Category: Writing

Pay the piper, and enjoy the tune

I have only just realized that I’ve been paying an extra three months for a service that I don’t want.

Have you ever done that?

It’s always annoying. This streaming service, that subscription, the small donation that you thought was a one-off…sigh. Or, you know, a service that isn’t very good, that I’ve been looking forward to concluding when my contract was up.

And this time around, it was a chunk of money that made me blink a little. How could I forget to cancel it?

I keep giving myself the pep talk: well, of course you forgot. The company didn’t send you any kind of reminder, any kind of thanks for doing business with us at the end of your contract. No upcoming bill notice. And I’m back to work full-time, still madly studying for two intense courses, finding my way through the daily life threads that tangle and knot all of us sometimes, and dealing with an injury. (Well, two injuries since I managed to fall skating and made the first injury quite annoyed with me again.)

Oh, and there’s a pandemic going on.

The pep talk isn’t working. I can try to get a refund for part of it. You never know. I don’t have the energy to pursue it very far though. That’s why I hired the company to begin with! (Oh, and here’s a tip I should have followed: buy local.)

There I go again. I don’t want to feel this way. Trapped, helpless, letting that negative self-talk monster out to play, becoming so tangled in those daily-life threads that my energy is all about escape instead of peace, simply being, gratitude and happiness, and allowing life to be what it is.

Allowing! Thank you.
I’d forgotten that gem,
as I forget it nearly every day
until something taps me
on the shoulder
and asks for space in my life.

And gratitude.

That’s a tough one to practice in the dark times, but it’s tough on the dark murkiness too. Gratitude is a mop and broom, a scrubbing brush and a jug of disinfectant to murk and discouragement. I remind myself: there was a time, a most-of-my-life time, when this blink-inducing amount of money would have taken me over, filled me with instant, stomach-grinding, paralyzing fear.

Now, things are different, and so is my acquaintance with fear.

(Fear is, in fact, weak.
And I am strong!
So are you.)

I don’t want to forget about that money.

But I am so grateful that I can choose to forget about it. I can choose to let it go. I am grateful that at this place in my life, I’ll still be able to buy my groceries, take an Uber, order pizza now and then, and enjoy my lovely little riverside apartment if I choose to. I am grateful that if I notice my energy draining away into a prolonged fight for a refund, I can stop. I am grateful that I don’t even have to start that fight if I don’t want to!

I can choose to pay the piper and enjoy the tune or walk away with earplugs in and make my own tune.

And I am grateful that I have learned to recognize these knotty experiences as just things that happen, things that float by and unravel, things that have consequences and effects but that do not control my feelings and actions. I used to see them as enormous boulders made of all the knots and threads, petrified knots that would crush me if I did not resist, fight back, and obey fear.

I won’t ever try to tell you that your experience is the same as mine, that your condition is your problem or your fault and you can fix it all with gratitude. That is not true. The world can be hard and cold, and we are not meant to be bearing the burden of the cruel things that came our way as children, that come our way now as we navigate the treacherous ways of healing from trauma.

I only want you to know that gratitude, if you can find it, can help you make it through. And I see you, I hear you, I love you, I am grateful for you.

(And–I should just point out that the shysters in the featured image at the top are some kind of relatives, uncles perhaps, Irish or Italian, New Jersey, quite probably Barnums. My family is not unacquainted with ~~scam~~ creative business people.)

February 13, 2021
Press On! And Happy Imbolc, Brigid’s Day, and (later on) St Brigid’s Day

Press on!

That’s the new handmade sign on the tree at the end of the riverside forest path, right before a short but steep snow-covered hill that leads from the forest to city sidewalks, cars, and apartment buildings. I love finding art messages on my walks, and I’m always pretty certain they’re meant for me! Ok, they’re meant for every person who reads them, and I always read them.

Press on!

Not necessarily something I want to hear, not necessarily something that’s helpful to hear. For instance…

At the beginning of our first shut down, I decided to do yoga, just like I used to. Feel that stretch! Make it happen! Dig deep!

And I gave myself bursitis.

When it happened, it sounded as if every muscle in my hip tore. It felt as if my leg was hanging, unattached, but not quite falling off altogether. It hurt too much to walk. How much hurt is that? I don’t know how to measure pain, but I do know that I fell asleep between labour contractions. So.

It took months of physio before I could face that hill. Months of learning how to use my body, discovering I’d become used to a duct-tape version, worn duct-tape barely holding together neglected bits and pieces, catching in the non-act the muscles that were having a drink with their feet up while other muscles, not meant for the job, worked too hard and got hurt.

As I take some photos and enjoy a few more precious minutes of the frozen river and the tiny sounds of winter wildlife, I think about this new message. I wonder if the artist had that steep and slippery hill in mind when they hung the sign. Which kind of press on did they mean? Or did they want to leave that up to me, show me the possibility of a new way to press, dig in, demand more of myself?

Pressing on can serve you, and it can also harm you. Brene Brown talks about her experience of digging deeper, of pressing on, pushing herself to the point that her whole being stopped functioning and she had a breakdown.

But, we all know of circumstances where someone made a huge and beautiful life-changing contribution by hanging on, pressing on, digging deep for that last burst of energy.

So, what’s the difference? When should I, and when shouldn’t I?

Or, more to the point, how should I?

In The Gifts of Imperfection, Brown writes

“Men and women who live wholeheartedly do indeed dig deep. They just do it in a different way. When they’re exhausted and overwhelmed they get:
— Deliberate in their thoughts and intentions through prayer, meditation or simply setting their intentions;
— Inspired to make new and different choices;
— Going. They take action.

I spent far too many years digging deep in that old, exhausting way, pushing through to survive another chaotic day in the debilitating, possessive circle of a narcissistic, abusive husband (now so joyfully divorced for many blossoming years!), somehow coping, though not well, with raising two beautiful boys.

Now, I know the difference. I see that sign and I see the steep, snowy hill. The hill must be climbed unless I go all the way back to the beginning of the path–and, even if I do, there’s another hill! It must be climbed, and I can climb it. But I won’t huff and puff and slip and slide and climb it obstinately at any cost.

Instead, I pause to check in with my body, breathe deeply with the trees and the slow, frozen river, and make sure that the core of my being, the part that endured all those years of digging in, the part that is energetically and physically the centre of me, is engaged and ready.

I breathe and begin to climb, step by conscious step, grateful for my life now, grateful for the learning of my life then. I can see and appreciate the ever-changing perfection in my chosen path of deliberate, inspired, active intention. My morning walk on the forest path is a gift every day. I am blessed to be here. My body is stronger each time I walk the path, more ready each day to climb the hill. (My spirit is too.)

The quiet little sign with its handmade lettering and stenciled dove still invites me to press on every day. Whatever the artist intended, I’m grateful they made their offering here, where I can see it and be inspired.

Imbolc is all about Press On!

January 31, 2021
Samhain is still Samhain (So there, COVID!)
Today is holy in many cultures. Here in North America, we’ve nearly lost the holiness in a mess of candy chasing and best-costume prizes. This year is different as COVID rages and people choose to — or are made to — stay home. I would have anyway (solitude is my refreshment), but I have rarely felt so deeply the need, on this day, for spiritual connection. Pandemics can do that to you.

Ghosts of October 31 past grin at me from the wind storm shadows and tossing branches outside my tree-top windows. Many Hallowe’en parties, many All Hallows Eve vigils, some Dia De los Muertes (thank you Mariachi Ghost!) celebrations, some Samhain gatherings. But this is the first time I’ve watched the full moon rise and understood the meaning of the night, looked for the ending and beginning that my heritage (Irish and Catholic) teaches me.

Samhain moonrise

My grandmothers and great-grandmothers for generations prepared in vigil for the Feast of All Saints on November 1. They would have kept, and slowly lost, the memories of an earlier time, a time when the great fire festival at Tlachtga in Meath marked the passing from the light half to the dark half of the year.

I imagine wandering back to Ireland, slipping into their Rosary circle, letting their prayers lead me deeper into memory, to ancient times, until we glimpse the brightness of the Samhain fire far across the island from my grandmothers’ homes.

“This is a momentous time in the lives of a people to whom the changing of the seasons was a matter of life and death.”

https://www.newgrange.com/tlachtga.htm

What did they do when they saw the beautiful light? Samhain was the end and beginning of the year, the last gifts of the precious harvest stored, the thinning of the veil between this world and otherworld, a time to honour and welcome ancestor spirits and protect from harmful spirits. There were rituals to be followed in those ancient times just as there were for my grandmother and her vigil with her ever-present Rosary, just as there are for each of us if we are willing.

And, I think there must have been private, hidden, silent words, soft thoughts and barely articulated feelings. Whatever the ritual then or centuries later, I think they said, thank you.
```
Thank you for the promise of the sun once we’ve made it through this long darkness,
thank you for the promise of light and new life,
thank you for 
this dark night to let our sadness out and watch it disappear into the dark,
this thin veil to release the grief of the year past,
the sorrow of unwanted goodbyes, 
the end of things we would have held closely. 
```
Things change, and we need a holy place and time to make peace with the change. Our beings rest in ritual, relax in familiar prayers. We do well when we can set aside time and prepare a particular, separate space to give thanks for change, to allow, to rest without resistance as the seasons shift, as darkness and light circle in their long dance, and as the moon rises on this holy night.
October 31, 2020
As Long As I’m Breathing

“As long as you are breathing, there is more right with you than there is wrong, no matter how ill or how hopeless you may feel.” Jon Kabat-Zinn in Full Catastrophe Living.

I’m breathing, and I’m here! This project, Fear is Weak I am Strong, is finally born, after years of thinking, writing, observing, planning – and quite possibly fearing, now and then. 😉 All my threads find a home here: harp therapy, sound work, writing blogs, writing stories, croning, aging, children’s storytimes, all are embroidered in this new tapestry.

There’s still plenty to do. And it feels exciting, inspiring, and energy-giving as I consider where this path is leading me. I’ve arrived here from a whole other world, tripping over a lot of rocks, getting pebbles in my shoes, getting caught in hail storms and mud, and collecting some interesting scratches and bruises as I clambered up an unknown mountain. I think this might be near the mountain top!

There is that song though, the song about the bear and the mountain, the one we sang on car trips and around campfires. Do you know it?

Welllll- the bear climbed over a mountain, the bear climbed over a mountain, the bear climbed over the mounta-a-a-ain —-and what do you think he saw?
Welllll – she saw another mountain, she saw another mountain, she saw another mounta-a-a-ain, and what do you think she did?
Welllll- she climbed the other mountain, she climbed the other mountain, she climbed the other mounta-a-a-ain —-and what do you think she saw?

Here’s to adventure with the Crone!

October 10, 2020
Woulda, Coulda, Shoulda – [COVID-19 Week 4]
April 1 – Work From Home [COVID-19 fooled you!]

We’re all losing track of time anyway. Sure, I planned to have the focus and energy to write every single day, and now regret is growling at me from outside, but I didn’t write, and regret isn’t getting in. Not today.

A few things I’ve noticed this week.

I thought we were all in this together – but – no. One acquaintance is complaining, thoroughly irritated, that she can’t sit to eat in the food court. Another’s delight in receding pollution (don’t get me wrong – it’s a good thing coming out of a lot of bad things!) contemptuously disregards human suffering and fear.

Two people I know well continue to go to gatherings and out to dinner, the latter because service is fantastic now that restaurants are empty.

Some of my acquaintances believe that their place of worship is some kind of a free pass, a bubble zone that starts from the moment they walk out their front doors until the moment they are back inside. God will obviously protect them. He cares about them!

I wonder, but don’t ask on Facebook, what opinion they think God has of those who have died. Or the health care professionals who ended up sick themselves after too long taking care of sick people. I wonder what kind of f*cked up childhood they must have had to make them worship and claim love for such a dick of a god.

And – I notice that if someone were to observe my judgy little brain cells’ party, that person might, possibly might, suggest that I’m a bit self-righteous, or at the least, that letting those thoughts occupy my attention and energy is not helpful, not contributing to the maintenance of good health.

~Right. That lesson again. The only person I can change is myself, and right now, the only change in me that matters is learning to always find and follow the path that nurtures health and goodness.~

A few days later

How can I be more tired, busier, now than when I work at work? I do have an explanation – when I go to work, coming home is coming into a chill zone. I’m too tired (I tell myself) to focus on much else.

But working from home means that I overestimate the time and energy I have and insist that I can do ALL the things. Hey, I don’t have to get dressed, my jammies are the most comfortable ever, my harp is right next to me and my fiddle on the other side, hours to rest into writing that otherwise would have been eaten up with people, and commuting, and chilling…

Not yet. At some point, I will write again, I will learn many new tunes on the harp (or maybe even on the squalling fiddle), I will build my new website, I will.

Right now, my brain and my heart would like some time to release, relax, empty themselves of the things that do not serve, do a deep clean of all the neglected corners and dusty shelves.

More days later

My balcony is heaven right now. Bare feet! Windy but not too much, crows and geese working out spring deals, the forest still a leafless charcoal sketch over melting ice on the river. All I need is my yoga mat and cushions to make an office for my work-from-home hours. It’s still hard to let myself take a break, but when I do, meditation and yoga are ready for me.

Some music friends and I tried a jam over Zoom. It’s weird motion-sickness, time-sickness fun trying to clap together. Playing instruments together – yeah, no. Established that there’s a reason people make music jamming software.

Lessons

When you’re quarantined with someone else, there is only one pathway that isn’t blocked with fallen chunks of stone and years of baggage. It’s the path that has helpful signs posted everywhere:
- Learn to listen.
- Learn to really listen.
- Say I feel instead of you do.
- Breathe before you speak.
- Make your intention in every conversation that you want the other person to feel loved.
- Most of your opinions aren’t that important after all.
- Listen. (There are a lot of these signs.)
- Ask instead of tell.
- Argument is for philosophy class.
Making music together can happen differently for now. I took part in one of Deborah Henson-Conant’s free harp playalongs on Zoom. Deborah is one of those people, the kind who are so vibrant, so comfortably real, that they come right through the webcam. It felt like we were all playing together even though we were on mute, so that I heard only Deborah and myself.

How did she do that?

Ok, it helps that she’s brilliant. But it seems to me we can all be the kind of brilliant that lets us be ok with the music we make, however we make it. Who’s up for a weird zoom jam?

Afterward, a bunch of us stayed in the Zoom room and got to know each other. California, Canadian Prairies, and the east coast of Australia have a lot in common. It was nice.

And now, it’s April 4

If this hadn’t happened. I would be walking by the ocean right now, having dropped off my fiddle and knapsack at the hotel. Or I’d be already heading to the first session of my week in Halifax, looking forward to harp lessons, fiddle lessons, ferry rides, islands, and cold salt wind.

Like the rest of the world, I’m not sure how to start thinking about that, about the difference between what would have been and what is. (Oh, and speaking of…we had lots and lots of snow and it’s -15 and I’m not on my balcony.)

I’m pretty sure, though, that thinking about it isn’t helpful. On the theme of everything you need to know you can learn from a kids’ book…

“To know what would have happened, child?” said Aslan. “No. Nobody is ever told that.”
“Oh dear,” said Lucy.
“But anyone can find out what will happen,” said Aslan.

I’ll let you know next week (more or less) what did happen!
April 4, 2020
Smile! (COVID-19 Day… I’ve Lost Track)

March 20

I’m not at work as of yesterday at 4 pm. There’s still plenty I can do at home – and so much more time without the getting ready and eating first thing, getting dressed (nope – to hot in my department to wear that – too cold outside to wear that), putting together something for lunch (not much open except for delivery), walking to work.

So, I’m going to catch up on the blogs. I checked back on some of my notes after a friend in another, less-hard-hit area wondered how seriously to take social distancing. Um…it’s only a week since they announced city facility closures, school closures, university closures. One week before that, I still had plans for an early April holiday and the opera this weekend.

I am safe. It’s only change. ~ Louise Hay

March 15 – The Ides of March

Yesterday, they decided to close all the libraries as of Monday. I am amazed at the turmoil inside that bubbles into wetness in my eyes. This is not unexpected, and it’s a good thing in many ways.

Certainly, it’s a thing that had to happen. But that past trauma…the memories arise and images of all the people who now have nowhere. It’s gut-wrenching. It’s bad. Are we going to rise as a society, as a tribe of humans, and take care of each other?

Learn from lop eared bunnies. [photo credit Jannes Pockele]

Today is not a day of accomplishment for me. There are murder mysteries to watch, pots of tea to be swallowed, and bed to be curled up in. Escape.

Writing about it now, a day later, there’s hardly a thing I remember, except going to session. Right decision, wrong decision? Our favourite pub in Galway closed its doors because it’s far too cramped for social distance, but Shannon’s is huge compared to Tig Coili. I’m glad I went. I doubt we’ll continue. There are a lot of videos of sessions, great tunes pouring out of my laptop, great craic at the other end of a camera.

Some nerd friends are setting up virtual sessions, if we can all get the right USB thingie and they can do all the right technical word things! Somehow, Tig Coili closing and sessions stopping – well, it sticks in my heart. The sessions never stop. Hurricane? Tunes in the pub. Ice storm? Tunes in the pub. Coronavirus…TUNES IN MY LIVING ROOM, DAMMIT! With or without the technology. There’s always YouTube, right?

Who else feels disconnected, walking through a thick, resistant fog, waiting to open your eyes in a familiar sunny morning, but it never happens?

There is a book, Connected: The Surprising Power of Our Social Networks and How They Shape Our Lives, that’s almost constantly in my mind now. Nicholas Christakis wrote it several years ago, in the early days of social media. If you can find it in your library ebook collection, give it a try! I bought it because, for me, it was a keeper. It’s on my re-read list, now that we’re all discovering how horrifically and beautifully we are connected.

“People carry dollar bills and then exchange them person-to-person in close contact, just like they carry and exchange viruses and bacteria. If the researchers could understand the movement of money, they just might be able to learn something about the spread of SARS, flu pandemics, and other deadly diseases.”

And…

“The epidemic began on January 30, 1962, when three girls aged twelve to eighteen started laughing uncontrollably. It spread rapidly, and soon most people at the school had a serious case of the giggles. By March 18, ninety-five of the 159 pupils were affected, and the school was forced to close.
The pupils went home to their villages and towns. Ten days later, the uncontrollable laughter broke out in the village of Nshamba, fifty-five miles away, where some of the students had gone. A total of 217 people were affected.
Other girls returned to their village near the Ramanshenye Girls’ Middle School, and the epidemic spread to this school in mid-June. It too was forced to close when forty-eight of 154 students were stricken with uncontrollable laughter.
Another outbreak occurred in the village of Kanyangereka on June 18, again when a girl went home. The outbreak started with her immediate family and spread to two nearby boys’ schools, and those schools were also forced to close. After a few months, the epidemic petered out.” p 124

Of course, the laughing epidemic was, as Christakis wrote, no laughing matter. People were scared. Right now, people are scared too. What Connected teaches us is how easily and quickly we can change others’ emotions by changing our own!

“If your friend feels happy, she smiles, you smile, and in the act of smiling you also come to feel happy. In bars and bedrooms, at work and on the street, everywhere people interact, we tend to synchronize our facial expressions, vocalizations, and postures unconsciously and rapidly, and as a result we also meld our emotional states.”

I feel disconnected in this fog, and most nights there’s a tiny, passing moment when I’m not quite awake, when my mind pretends that the morning is sunny, that when I open my eyes, life will be normal, and it was all a nightmare. But, as I’ve written before and probably will again, feelings are like the weather. Take an umbrella.

Oh oh – breaking into song warning! Let a smile be your umbrella! And why not?

There, don’t you feel just a little bit better? Spread it around!

March 20, 2020
Friday the 13th. I mean, why not? (COVID-19 Day 2)

The bus was late. Not just late, it disappeared. I heard the same stories of late and non-existent buses from everyone on all the routes. (SHOUT OUT – transit drivers do a great job in stupidly tough circumstances. When are we going to realize that free transit is the best thing for any city? Oh and include in that a several-times-a-day disinfecting and cleaning schedule.)

Late buses don’t seem all that important anymore.

Four cases confirmed, the university closing and moving to online classes, food services laying off people after catering cancellations pour in, so, so, many artist friends report canceled concerts, art shows, fundraiser parties, and other self-employed friends who help supply and support those events share their worry about canceled contracts.

(You already know about all the big ones like the NHL and the way arenas dumped all their low-end employees. See, they’re just doing it for (as a friend posted) shits and giggles to decompress after their full-time jobs. They don’t need the money. The players still get paid of course. OMG, how would they manage if they had to do without a paycheque?)

Schools are closing! But not for another week. Because – well. I’m not sure why. Just because.

I work at the library. Not going to talk about it because – well, again, just because. Only to say that we’re starting to feel the stress. We see the families who come to the library because that’s the only place they can access for free, and it’s such a nice environment after cramped, noisy, falling apart apartments. We see the kids doing their work there because they don’t have internet at home, and maybe they don’t want to risk taking books home then forgetting to get them back in time. I am so grateful that I have a good job.

Throughout so much of my life, while I was married for way too long to someone whose emptiness could never be filled, someone who, over and over again, took what I had just because I had it, who spent money as if he had a giant trust fund because money is a river he said whenever he wanted something, and you can’t dam it up, throughout those dismal decades, I could not have kept our children fed and clothed, could not have paid for a place to live if this pandemic had happened then.

I am so grateful for where I am now. But I shiver and feel the clench of fear in my gut each time I think of families in those desperate circumstances. Trauma lasts a long time.

I know from experience (the bitter kind, turned sweet) that meditation is my go-to medication, and without it, the trauma will take over, bitter as f, and pack away all the thinking parts of my brain. So meditation is, thank goodness (goonness, I typoed. I like that.), back in my life to lead me through this crazy world.

My son is working long, long hours outside in the cold. I’m not too worried because he has excellent hygiene, and being outside in the fresh air is a good way to stay away from nasty viruses of all kinds. But no sleep and long hours and cold, freezing cold….He has a bit of something that does seem to be no more than his usual sinus and head cold. He has a bit of a smoker’s cough. I’m going to pick up some more immune-boosting supplements and Nyquil after work.

The Rexall across the street is out of things I didn’t plan to buy anyway: face masks, hand sanitizer, and alcohol. I didn’t check the tp situation, but I do need paper towels. Wasteful, yes. One more ethical conviction that fell in the face of real life.

I’ve given in to the lure of paper towels and Swiffer, but they don’t completely rule me, not yet. Instead of fitting up the Swiffer mop with its own cleaning pads, I use paper towels to sweep and the cleaning pads for a quick hand scrub of the bathroom. Can you tell I sometimes feel guilty about it? Hardly the act of an environmentalist.

Then I think of the years, decades, when hardly a disposable anything crossed my threshold and came through my doorway. Ferry trips from Salt Spring to Vancouver Island meant taking cloth diapers and extra terry cleaning cloths, plastic bags for the dirty stuff, and (for some reason I don’t remember) a small plastic baby food container. I think it might have had some kind of baby butt cleaning goop in it in case I couldn’t get to running water. In those days, change tables were scarce. Dryer? That’s why they made the sun.

Packed lunches – waxed paper if there was no other way, lunch boxes, and hard to clean thermoses. Candles made and remade from melted wax to save on electric lights. Melting snow for baths, dishes, hair wash when the well ran dry.

I think about it, and then I forgive myself – again. Inner balance, calm, stability has a way of spreading to the people around us. Mental health first means we have the strength and energy to create environmental health.

Back in the store, it turns out they are also all out of rubber gloves – the thin disposable ones. Something else I would never use, but recently, I’ve had a couple of allergy scares when cleaning. I don’t even use “products”. But it turns out that excessive amounts of TKO can cause me to blow up like a scarlet balloon if I touch my face. Now that constant cleaning is the way of life, and disinfectant (wonderful Benefect, for choice) is coming to stay, so are rubber gloves. I’ll have to wait on the disposable ones though, and make sure to thoroughly disinfect the yellow ones every time. It’s getting complicated.

There’s plenty of cough and cold medicine, lozenges, vitamins. Is that good news? People aren’t getting sick in droves, so there’s medicine left? I don’t know, but I buy enough to get my son through this and have some leftover. The staff are friendly and patient despite what must have been a hectic day.

I’m still unsure about how I feel. Anxiety is hanging around. I see my friends’ Facebook and Instagram posts, so I know I’m not the only one. I sit down to play some slow, simple, early music on the harp, breathe with the music, focus on heart energy flowing through my arm and into my fingers. Ah. There it is, the inner serenity, the spreading pool of golden light. That’s something I can do to – maybe -help.

I make public some of my earlier harp videos and share them with friends. I don’t know if listening to it will have anything like the effect of playing it, and my harp should be plugged in since it’s not fully acoustic, and my laptop mic and camera aren’t very good, and…

Oh. You again. Listen, anxiety, I really do appreciate your protectiveness. But I’m good, thanks.

March 17, 2020
The Day it All Changed (COVID-19 Day 1)

March 12, 2020.

Yesterday, it didn’t matter very much. I took it seriously, washed my hands, did the things, but I’m old enough to remember SARS, Y2K, and AIDS. Ah. Yeah, we should have paid more attention to that one. The bar band jokes that we all laughed at and had another Guinness – well, we didn’t know. But SARS didn’t destroy the world, and Y2K didn’t even happen.

I’m not given to panic (except about all the relatively unimportant things in life, but that’s anxiety for you), so the reports coming out of Italy, for instance, only caused me to get cleaner and be more careful.

I had moments of worry about my son, already dealing with a chronic sinus infection and now dealing with chronic exhaustion from 14-hour days (and longer) on a movie crew where deadlines and money rule all, and social distance doesn’t exist. But I always have moments of worry about my son. That’s anxiety for you.

It wasn’t until the notices started arriving in my inbox and the posters started going up today that it suddenly began to matter. There is, for instance, the slow realization of how many things we touch every day.

One of the sanitizers, the one we all prefer because it has fewer potentially harmful ingredients and it smells like peppermint, has no pump attachment. You pick up the bottle, take off the broken cap, squeeze into your hand. You clean your hands – and then you pick up the dirty bottle with your clean hands and put it back together. Easy enough to fix – put the bottle back together before you spread the disinfectant over your hands. But it wasn’t until today, that any of us noticed our foolishness.

We touch computer keyboards, books, desktops, craft supplies, washroom keys, pens, mouse, scanner, computer monitor, binders, drawer handles, door handles, coffee cup handles, food. So there is the path to utter disintegration.

Wait – don’t pick up that muffin. You just held your coffeecup with that hand! Yes, you washed it out. But did you thoroughly scrub the outside? Can you remember if you touched anything else after washing it? The kettle? Did you scrub the bejeebers out of the kettle handle? Cough and sneeze into your arm? And then what? How do you disinfect your sweater sleeve? What happens when you pick up an armload of files, cradle them into your germ-infested elbow? How far does this go???

The world is already going crazy. Toilet paper! Cats everywhere are delightedly plotting access, but really? I don’t want to join the panick.

I understood how far I had plummetted (not as far as the Toronto stock market, not yet) when my friend texted me to go to the play with her. Women of the Fur Trade, sold out, excellent, and my friend is one who is always comfortable to be with.

Yet – I hesitated, and not just because I tore some hip muscle or other on the weekend and it’s still hard to sit! (That would be another forthcoming story. Warm-up before yoga, folks!) I thought about people packed together in the theatre, no windows, unsanitized seats and armrests, coughs.

This is still March 12, in frozen, far-away Winnipeg. Nothing is closed yet, there are only 3 cases, and, well, SARS, our go-to fairy story about how everything turns out just fine. This will blow over, right? And the play is very good. Just yesterday, the interwebs were full of jokes about how even Covid-19 doesn’t want to come all the way to wasteland Winterpeg.

So, I went to the play. It is as good as they said it would be. I try to not think – too much – about all the people around me, but no one is coughing. Except one of the actors.

That turns out to be part of the plot, but she peers at us quizzically, “Nothing, I’m fine. Nothing to do with any of you.” The other actors stay in character and still manage to look nonplussed, “Oops, sorry. Nothing to do with the plot either!” We laugh and settle in to enjoy.

Later that night, I worry, a little bit, about the reason I had the opportunity to go to the play: my friend’s husband woke up with a cold. But I know them well. If they say it’s a cold, then it’s a cold. It’s not the coronavirus, right?

Oh, I see. Hello, anxiety. You must really like me. Please go away, k?
[Featured Image Credit: Philafrenzy, CC BY-SA]

March 16, 2020
Oh, Hello Anxiety. You Again. Guess What?

I just had a revelation about anxiety.

Even after all this time, I had no idea that what I experience in making decisions, planning my day, or thinking about upcoming commitments is different, across-a-bottomless-abyss different, from a non-anxious person’s experience.

For instance (from the recent revelatory experience) —

booking flights takes hours, sometimes days, as I stretch thinner and thinner between choices that (as I realize once the booking is made) make no difference.

I obsessively weigh $50 saved in the flight cost against the loss of income if I take an hour off work to leave earlier and the likely costs of extra airport spending during a longer layover;

worry about whether I’ll achieve more relaxation with a few more hours of freedom in a new city or with an afternoon at home before leaving;

search online for Starbucks in the new Toronto Pearson Terminal to decide if that particular flight configuration will give me time for a Lactaid latte or if it would be better to plan a stop at Starbucks at my final destination.

These are the things that burn in my mind, demand attention, and assure me that it matters terribly what I decide, that my life will change radically post-decision, and I’d better make the right choice.

It’s all about the what-if.

Seems to me that what-if should be exciting, the premise for a new story, a dream ready to turn into a reality – not a paralyzing, depressing, energy-sucking dis of my ability.

Most of the what-ifs in my life are much smaller, so small you’d think I wouldn’t even notice them passing by each day. But I do notice, because they aren’t small, not for me, not when they are happening and their gargantuan shadows obliterate everything else.

For instance,

I have to decide what to take for lunch (I might be hungrier, or not as hungry, or not feeling well and want something else),

whether to walk or take the bus when it’s raining (the bus might be late, and then I’m late, and the rain might not turn into more than the sprinkle it is when I’m deciding, so I could have walked),

what to wear (it could be cold at work or warm, and is it going to rain?),

and which project to dive into after work (my course assignments are getting behind, but the story-writing is going so well I don’t want to stop now, and then there’s harp and fiddle. Oh, and make sure to do some yoga. And meditate!)

And, I have to get myself out the door on time with everything I need for the day.

(Where’s my phone? Wait – take an extra reusable grocery bag! Oh no, you forgot the buckwheat pancakes you just made so that you’d have something to snack on at work.)

The horrifying thing about it all is that I didn’t know.

This crazy-quilt black magic carpet I ride with clenched teeth and knotted stomach is not reality. It’s pretending to be my reality, and I’ve decided I don’t like it.

What’s a magic carpet for except to take you to better places?

The magic, I think, is black to my eyes only because my eyes are so fogged and clouded, and everything is dark.

I’m blessed and lucky: there have been enough calm and lovely moments in my life to show me that it’s possible, and I know how those moments came to me.

Meditation, writing, yoga, walking, playing harp, reading are the medicines that open my eyes and clear my clouded vision.

Yes, anxiety screams STOP in red-and-white capital letters every time I begin, no, think of beginning my medicines, but it’s not that difficult, it turns out, to reach up to that rusty old sign and shove until it faces away, until it points at Fear instead of at me.

Then I can start at the very beginning, a very good place to start…

So, I did know how to fix it. Julie Andrews told me when I was six.

(She also told me to think of my favourite things when my starter needs a boost. Not brown paper parcels tied up with string, although I remember that excitement when I was little. I’ve got meditation, writing, yoga, walking, playing harp, reading, and all they want is a word, a thought, a hint from me.)

I’m not going to pretend that not that difficult is the same as easy. It’s not easy, not at first, maybe never.

But it’s possible, and it is truly not that difficult. Sing the first notes and the rest of the song will pour out of your frightened throat.

Myths and Lies Anxiety Told Me!

Myth: Every time I see a notification for a text message, I feel the tight surge in my gut. It’s probably something terribly wrong.

Truth: I know that of the last 50 text messages I’ve received, half a dozen were things I’d rather not hear, and none were about something terribly wrong.

Lie: Loud noises make me jump because they always mean trouble; loud voices mean anger.

Truth: So often, it’s clumsiness, hilarity, deafness, and excitement making things loud–or (even more often!) the noise is not objectively loud at all. It’s just people living life, and my anxious nerves make their own crashing and conflict.

Myth: The constant deep-in-the-gut nagging knotted emptiness is my endless prescient warning that the day has piled up misfortunes to drop on my head.

Truth: Nope. That’s just anxiety, trying to protect me from, well, from everything. Take some slow breaths, note the anxiety, let go of resistance, let it be, and feel calm seep like olive oil through the unraveling knots.

What are your myths, lies, and truths? Your life will change radically as you learn to recognize the difference.

October 23, 2019
It Really Is That Simple (How To Be Happy)

Not that long ago, I accepted a second glass of wine from someone, even though I didn’t really want it. It was a group of friends and acquaintances out for a catch-up, everyone considering where to scribble their wavery line (the one we won’t cross) for the evening, and I happily meandered with them as I sipped.

~~~~??~~~~??~~~~

It’s only 9:30, I don’t work till 1 tomorrow, I’m drinking lots of water too, I don’t know, I’ve gained 20 pounds this winter, I could just drink club soda and lemon, alcohol doesn’t do anything for you except make you even less aware of filters, maybe I’ll just sip slowly while you lot get on with another pint.

(All those reasons and justifications – that’s enough for another whole series of blogs. I’m not sure it ever occurred to me to ask myself the honest question, “Do you want another glass?” and answer yes or no.)

Most of the circle moved on to the next glass of whatever they were drinking, and I didn’t. Ok, there were jokes, but it wasn’t that kind of group, and it wasn’t by any stretch a drunken party. No one (I thought) would press another drink on anyone. If someone stumbled over words and couldn’t quite figure out a complicated train of thought, someone else would probably laugh at them and ask them to say She sells sea shells. But that was it.

Until I said, meh, another glass might be nice, but…and shook my head and wrinkled my nose and shrugged because I knew the nice would not be there to help out when the unwelcome unwell woke me up at 3 am. Not worth it on a work night.

A moment later, the Someone I talked about in the first paragraph got up abruptly and returned with a glass of wine.

You can’t put a glass of wine down smartly on the table without breaking it, but the Someone managed the gestures and the attitude. “There you go,” brisk nod of the head, “There’s your wine.”

It wasn’t that long ago, but I hadn’t yet made friends with the idea that I can maintain my boundaries calmly and kindly without attachment to your (or Someone’s, or anyone’s) issues. I didn’t know that I could say any version of no.

I’m not going to pretend the wine was unenjoyable. ? I like wine, and the second glass tasted even better than the first. But too much wine doesn’t go well with simmering anger and the ugly feeling of trapped impotence that always comes along when one person sets controls on another.

What if I’d said no? Told him I didn’t want another glass of wine? People in the group would have been uncomfortable, and so many of us do not want to be the catalyst for uncomfortable.

Even now, it’s hard to deal directly with this stuff, but I know I can. How? I’m learning the secret of non-attachment. (Yes, you’ve heard that a hundred times. It works.)

“Hey, I don’t want this second glass of wine.” No false thank you, awkward smile, or apology.

Then carry on with the conversation and the good times. If this group of people can’t let it go, if they blame me, demand that I accept the unasked glass of wine or any other offering, if they want me, at all costs, even at the cost of my own sanity, to keep the Someone happy, then —

Let them. Let the threads of attachment float by untouched, and I will be happy.

(Did you think I was going to say “then they aren’t my friends!”? That could be true. But so often, it’s not. Most people do the best they can with what they know and have. I can decide if their present best is good for present me. It’s fine.

Side Note ~ they also get to decide if I am good for them. Fair’s fair.)

Helpful Hints

If you are the one who might sometimes be the Someone, here’s how to tell if the person blathering on about the wine is asking you to get a glass or if s/he’s saying no.

Did s/he answer your question of whether to buy her a glass of wine by saying, “Yes”?

(If s/he didn’t, that means no.) (if you didn’t ask – uh oh).

Did s/he look at you or speak your name and say, “[Please/I would like you to/] buy me a glass of wine.”?

(If s/he didn’t, that means no.)

If you are that Someone, and you are worried that maybe you are missing the message that s/he wants you to buy a glass of wine – well, maybe you are missing it. Maybe s/he hasn’t learned to be comfortable with straightforward communication. That’s not your problem. Making an assumption and acting on it – that is your problem. If you want to know, ask.

/It’s also completely ok to do nothing. S/he’s quite capable of getting her own drink./ 😉

Maybe later means no.

I’m thinking about it means no.

I don’t know means no.

I wonder if...means no.

It sure would be nice means no.

Maybe means no.

Side note ~ If you are the person who says those things and hopes that there will be a Someone to figure out that you do want something and then go do the thing for you… I want to say, I really want to say, smarten the $%&* up.

But it might not feel so easy. It might terrify you, it might make you ill to even think about asking for what you want.

Seems to me that the only reason not to ask would be that life has taught you hard lessons. I’m sorry.

I want you to know that it’s possible, that there are safe people and safe places where you can ask and where you can say no.

I want you to know that if you aren’t safe saying no to the people around you right now, then they aren’t your friends. Doing their best or not, they are not good for you.

You will find safe people and places. Trust your gut. Get to know your gut more so that you can hear what it’s telling you. Listen.

Blessings. I’m thinking of you.

Another side note ~ It’s also not fair to think that everyone has to do it my way. A lot of people seem to enjoy doing it their way. Whatever works.

But make sure that you are doing it your way, that you are, as they say, speaking your truth, being honest with yourself, and (this one’s important) that you don’t use false emotions to fuel your voice.

How often have you whipped up some nice fiery anger so that you feel stronger about saying something difficult?

I promise you that if you (we) stop thinking of things as difficult and let go of attachment to what he will feel, what she will say, (things which only he or she knows for certain anyway), we will all be much happier.

[Featured Image Credit: Paul S. Graham]

October 12, 2019