today was good, today was fun...

"Today is gone. Today was fun.
Tomorrow is another one.
Every day,
from here to there,
funny things are everywhere."
- Dr. Seuss

Actually, most of today was fairly average, but tonight was OUTSTANDING! 

Tomorrow will be another adventure, and time to change things up a bit, starting with a new blog. I'm moving out of my comfort zone and trying something new, something completely different, and I can't wait!! 

if you want my new blog address shot me a note, email etc and I will send it to you


AND, if my mood was a youtube video, THIS would be it.

Of shoes, and ships, and sealing-wax, Of cabbages, and kings...

So. It's been awhile. I'm not too sure about writing even now. It's not that I couldn't think of anything to write about, I've written pages and pages in my head these past few weeks, but nothing ever came past my very busy brain.
 

I wrote about Trayvon Martin and how my heart breaks at the hurt and injustice and our ability to be cruel to each other. I included the biracial Cheerrios commercial and the hate mail it received.


I wrote about Cory Monteith and the pains of addiction, my own struggles and the struggles of those I love, and about hating the deadly disease of addition and not the person addicted - a difficult thing to do, something you have to recommit to daily.

 If this were only cleared away,'  

They said, it would be grand!....

I wrote about how I spend my time looking at the world differently now, like I'm seeing so many things for the first time. I spend so much time looking at couples and trying to understand how having a partner works. I never quite got this concept. I was so very sure in my youth of  the ways things were and the way things ought to be; I wasted decades in certainty and frustration.

I may still write about the Royal baby because the birth, along with so many things these last few months have moved me to tears, tears that I don't always entirely understand.
 
All this, and songs on the radio, people walking their dog, a photo of a young man who would have been my son's age had he not killed himself 2years ago. .. 

 I know this, I am more open than I've ever been. I feel things more deeply - all things, joy, pain, love, sorrow, and very rarely, anger.

I weep for you,' the Walrus said:

      I deeply sympathize.'

With sobs and tears he sorted out

      Those of the largest size,

Holding his pocket-handkerchief

      Before his streaming eyes.

So, yeah. I'm sort of just hanging out. 'On hold' it would seem. Lots of internal musings, not too much external manifestations. I think, maybe, if I had a close friend I might process some of this more quickly. It's mainly me and my dog, me and my sketchbook, me and myself doing lots of pondering, lots of observing.

I don't think I'm lonely, precisely, I am on my own however. In the next few months two of my three children will be moving away, and a large part of my existence will be open to redefine. I look at the next 5 years of my life and see some major changes. I may go back to school. I likely will move from here, maybe, .not sure, more pondering required.
 

The time has come,' the Walrus said,

      To talk of many things:

Of shoes — and ships — and sealing-wax —

      Of cabbages — and kings —

And why the sea is boiling hot —

      And whether pigs have wings.'

Till then, I will try to write more, to develope a disipline about daily writing again. I have enough time, and I waste too much of it.

leaving Normal

There's a look you get from a pharmacist when you are picking up a lithium prescription and a home drug test at the same time. It's not pity, it's not even judgement, maybe it's sadness, or resignation, or maybe it's simply obvious that Normal and I are no longer together. Somewhere we took a wrong turn, and I just can't get us back to my life with Normal. Actually, I don't think I would recognize Normal if it walked up and asked me out for coffee, just for old times sake.

Normal and I are no longer an option. We never were an option, outside of my imagination, really. When I was young I knew how everything worked, and I knew how my life was going to turn out if I did all the right things. Normal was who I would be with. I dreamed of my life with Normal my whole childhood. Normal and I raising my kids just right so that they would never suffer through pain and anguish. Living with Normal meant my kids growing up in the same house, in a friendly neighbourhood, with nice friends. It meant me and their father and I growing together, working together, loving each other, so they could see what a good partnership looked like. Normal and I would be everything I never had, and with Normal I was going to fix everything and do things right with my family.

Many years ago I left Normal, it wasn't a friendly breakup. There were tantrums and tears and reconciliations, but eventually the relationship ended. Maybe the break up started when I realized that you can't 'fix-up' the person you marry, that my needs were valid, or maybe when I noticed that love had left my marriage a decade earlier (Love and I have a long and complicated relationship as well). Either way, Normal and I drifted further and further apart. I made better and bigger excuses. I pretended Normal and I were just fine, that what we were, and I was happy.

Then one day while I was sitting at a stop sign, I realized just how badly we had turned out. That no matter how hard I tried I could not make that pretend life with Normal real. That the framed photo of us in the family room, all smiles, was an absolute farce.

When Normal and I broke up we each got custody of certain friends and groups. Not surprising, Normal got most of the friends and a group or two. People just felt more comfortable around Normal, or maybe they were less comfortable around me without Normal, either way there were fewer people to talk to. That part was hard. I'm lying, that part hurt like a mother-fucker and it still does. Normal saunters around, pals with everyone, and I skirt around the edges of people nervously, waiting to see if they still will talk to me without Normal. Some do, some like to pretend we are still together. I have much less time for those people these days.

These days, most days, I'm glad Normal and I ended it, I'm more myself. I can speak with my own voice. I don't have to pretend Normal and I are happy until I'm nearly mad and want to scream till someone's ears bleed, but I do miss the good times. I miss the friends, the contrived ease of conversation about superficial niceties, the invites to social gatherings.

Maybe one day Normal and I can go for that coffee, maybe one day a new me and a new Normal might be friends. 

Maybe, one day.

But Wait, There's More

To Do:

• Yoga class
• Pick up Car
• Laundry
• Pay Bills
• Buy Cat food
• Purchase bulk sizes of feminine hygiene products, condoms, and chocolate

All the while humming Talking Heads......

You may find yourself living in a Pleasant Suburban Town

You may find yourself in another part of your mind

You may find yourself behind the wheel of a fuel efficient automobile

You may find yourself in a hormone filled house, with hormone filled teens

You may ask yourself, what the f*#% have I done?

Letting the days go by, let the hormones hold me down

Letting the days go by,  menstrual flowing all around

Into the loo again, after the pads are gone

Once in a lifetime, menstrual flowing all around

You may ask yourself, where did I park that fuel efficient automobile?

You may tell yourself, this is not my Messy Suburban house

You may tell yourself, these are not my hormone filled teens

Letting the days go by, let the hormones hold me down

Letting the days go by, menstrual flowing all around

Into the loo again, after the pads are gone

Once in a lifetime, menstrual flowing all around

Same as it never was, same as it never was, same as it never was, same as it never was

Same as it never was, same as it never was, same as it never was, same as it never was

Sanity dissolving and sanity removing

There is a little sanity at the bottom of the box

Remove the sanity, carry the sanity

Remove the sanity from the bottom of the box

Letting the days go by, let the hormones hold me down

Letting the days go by,  menstrual flowing all around

Into the loo again, after the pads are gone

Once in a lifetime, menstrual flowing all around

Into the store again, into the girly aisle 

Under the pads and plugs, for the flow that's come around

Letting the days go by, into the girly aisle

Once in a lifetime, menstrual flows all around

You may ask yourself, how do I know that helpful clerk?

You may ask yourself, why do these condoms cost so much?

You may ask yourself, am I sane, or am I gone?

You may hear your neighbour say, 'my god, what has she done?'

Letting the days go by, let the hormones hold me down

Letting the days go by, menstrual flowing all around

Into the loo again, after the pads are gone

Once in a lifetime, menstrual flowing all around

Into the store again, into the girly aisle   

Under the pads and plugs, for the flow that's come around

Letting the days go by, into the girly aisle

Once in a lifetime, menstrual flows all around

Same as it never was, same as it never was, same as it never was, same as it never was

Same as it never was, same as it never was, same as it never was, same as it never was

Time it is aging us, time it is after us

Time it is aging us, time it is sagging us

Time it is aging us, time it is after us

Time it is aging us.....

Letting the days go by, letting the days go by, letting the days go by, thrice in a lifetime

Letting the days go by, letting the days go by, letting the days go by, thrice in a lifetime....

and yes, I knew that helpful teenage clerk, from when he was in public school

and yes, my neighbour with different views on raising teenagers saw my mega box of condoms

and yes, I do drive a fuel efficient automobile, live in a messy hormone filled house, and mumble to myself while buying girl products, chocolate and condoms.

the days go by, the days go by, the days go by.....

dear cupid

a letter with footnotes....

Dear Cupid₁

I wanted to personally₂ thank you for all
the joy₃ you have brought into my life₄
thus far. My high school years were
especially full₅ of your special touch with
an arrow₆. As I grew and matured₇ I came to
realize the unique role₈ that you would play
in my life₉. Every step I took you were
there₁₀. I have certainly been blessed₁₁ by
your love₁₂. It is at this wonderful₁₃ time
of the year that I really feel closest to you₁₄.
So for all₁₅ you have done₁₆ I want to express
my gratitude₁₇ properly₁₈. With a kiss₁₉.

Yours with Love₂₀
R


1 you atrocious nude hooligan
2 meaning up close and quite personal
3 years personal gut-wrenching anguish
4 if you could call it that
5 of scatological moments
6 were you aiming for my forehead?!
7 tried desperately to out run you – you grotty little louse
8 of my private naked tormentor
9 of pain and turmoil
10 shooting barbed arrows in my back
11 I didn’t know Beelzebub did blessings
12 love of inflicting exquisite psychological and physical torture
13 commercially forced-fed sentimental pink drivel
14 hard to miss you with this sharp arrow in my throat – you vile bastard!
15 Every last agonizing…
16 each and every arrow through my head, my back…
17 I purchased a cross-bow
18 so I would watch your spiteful nude arse
19 would you like to know where?
20 here's to snapping your "little bow"

dreams to spare

of course it's 'normal',
part of the 'process'
but after 2 1/2 years, or
30ish months, or
about 9,000 days of
living with someone has several 'regulatory dysfunctions' (doctor's words, not mine)
in his brain
with someone who manifests these 'dysfunctions' with difficult behaviour
(difficult, defiant, dangerous, direful, dreadful, deranged - God how I love a thesaurus - behaviour) 
and even though you have been his only constant parent, and support, his sane, safe place
when he asks you, correction,
when after $4,000 in medical bills - this month,
after hundreds of miles and hours of car trips,
after you've read yourself blind to understand so you can be that sane, safe place
when he screams at you,
from his 17year old ego-bound place
"Do you know what it's like to have to give up on your fucking dreams?!"
for the first time, you can respond like that sane, safe person you work so hard to be,
even after the second and third time,
but eventually what you see is all the parts of you that you did give up,
the parts of you that gave up All of the dreams your 17year old self had,
all the dreams your 25 year old self had, and the dreams
of your 34 year old self, your 41 year old self, and the 48 year old self that is looking
straight into his grief, pain and anger
and as you stand there, with all of the lost dreams wrapped around your throat and your heart,
his and yours, because they are same for you,
will all of the dreams for him and dreams for you that you push aside
day after day after day, after motherfucking day
with all the dreams neither of you will never realize because you're certain you'll be in this hell forever
all your dreams for both of you that you don't even peak at, each, every moment, of you life, right now
because it is easier to pretend you don't want them, than to lose them over and over again,
as you stand there with all of your collective dreams smashed and weeping
on the stupid beige carpet between you
you respond "yes" in a voice that is louder than the sane, safe voice
you tell him "yes" you know "what the fuck it is like", no longer even pretending to be sane,
you tell him "yes" and so does everyone else in the world, and then you pick up new dreams,
and then you suck it up and move on and you do you best, knowing as you hear your voice
that this is not your best,
not by a long shot
but this,
this smashed, weeping, broken person is the best you have to give him
right now
and you toss another dream into heap.

one week later

'... I want to know if you can get up
after a night of grief and despair
weary and bruised to the bone
and do what needs to be done
to feed the children...."
from 'The Invitation' by Oriah Mountain Dreamer

--------------------------------------------------------

it's been one week
and I'm too damn tired to slap on
that bright and shiny plastic smile
and say all the stupid pointless, and hollow words,
to pointless, hollow plastic people - with shiny smiles - who don't,
actually,
give even the slightest of damns,
to whom,
it has never occurred
to give a damn,
about anyone but,
themselves.

it's been one week, and
the best I can do is put my head down
to sneak the odd nap,
and hope I don't drool on my arm.

one week, and I still wish they did,
give a damn, that is
I think,
Really,
that they
Should
Give-A-Fucking -Damn
that we're in so much pain over here,
HELLO.... can you see me?
can anyone see us?
fuck it.

but thinking and wishing
for people to be different doesn't
do anything but make me more nuts,
and today I quit bashing my head
against that glass wall.
today, I walk away.

today, I made myself some goddamn tea
and lit a goddamn candle,
because, somehow that's suppose to help
with
something....
I have no fucking clue what.

and now I'm writing word, after word, after Mother-Fucking Word,
that mean absolutely nothing, it's just my
word vomit on a page,
I'll write till I can't anymore, then
I'm going to draw some really ugly lines,
some terrible pictures,
and doodles, that I will hate, and I'll crumple them all up,
and throw them at the wall

and I wonder
why it is I haven't cried yet (except for that one time).
shouldn't I be crying?
shouldn't I be on the floor sobbing?
I mean really, this is really awful stuff, the stuff of every parent's nightmares
and all I can manage is tired
and occasionally snippy?
what the fuck wrong with me?

I'm just so damn tired,
my stomach feels like cold black stone, and
a boot is stomping down, Hard, on my chest, and I can't breath
but no tears, no time for tears.

maybe I'm tired enough to finally see,
really see
who the love comes from,
who is my tribe, who will hold us, and sustain us.

the rest are dross.


---------------------------------------------------

"What thou lovest well remains, the rest is dross
What thou lov'st well shall not be reft from thee
What thou lov'st well is thy true heritage...."
from Ezra Pound's 'Canto LXXXI'

sometimes you have to buy your own fucking flowers

and when you think things won’t get  worse,
that things have turned a corner,
and while it’s not rosy,
at least it’s not hell anymore,
and you dare to hope that there could be a future.

then,
that night when you’d expect to be in bed
you are driving quickly to emergency
you are driving your child
your child with the belly full of pills
and you’re hoping you get there before
it kills his liver, before
it kills him
and in your pajama bottoms you walk determinedly past people
and go to the head of the line
(how very un-Canadian of you)
and you say in a loud clear voice your son has overdosed
and you hand them the bottle
then it’s all motion, and follow me
and take off your clothes and pee in this cup
needles for blood, needles for IVs, stickers for electrodes
monitors and carts with medications
speedy doctors and nurses all talking at once
and you sit, in your pajama pants, and text his father, because
his father who was too fucking upset to do anything useful, because
his father couldn’t even manage to put on his own damn shoes
so, you’re in charge, again
you’re the one who copes, again
the one who holds the family together, again
it’s not that you mind, but
wait, you do mind, you mind a lot
you’re tired, and you’re alone and watching the speedy medical staff
and you have to answer his irritating questions with text messages

later, when it seems your son won’t die tonight,
you go home and talk down his father who is ‘very upset’
and ‘needs to vent’ and likes to
‘process his frustrations out loud’, to you, because he can’t talk to anyone else
and what the hell is he going to tell his family
(don’t answer that)

and when you finally say fuck it and go to bed
3 hours before you get up for work, and
you lay your clothes out on the floor, just in case,
just, in case the hospital calls and you have to rush back
because actually he is going to die tonight
but he doesn’t
so you go to work the next day and do the only thing you can think to do
is write a fucking poem
because that fixes everything
because you sure can’t talk to people about the latest and greatest Swirling Shit Storm
your family is going through

Here are the Swirling Shit Storm Rules:

your son goes to rehab,
no one notices
you drive 700miles a week,
you leave your daughters to fend for themselves
no one notices

your son overdoses,
no one wants to talk to you
your daughters are so tired they don’t want to talk to you
you buy your daughters ice cream and teddy bears and chocolate
but that fixes nothing
their brother is still in the hospital
and they can’t talk about it
they don’t want to talk anymore about it

your son actually dies,
well then, everyone wants to talk
people send you flowers
and bring food
and love, and there is a big get together
and everyone says nice things about your son,
about you, and they actually
talk to you and your daughters
and his father can vent to someone other than you


and there’s the rub,
until your son actually dies,
there’s no one to talk to
you’re buying the fucking flowers for yourself
and the fucking comfort food for your daughters
and talking his father, the fuck down, again,
and again
and again
because you're in this on your own
and you best just get used to it.

kindness

When I was about 10 we had a small mutt my mother had found in the alley behind the library where she worked. We called him Book. He was a street smart, funny. lovable small black mutt. He was my little brother's and my first dog, and we adored him. One night when my mom and step father were out I had a terrible feeling in my stomach about Book. That night I played with him, rubbed his belly, and must have given him half a box of dog cookies. Nothing bad happened, and I went to bed. When my they got back, my step father drove the babysitter home. We think Book must have got out and tried to follow the car. My mother woke me early the next day after she spent a sleepless night worrying and we all went looking for him. We lived about three blocks from a main street, and on the far side of that street, laying on the grass beneath a tree we saw Book. I rushed to him, and reached out my hand to wake him, and only then when my fingers touched stiff cold fur did I realize he was dead.

We buried Book in the backyard under a bed of flowers, it was the only time I ever saw my step father cry. My mother said that some kind person must have picked Book up off the road after he had been hit, and laid him gently on the grass for us to find him. Tied up with the sadness of losing our dog was the thought that someone had been kind to him, and also to us by taking the time to stop, pick up his body and gently place in on the grass.

Late last night I was coming home with my daughter and we saw the body of tortoise shell cat on the road. We circled round and stopped just behind it. She looked like she had been a well loved pet. She looked like she had died instantly. We stood and looked at her silently, my car's headlights illuminating her. After a moment I walked back to my car and got a small white gym towel from my yoga bag. I knelt down and wrapped her still warm and pliable body in it and carried her to a grassy area under a small tree. Her back legs and fluffy tail stuck out from the end of the towel and her fur stirred slightly in the wind. I placed my hand on her side and said how sorry I was she had died. We stood a moment more and got in the car and drove the rest of the way home.

Four years ago when our young, beautiful, and  foolish dog Willow got out of the yard and was run over, many people stopped, someone called me and we rushed to spend our last moments with her before she died. Someone brought a blanket that they never saw again, another person brought a board for us to lift her shattered and dying body into our car. My daughter sobbed, held her face, and said her name over and over again. The driver of the car stood crying. Before we got in our car to rush Willow to the vet in some mad hope that she could be saved, I went to the driver and told him it was not his fault. She was a skittish dog, and very fast, and he could not have avoided her. I didn't want him to carry any more grief and guilt than he was already going to. I don't remember anyone from that day. I have never been able to thank them for stopping, for helping our dog and us when it was most needed.

We never knew who carried Book from the road that night almost forty years ago, but that act of kindness stayed with me. It helped me tell the driver it was not his fault; it is what guided me when I carried the cat from the road last night. One act of kindness decades old still touches me and through me touches the world. Such is the way of kindness.

cheating corpse

Tonight I did my last evening beach side evening yoga class. It's a beautiful place, the Yoga Temple, ocean on one side, jungle on the other, images of Buddha, and a fountain with a small stream of water. I decided instead of lying down in the traditional Savasana (corpse pose), that I would remain in Siddhasana, or seated meditation pose, and, being the rebel that I am, that I would keep my eyes open. All the lights were off, and surprisingly I found it easier to be completely present when I could see the upright silhouette of our yoga teacher, the beach and ocean beyond him, and the full moon rising over the water, when I could hear the tide and the breathing of those around me. I caught glimpses of bats, and heard the sound of countless jungle insects and animals.

In yoga I try to be the best, I work very hard to get everything exactly right. My downward dog is a thing of beauty, I can do tree with my eyes closed (very briefly, I'm working on it, alright?) and with hands in reverse prayer (not bragging, just saying), I can do crow without falling on my face, and on a good day, headstand. I'm not bad, above average depending on the group I'm with, so my sitting posture was naturally, flawless. I was perfectly in, on and around the moment, I was the damn moment, you get what I'm saying here? I was doing everything exactly right. 

In front of me an elderly couple from NYC lay in Savasana. They had struggled through the class, the man especially; we won't even mention his Warrior 2, and I never got a look at his downward dog, because I was too busy admiring mine from behind in the mirrors at the rear of the room, but they were both in good spirits throughout class, despite not being able to do most of the poses. While I sat, flawlessly, taking in the beautiful evening and congratulating myself for my excellent pose, I watched the man's hand reach toward his wife, and her hand reach toward him. They held hands for the final minutes of Savasana, their imperfect yoga finishing perfectly.

No tengo hombre. Necesito el chocolate

Today, bag over squared shoulders, worn, slightly moist map in hand, I went on a quest. A charged by God with a most sacred and holy quest. A quest for chocolate (no, I was not banging two coconuts together, but I could have, they were everywhere). I'm a woman of few vices, (yes, I typed that with a straight face) only coffee and chocolate really, and a certain weakness for men with particular accents, and I am rather fond of butter tarts, but that's not really a vice because butter tarts are Canadian and therefore it is patriotic to love them.

but I digress.

I was told that a smile would usually be enough to get me around here, which is good because I can tilt my head, flip my hair and smile, and also good because my knowledge of Spanish is muy muy poco.

Aside: Chocolate is the same in Spanish, English and French (not precisely, but close enough). Perhaps love or music are not the universal language, perhaps all you need is chocolate? Think about it people.

an here we see how 'just a smile' looks

After wandering around aimlessly for at least five minutes, I found a tiny old man with a large rifle across his lap. I'm used to the rifles now, but I did not take his picture, cute as he was. Smiling, I said "hola, hablas Inglés?" Hola is a great word, you say it to everybody and smile and then they forgive your horrifying Spanish. He replied "yes, I speak English". Thirty seconds later I realized we had both used up almost our entire vocabulary in the other's language. Fortunately someone else came along who wanted to help, unfortunately she knew less English than my friend with the gun. I did understand "¿dónde está tu hombre?",  "No tengo hombre". Sigh.

We managed with smiles, pointing at the map and road, and me doing some really impressive charades (really, really could-make-a-living-busking-on-the-streets impressive charades) to get me through the streets, between the rápido motorcycles, cars, buses, taxis and the odd rooster, and to the shop with chocolate, and there I blended in perfectly, in my own mind.

Back in my room, I eat an entire package of chocolate cream cookies, and all is right with the world again (there is more chocolate for tomorrow, which I am Going. To. Leave. In. The. Cupboard tonight)

 My new Spanish expressions today? Estoy perdido. Lo siento (I'm lost, sorry) and Estoy en busca para chocolate (I am looking for chocolate).

how a 72 year old Korean man and yoga are teaching me to surf

oooh, Roberto.... 

Today the sun is out, so today is the day I began surfing lessons, with Roberto.... (roll those rrrrrr's people). Turns out I'm not too bad, this has been reported to me by my surfer hostess, I thought I looked hopelessly clumsy. Tomorrow I will go to my second lesson.

Tomorrow I there are several things I will remember:

1. Do NOT wear the low waisted bathing suit bottoms because (a)they try to slide off each and every time I flop (a generous description) up onto the board, giving my hot young surf instructor a half moon I'm certain he is still traumatized by, (b) they try to fall off in front when I'm paddling into waves and do a 'surfing upward facing dog on a board' like I;m suppose to do when cresting large(ish) waves (no idea who I'm traumatizing there, (c) they try to escape into the ocean each and every time I fall off my board.
2. For Heavens sake Keep Your Mouth CLOSED when traveling towards a large(ish) wave, falling lamely off my board, and ducking under the water to capture escaping bottoms.
3. A smallish wave in the face will do more to clean your sinus than any pharmaceutical or nasal spray every could.
4. Stay LOW. Lean FORWARD. Leaning backwards is the Number 1 cause of bathing suit bottom escape attempts because one hits the water ass first.
5. Everything comes from your core, you control the board with your core - try to remember that.
6. Two hours surfing uses ALL of the muscles in your body, including your sinus muscles, I'm not sure if they exist, but something is getting a workout inhaling and exhaling gallons of ocean at a time.
7. All surf instructors are HOT, which makes repeatedly falling on your ass because you didn't lean forward, and losing your bottoms each time you get on your board even more mortifying.

So where does the little Korean man come in? Master Chang is my Hapkido instructor. I swear the fist words he learned in English were LOWER, HIGHER and FASTER. I have spent hours and days and weeks in Horse-riding stance with one are extending in front of me while he walked around saying LOWER!

In yoga I have spend just as many hours, days and weeks in horse-riding stance, and Goddess (which I renamed Pooping Waitress, but that's another blog). I've also done, approximately  1 billion* Yogi core strengthening exercises (*estimated).  So, when I was shown how to crest waves in downward facing dog, no problemo (except for opening my mouth and swallowing ocean). When I was told to hop up and bend my knees LOWER on the board NO problem, I have quads of steel. 

Now all I have to do is keep my butt covered, close my mouth and stay on the board. So tomorrow while you all are eating turkey and opening presents I will be taking on the ocean again with better bottoms and hopefully less salt water inside my head. Merry Christmas!

me and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day and a half

*Spoiler Alert: Pity Party in full swing (The Smiths "I Know It's Over" playing softly in the background - look up the lyrics, no really, Do It) combined with PMS, and "I'm All Alone For Christmas and Really Bummed About It" Syndrome. Read ahead at your own risk.

I hate this place and  I want pack up all my toys and go home.

But I'm in the Caribbean, how could I possibly be unhappy?

Well, it's raining. It has been raining since I got here. I think it started raining when my plane was descending (because the weather was just great before I arrived - I might add that when I arrived in Montreal it started raining there too)  Today, at about 11:06, there was about 20 minutes of sunshine during which I jumped into my bathing suit and covered myself in sunscreen. That did it, it started raining again. Rain is forecast right up until the day I leave.

Good thing I've got a nice place to stay in.

In the place I'm staying if it rains, the ceiling leaks - in three places - and the floor in that room can give you 'shocks' if you're barefoot. The 'door' has two open metal grates that bugs like to fly in through. One of the open areas is to reach my hand through and clamp on the padlock on the outside of the door to lock it at night - no getting out quickly for me. Also the bedroom is right up against the owner's kitchen so every word, every bark, every musical note come through clear as a bell, especially since the bed's head board is against that wall.

The ocean is a 15 minute walk away, and there is a yoga studio there, and little restaurants, and cute things like families with grandparents and kids all together for a "Christmas Holiday in the Fucking Caribbean", just like what my kids are doing  - thanks to ex mommy-in-law dearest - without me. It's lovely to sit out the rain (because rain or not, I going to go be by the ocean, goddammit)  in a quaint restaurant where they make great hummus, until three families that appear so very similar to my own come in and surround me with their happy happy family time.

As Alexander's mom says at the end of the book (Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day in case you didn't get that from the blog's title), "Today was a difficult day, tomorrow will be better."

I sure hope so, because I just ate my last piece of chocolate.

Also, "Beautiful Boy" is likely not the best book choice for me right now, where's Bridget Jones when you need her?

ps. for you who didn't look up those lyrics, you know who you are....


"If you're so funny
Then why are you on your own tonight ?
And if you're so clever
Then why are you on your own tonight ?
If you're so very entertaining
Then why are you on your own tonight ?
If you're so very good-looking
Why do you sleep alone tonight ?
I know ...
'Cause tonight is just like any other night
That's why you're on your own tonight
With your triumphs and your charms
While they're in each other's arms..."
It's so easy to laugh
It's so easy to hate
It takes strength to be gentle and kind
Over, over, over, over
It's so easy to laugh
It's so easy to hate
It takes guts to be gentle and kind
Over, over
Love is Natural and Real
But not for you, my love
Not tonight, my love
Love is Natural and Real
But not for such as you and I, my love..."

my home and native land

I forget the subtle things I love about Canada. I don't get home very often, and this time I'll have been here for only 15 hours on an overnight stopover on my great adventure. I'm in Montreal which means I hear more French than English. Canada is a bilingual country, and I am always amazed at how anyone from shuttle drivers to coffee shop employees effortlessly switch from one language to the other. My own French allows me to say please and thank you, ask the time, read and order food (mostly, I've had a few surprises) and the odd small saying. I'm certain my appalling accent gives me away immediately, but I still mumble my small vocabulary. Occasionally this will get me a full response in French, to which I can only respond with a politely frozen smile until the individual realizes they are dealing with an "Anglophone", and then repeat themselves in English.

Canada, I don't think you realize how cool you are. People complain about having everything in two languages, everything from cereal boxes (my first French lessons) to government employees in Alberta. In Quebec the French language is legislated as the dominant language. You require a level of fluency to graduate from high school here and signs must be entirely in French, or have French in much larger letters. This and the disagreements between the Quebec and Federal governments can be frustrating.

But here's the thing. I've lived in the US for almost ten years now and I hear plenty of Spanish, and in some neighbourhoods there are signs in Spanish. It seems insane that Spanish is not an official language in America, but it's not. It's seen as the poorer language, the language of immigrants, possibly illegal immigrants, and if you live in the US and speak Spanish and look even slightly Mexican, it is perfectly acceptable for authorities to ask to see you papers, to detain you, to deport you. Mothers and fathers can be arrested and sent to deportation centers with no way to contact children and family at home (home meaning in the US). I find this appalling, I am an immigrant and have never been asked to provide proof of citizenship. I have an American friend of Mexican decent who speaks perfect English, and while she was in Texas on a business trip was approached by police during a professional lunch and asked for ID. She showed them a driver's license, and was told she needed to provide proof of citizenship, and because she didn't have her (American) passport with her they "detained" her under treat of deportation until her husband arrived with her passport.

Right, so I got slightly off topic there. Canada, you're cool, even if you're not always aware of it, which makes you even cooler.

Also, I've got some pretty awesome Canadian friends, with whom I had a fabulous dinner with last night. Stayed way too late, but it was so good to connect again. I must get back home more often.

I may have left my pocket handkerchief behind

I may be the world's worst packer. Four hours with the surfaces of my bed, bedroom floor, bath room and hallway covered in "stuff I need to pack", "stuff I want to pack", four of five lists of "stuff I bloody well better NOT forget to pack" and Christmas stuff that I will wrap up after Christmas when the kids and I get to have our holiday.

Even after I got it all "stuffed" I kept thinking I'd forgotten something critical and would unpack until I found what I had forgotten I'd already packed, and then, I'd have to repack it all again. This all ended up with a very late bedtime. The sleep deprivation from an early wake up time has only added my dis-organizational skills and poise today.

In the airport my suitcase was 10lbs over - those 10lbs? Books. I had to unpack enough literary weight and cram it into my already poorly chosen and poorly packed carry-on bags. I "lost" my Kindle (yes, I brought a Kindle AND books, you'd understand if knew me) for about 20 minutes and was all set to march back up to the Full Body Scan Area (I'm special that's why) and see if I had left it there when I discovered right where I had packed it. I may have been somewhat of a spectacle, patting down all my pockets, walking in circles madly unpacking my carry-ons in the lounge, while everyone else sat there composed and reading, or snacking or playing Temple Run on their iPads.

This adventure has turned me into a clumsy, scattered, and unorganized ditz; I can almost feel my hair turning blonde (sorry politically incorrect, my bad). Me, who is used to packing for 3 kids for extended car trips. Me, one who co-ordinates multiple complex schedules simultaneously whilst grocery shopping, driving, cleaning etc, etc. I'm Queen Multi-fucking-Tasker, and I seem to have completely fallen apart.

The good news is I've made it to Montreal, and all the way to the hotel, and only had to ask 7 or 8 people at the airport for help. More good news (typing as my stomach rumbles) in 20 minutes I am meeting (assuming I can find my way back to the Lobby, but that's another blog) 2 friends I haven't seen since I moved to the US, and we're going out to dinner.

The not so fun news, I have a 4am wake up call for my morning flight, I'll write about that tomorrow.

*Sorry there's no pictures, only bare bone blogging tonight. Later, I will have pictures, wonderful tropical pictures, pictures of birds, plants, my feet in sandy locations.... now, it's time for dinner!  Bon séjour!

an adventure was about to happen

I'm getting ready for an adventure.

Something I've never done before. I will be all on my own, knowing no one, in the Dominican Republic for 8 days. No kids to get from here to there. No household chores that need doing. No commitments, no errands or jobs. No morning alarm, and no bedtime. No structure to my day except what I make of it. To be honest I'm not sure how I will cope with this.

Being an organized person I like to prepare. Firstly, I have had all visible body hair removed, and/or trimmed, and/or coloured. My toenails are being done today, bright red, and all those nasty callouses will be sawed off. Also, I'm actually succumbing to vanity (who am I kidding, I'm vanity's bitch) and getting a spray tan tomorrow, so when I meet two old friends in Montreal for dinner during my stop over, I will look like I'm returning from vacation instead of going to. Seeing old friends is another reason I am going to extra yoga classes, so I can pretend that I effortlessly and always look svelte and fabulous (I have never said I wasn't superficial, you can check).

Aside: Spray tans, What I Only Just Found Out: it's me, naked, in a room with a 'professional' spraying every inch of  my pasty-glow-in-the-dark white skin with a tan-in-a-can airbrush. THAT will be dignified, and then you let it 'cook' for different times depending how dark you want to be. I'm going for that just slightly bronzed enough to cover the jiggly parts of my thighs and tummy. I know, I KNOW, there will be people who will be disappointed in me for doing this. Who will think I should be proud of my white skin and not condone unhealthy sunbathing habits. To them I can only say, I have a Groupon, what can you do?

Many people would be able to pack for such a trip with just a carry on. Not me, I've never packed lightly in my life. My Kindle will take up less room than the six or seven books I'd pack, but I may just pack the books as well.

Also, I will need:

•  art supplies, sketch books, pencils, markers, paints, special Art Doodle journal that I've had for a year and not made a mark in.
• camera supplies, lens. memory cards etc,  because you know I can't go anywhere without taking several thousand photos of it.
• writing supplies, pretty journal, nice pens, laptop to blog and share with etc.
• hair supplies, another reason not to check my bag, no WAY 3oz of anything will be enough to last me for 8 days, seriously!
• yoga outfits for yoga on a paddle board, and on the beach, yes it's true, I will downward dog it anywhere with anyone
• cute dress to flirt with local men, positive thinking here, I didn't get all that hair removed, and spray tanned for nothing.
• bathing suits (two piece! yes, this really is an adventure).
• several fabulous, but oh so causal "this-old-thing" outfits - see cute dress and hair removal comments.

There is more, sunscreen, passport, SHOES, but you get the idea.

I hope you will all still love me after this unabashed display of vanity and superficiality, and I promise you a profound thought or two in blogs to come, till then it's packing and unpacking obsessively till flight time.

the year of the dragon

When I turned 44, I let go of my inner critic (the one who warned of sagging, and distortion and of future embarrassment) and  I used the money my mother sent me for my birthday and I got my first tattoo, a 5cm in diameter spiral sun burst, it sits just above my heart. People can only see hints of its edges with most clothing I wear, which is what I wanted. I wanted a sun to remind me of my inner radiance, and I also wanted to tease people, just a bit. In Yoga you see a lot of tattoos. Not so many skulls, or flames, more OM symbols, butterflies, birds, flowers, all very, well, Yoga like.   In a Yoga top, in a few positions you can see all of it, which is great in Yoga, I fit right in.

My mother, who owns 20 cashmere twin sets, irons all bed sheets, and who is always socially impeccable, was appalled, which made me smile, just a bit. She warned how awful it would look when I was 70 and 80, when my breasts were racing to my waist, how I would regret this, which made me smile just a little bit more into my artfully arranged salad (we were out for a civilized lunch at the time).

My daughters were awestruck with my new coolness.

That was 4 1/2 years ago, and I want another, two actually. My oldest daughter, who has three (all small and very clever and tasteful) is thrilled. I want a Dragon, like the one I had airbrushed onto the back of my shoulder during a girl's weekend in Provincetown, to remind me of my inner dragon, and also to look just a little bad ass in Yoga. It's the Year of the Dragon, my year, and I am discovering the closer I get to 50, the less I worry about what other people think, or what I will look like when I'm 70, or 80, or even 90. Personally, I think I'll look kind of cool, but who knows, I'm not there yet.

The other tattoo I want will go along the edge of my right foot, so I can see it when I'm meditating. It's a line from a favourite poem "What I do is me: for that I came".

Any there it is. What I do IS me. It's taken nearly fifty years of trying things the hard way, of trying to fit what I am into everybody else's definition for me, for me to realize I like me as I am, and starting from there is as good a starting place as any.

Here is the actual poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins

As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves - goes itself, myself it speaks and spells,
Crying What I do is me: for that I came."

in case you were wondering

Dear World,

I need a new job. I can write, edit, create, organize, and I am embarrassingly dependable. I have flexible hours, I'm fun to work with and I get things done on time, with a smile. I'm calm and efficient in chaos and can think on my feet, and also in more sedate environments while sitting down. I have been a Registered Nurse, Medical Office Manager, Editor, Published Writer, Artist and Photographer, and Volunteer Mentor, Teacher and Homeless Shelter worker . I have managed groups of people in hectic environments, such has hospital wards, large groups of youth, and homeless shelter kitchens. I also work happily with technology, and without.

I look forward to your response.

Yours sincerly,
Ruth Elliott

a thousand ways

Heading home after 6 glorious days in New England the small airplane I'm flying in rises above the clouds. Now I've flown above clouds countless times, but this time it seems special. 

Perhaps I'm so moved by the clouds because I've just been beside, on, and around the ocean for the last five days. The closest feeling I can come up with is privileged. I feel privileged to be able to look out to the horizon and see nothing but clouds. It seems so marvelous that my eyes tear up as I write this. It's just a smallest glimpse into the scope of this world, an ocean in the sky, and it has me sniffling into my cocktail napkin. 

I need this feeling, this deep reverence that I feel whenever I am near the ocean, flying over clouds, watching the fall leaves turn colour and swirl around me. I need to stop and just take it in, sit quietly and simply look. To look outside and inside of myself. It is easy for me to get caught up in my tiny troubles, to clutch them tightly to my chest and squeeze my eyes shut and forget the privilege (there's that word again) it is just to be alive and breathing in this world. 


“There are two ways to live: You can live as if nothing is a miracle; or, you can live as if everything is a miracle.” 

Albert Einstein

 When I am not hunched over with the weight of my worries, eyes closed, fingers clawing my heart, I can see that absolutely everything is miraculous - every breath, every drop of water in the clouds, the ocean, in the trees, in my own body, breath and blood everything is a miracle. Writing this now is easy, I have spent days with ocean and with a dear friend. I have spent time with my bare feet in the sand, with cold salty waves breaking over my legs, I have seen whales, their existence so ordinary and so wondrous that I am still humbled and lack the words to express my deep thankfulness and awe at their very being. 

I watch birds, and seals flow with the rises and valleys of the ocean, floating on the surface takes no effort if you let your body flow with the undulating water. Seals don't marvel at how easily they maneuver in the water, whales seem oblivious, it, to their beauty and magnificence. 

I have spent a painful year clutching my own fears, hurts and resentments tightly to my chest, barely breathing at times in fear of letting any of them go. My time by the water and with Patti allowed me to exhale finally open my arms and let go of my clutched wounds. I could breathe in the ocean and it entered every part of me. As I return home to my same life I am carrying less pain, at least for now. 






As Kingfishers Catch Fire
by Gerard Manley-Hopkins

As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves — goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying Whát I dó is me: for that I came.

What I do is me: for that I came. I struggle so much to fit myself into different boxes for different purposes and roles, the concept of truly being myself is both frightening and exhilarating. I'm not sure who me is, or what I think of myself. In yoga we say relax into the ease and grace of the position; on the ocean, float on that ever changing surface, find your ease in the world you inhabit. The seals with their gentle faces glide within the waves and seem to look at the world with such acceptance. Seals don't complain about having to be wet, about eating fish, you never see one despair over wanting wings, the natural world does not do this. It exists in the grace of the world. What would it be like to live a  life like that? A life where you stopped fighting with yourself, where moved with and trusted the waves to carry you.

On one excursion we found a tiny bookstore with an entire table of Mary Oliver poetry books, signed no less! Our not-so-inner poet nerds went wild. My newest Mary Oliver (signed!) book sits beside me as I write this and watch the clouds. Mary Oliver seems to have come close to being at ease and in awe of the world and I envy and am inspired by her.

Wild Geese

not a goose, I realize

by Mary Oliver


You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting --
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.






The Summer Day
by Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

Patti taught me a new word, Godwinks. I had never heard it, but what a wonderful idea, and reminder to pay attention to the daily miracles that happen all around us.

We are descending now, into the clouds, that beautiful white fog, and soon I will be back in my busy life, but for now I am floating. Just for now I can do anything, I can be myself, I can be aware of the miracles unfolding all around me and I can stop, and just breathe anytime I need to.







“Today I wake up empty and frightened. Don’t go to the door of the study and read a book. Instead, take down the dulcimer, let the beauty of what you love be what you do. There are a thousand ways to kneel and kiss the ground, there are a thousand ways to go home again.” – Rumi