents we sometimes fall into that trap. I know I do it, but I want to try to keep an open mind. After all, I know that I am a bundle of contradictions; why would I not allow my child to surprise me from time to time? But people ask: are your girls similar? My clear and quick answer is: no. Not at all. And then I try to describe them, and I realise that I am putting them in boxes. The Bean is the quiet one; her sister is the boisterous one. The Bean is X and Boo is Y. The list could go on and on if I let it. So let me simply use a stream of consciousness approach. The Bean is: soft, gentle, sweet, kind, understatedly funny, wickedly smart, loving, generous, affectionate, and thoughtful. There are negative things, too. She takes a long time to complete tasks, which drives me to distraction. She is easily frustrated, but it may be the bourgeoning hormones. She rolls her eyes (she gets that from me). She stomps off. But she forgives quickly and eagerly.
In short, she's a great little person. Tales of our adventures will surely paint a fuller picture than this attempt to capture her here.
The name is more nostalgic these days than descriptive. Perhaps The Bean Pole would be more apt, given that she is a ten-year-old who is all elbows and knees. And hair. Long, thick, beautiful hair that is at times stunning and elicits stares from boys (oh, I see them), and at times snarls up like a three-year-old's whose mane hasn't seen a brush in a month. She is in that in-between zone right now, being both a child and on her way to adolescence.
The Bean, once we had figured out how to get food into her, was an easy baby. She slept 10 to 12 hours a night by the time she was six months old. She would crawl into her room to play on her own when she was ten months. She hardly ever had tantrums. She listened well and was quite quiescent. Unless it had to do with us helping her. You see, The Bean has an independent streak a mile long. Her first full sentence was "me, stairs self!" At 18 months, she didn't want anyone holding her hand to go up and down the concrete stairs to our apartment. If I tried to put her shoes on for her, she would kick and scream and then simply take them off so that she could do it herself. It drove me mad.
Besides the independence, The Bean is a sweet, kind hearted kid. She is sensitive, but doesn't show it. Outgoing, but has the voice of a fairy: light and ephemeral.
I am careful to describe her because I don't want to put her into a box. As parents we sometimes fall into that trap. I know I do it, but I want to try to keep an open mind. After all, I know that I am a bundle of contradictions; why would I not allow my child to surprise me from time to time? But people ask: are your girls similar? My clear and quick answer is: no. Not at all. And then I try to describe them, and I realise that I am putting them in boxes. The Bean is the quiet one; her sister is the boisterous one. The Bean is X and Boo is Y. The list could go on and on if I let it. So let me simply use a stream of consciousness approach. The Bean is: soft, gentle, sweet, kind, understatedly funny, wickedly smart, loving, generous, affectionate, and thoughtful. There are negative things, too. She takes a long time to complete tasks, which drives me to distraction. She is easily frustrated, but it may be the bourgeoning hormones. She rolls her eyes (she gets that from me). She stomps off. But she forgives quickly and eagerly.
In short, she's a great little person. Tales of our adventures will surely paint a fuller picture than this attempt to capture her here.
Saturday 10 August 2013
"it has to hurt before it feels better"
I've been holding my tension, which is really just a fancy word for stress, in my neck and shoulders for a good long while. It used to eventually go away. But like so many things that have changed in my body when I hit my mid-thirties, it wasn't going away on its own. A few months ago I was so stiff that I couldn't even lower my shoulders. I looked like I was in a constant state of saying, "whatever," or "I don't know." Which, while both may have been true, I sure didn't want to look like it.
So I asked around and found a really good massage therapist. I had my very first deep tissue massage two months ago. It hurt when she got to those knots and I struggled against her sometimes. She was patient and showed me how to relax into the massage. I took a good, long, hot epsom salt bath when I got home and then just lay in my bed, completely unable to get up to even fix myself some toast for dinner. The next day, I felt like I'd done a four-hour workout. I was so sore that I could barely walk. But within a couple of days, the tension was completely gone, my shoulders were at a normal place well below my ears, and I felt good, relaxed even.
The stress has been building again. I have additional responsibilities at work. At first, it was only to be for a couple of months. I was just keeping the ship pointed in the right direction. But now that my boss has been permanently promoted, I've been asked to stay on a while longer. Suddenly, I have to make long-term decisions on things, and the buck stops with me on some of them. It is a bit scary. And exhilarating - for this adrenaline junky. There are other things going on, too. Some passive house hunting, one or two disastrous dates - the stuff of the soon-to-be-divorced. So my shoulders have been back up around my ears.
I visited my massage therapist again today. I told her about the extreme pain I'd felt the day following my last massage.
"Oh yeah. That's entirely normal. It has to hurt before it feels better. Sometimes a lot. But it always feels better."
I'm hanging onto that today. Because it still hurts.
So I asked around and found a really good massage therapist. I had my very first deep tissue massage two months ago. It hurt when she got to those knots and I struggled against her sometimes. She was patient and showed me how to relax into the massage. I took a good, long, hot epsom salt bath when I got home and then just lay in my bed, completely unable to get up to even fix myself some toast for dinner. The next day, I felt like I'd done a four-hour workout. I was so sore that I could barely walk. But within a couple of days, the tension was completely gone, my shoulders were at a normal place well below my ears, and I felt good, relaxed even.
The stress has been building again. I have additional responsibilities at work. At first, it was only to be for a couple of months. I was just keeping the ship pointed in the right direction. But now that my boss has been permanently promoted, I've been asked to stay on a while longer. Suddenly, I have to make long-term decisions on things, and the buck stops with me on some of them. It is a bit scary. And exhilarating - for this adrenaline junky. There are other things going on, too. Some passive house hunting, one or two disastrous dates - the stuff of the soon-to-be-divorced. So my shoulders have been back up around my ears.
I visited my massage therapist again today. I told her about the extreme pain I'd felt the day following my last massage.
"Oh yeah. That's entirely normal. It has to hurt before it feels better. Sometimes a lot. But it always feels better."
I'm hanging onto that today. Because it still hurts.
Sunday 14 July 2013
solo parenting - summer holiday edition
I've just dropped The Bean and Boo off with Dad, after three weeks summer holidays with them (minus one weekend). It is quiet in the house. Sweltering, sunny, and silent.
This is Summer #2 as a solo parent with the kids. This year, we started out our holidays with a week at a rented cottage with Aunty K (one of my dearest friends) and her new puppy. It was a relief to have K's company. The kids love her, she's lots of fun, and there was another adult to talk to in the evenings. K had to leave a day early, so I had one night and a full day alone with the girls.
As I tucked them into bed that night, it occurred to me that I was alone. In the middle of nowhere, relatively speaking, and the only one responsible for them. I suddenly felt very vulnerable. What if something were to happen to me? What if I had an aneurism? What would happen to the girls? I've never really thought about it before, but it occurred to me again just last night, as I leaned over my precarious basement stairs and almost slipped. If I were to fall down the stairs while they are asleep, and hit my head and died, they would be the ones to find me. And that only after they got up, called out for me and started a search that would become more and more frantic.
I've also started wondering what would happen to them if I became gravely ill. Of course, they have their dad to take care of them, but how often would I see them? If I didn't have the energy to care for them, I would have to relinquish our shared custody arrangement. I would barely see them. I would barely be a mom anymore.
Now, I'm not a hypochondriac by nature, so I feel silly even thinking those things, but they cross my mind more and more. I realise that I had taken so much for granted in a two-parent household. I also realise that I have it pretty good, because I do have a co-parent, one I'm lucky to get along moderately well, especially in the parenting realm. I am not a single parent: if something happens to me, I know that they are well cared for by another parent who loves them as much as I do.
Being a divorced parent with shared custody is a strange world. The time I spend with the kids is intense given the very nature of me being alone with them. But then I spend long periods of time (one week on, one week off) without them. It's a rhythm that I'd started getting used to. Summer throws a monkey wrench into everyone's schedule, and mine is no exception. The Bean and Boo will be with Dad for the next three weeks. I'll see them for a weekend in there. Doesn't seem like nearly enough.
Saturday 15 June 2013
it feels good to feel good
The past six months, from the last post, has been an eventful period. Not quite ready to let go, I sat in limbo. In the in-between place. I worked on me. I worked on getting to the root of why I had be so indecisive. The truth is that in the past six months, I have questioned and questioned my direction. Not trusting my gut. Not being okay - not completely okay. The in-between place was filled with turmoil, sadness, and a deep sense of feeling trapped.
Something happened a few weeks ago. I can't put my finger on the exact date, or an exact moment. But everything I'd learned about myself, everything I'd learned about relationships - it all came together. And suddenly, I was okay. I realised I'd been hanging onto something so tight that I hadn't noticed that it was gone. I let my grip go, and the hurt left. The pain was gone, and there was light again.
I take a deep breath, and I smile. I'm okay. I'm solid. I can do this, and I'm going to rock it. Because I have joy.
The wheels have started to turn on the final details of the separation; we've just met with a mediator, and we are separating the last of our assets. Soon, I will have my own funds to buy my own house. Our house. Just for us girls. And it will be pretty, and it will be warm, and it will be inviting, and it will be peaceful. Because I am all of those things.
It feels good to finally feel good.
Something happened a few weeks ago. I can't put my finger on the exact date, or an exact moment. But everything I'd learned about myself, everything I'd learned about relationships - it all came together. And suddenly, I was okay. I realised I'd been hanging onto something so tight that I hadn't noticed that it was gone. I let my grip go, and the hurt left. The pain was gone, and there was light again.
I take a deep breath, and I smile. I'm okay. I'm solid. I can do this, and I'm going to rock it. Because I have joy.
The wheels have started to turn on the final details of the separation; we've just met with a mediator, and we are separating the last of our assets. Soon, I will have my own funds to buy my own house. Our house. Just for us girls. And it will be pretty, and it will be warm, and it will be inviting, and it will be peaceful. Because I am all of those things.
It feels good to finally feel good.
Tuesday 1 January 2013
New Year
2012 was a strange year. The few people I know well who are divorced say that their first year was the roughest, ugliest year of their life. They were happy to see the back end of it. 2012 certainly was not easy, but interspersed with its moments of abject despair were moments of brightness.
2012 saw the dawning of a new me. Someone self-confident, independent, and sure. The person I'd become at work, where I'd been promoted twice in three years, was spreading to other parts of my life. I overcame my shyness and fear of a roomful of people to mingle in. I was calm and at ease with new people. I made conversation - both small talk and meaningful connections. I learned to be vulnerable with friends and trust that they would still love me. I learned to speak my mind and understand my tastes. I learned that I am important, too. My opinions matter. And I learned to live like I believed it.
2012 also saw moments of intense self-doubt and second questioning and fear. I remember crying alone in the deep, dark night, knowing that I would surely die alone, unloved, unwanted. I remember feeling incredibly small and insignificant. There were moments of feeling completely friendless. Completely rudderless. Completely empty. And tired, so very, very tired.
For all its ups and downs, for all its pain and suffering, I would not trade 2012 or wish it never happened. I do not regret 2012, for it has taught me much and left me with a better, stronger me. I do, however, look forward to 2013, and hope and pray it has more ups than downs, more hope than despair, more peace than anxiety. I hope that for all three of us.
2012 saw the dawning of a new me. Someone self-confident, independent, and sure. The person I'd become at work, where I'd been promoted twice in three years, was spreading to other parts of my life. I overcame my shyness and fear of a roomful of people to mingle in. I was calm and at ease with new people. I made conversation - both small talk and meaningful connections. I learned to be vulnerable with friends and trust that they would still love me. I learned to speak my mind and understand my tastes. I learned that I am important, too. My opinions matter. And I learned to live like I believed it.
2012 also saw moments of intense self-doubt and second questioning and fear. I remember crying alone in the deep, dark night, knowing that I would surely die alone, unloved, unwanted. I remember feeling incredibly small and insignificant. There were moments of feeling completely friendless. Completely rudderless. Completely empty. And tired, so very, very tired.
For all its ups and downs, for all its pain and suffering, I would not trade 2012 or wish it never happened. I do not regret 2012, for it has taught me much and left me with a better, stronger me. I do, however, look forward to 2013, and hope and pray it has more ups than downs, more hope than despair, more peace than anxiety. I hope that for all three of us.
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