It’s not a short read. You will need about ten minutes to go from top to toe.

What I’m hoping for, as always, is to find a connection, and in that, uncover our collective commonness. For it’s in the sharing of stories that we have a unique and very personal opportunity to see each other, up close. And, I believe that, in sharing stories, even those most difficult of ones to speak out, we can learn how to love and forgive each other better, one narrative at a time.

I have heard it said that the one thing more important than actual forgiveness is to believe that one is forgivable. But it all starts with a story…

J.

I don’t know if anyone was more surprised by my Mother’s death than she was.

In the last week of Mommy’s life I recall one of those rare occasions when our eyes locked for a split second; my blue eyes met her green eyes. It was Easter Sunday twenty one years ago and she had a tube poked into to her side, brownish-yellow liquid mixed with air bubbles slowly seeping into the bag below. Propped up in the hospital bed, head leaning to one side, she said, “It’s not coming out as much as the doctor hoped.”  Her eyes told a story I wasn’t ready to hear.

My Mother’s left eye had a perpetual droop and for as long as I could remember it was always half closed. There were a few exceptions, the times when she’d force the muscles around her eye to lift it up, taking her eyebrows along for the ride, creating a sort of deer-in-the-headlights look for the camera. A second after the flash of the bulb and the click of the shutter, her eyelid would be back down again, resuming it’s natural position, cutting her vision by half. I was used to seeing my Mother that way – one eye closed – but I know it annoyed her to not only have her sight reduced, but also to have her image reduced … as in how people saw her.

My Mother was a beauty. This is what she told me more often than was probably necessary. She would have said it like this: “Your Mother used to be a beauty, you know!”  Perhaps she thought I was interested in who she used to be, but really, I think she was more interested in reminding herself of the times gone by when people would turn their heads – both the men and the women. I have had many people, not just my Mother, tell me that she was a very beautiful woman. Snappy!  is a word I’ve heard to describe her. But, by the time my sister and I arrived on the scene, she’d already lived three or four lifetimes and was worse for the wear.

When she was five, she (along with the rest of the Mennonites in South Russia) was expelled and sent on the trip of a lifetime. Trekking by foot and train, showered by snow, bombs and shells, chased by tanks and everything else symbolic of the Second World War, she was orphaned in a small town in Northern Germany where she didn’t belong. She was sent on a ship across the Atlantic, alone, ending up on farm in Grimsby, Ontario. She’d been excommunicated by half of that same family who had adopted her and the church where she had faithfully taught Sunday School. She birthed two babies, gained some baby fat and had both of her cancerous breasts removed before getting divorced. Her happiest moments were somewhere in the middle of all that … when she’d had freedom, an income and a body she could rely on.

On this day in my memory, both of her green eyes were wide open, a very rare sight so I paid extra attention.

Her body had been bloating up, gradually and steady. It’s hard to say exactly when I began to notice. Apple cider vinegar soothed her dry, itchy skin, so I learned to rub my Mother’s body with a cider soaked cloth so she would have some relief from time to time. Her skin was slowly stretching thin over a bag of water-logged flesh. What weight she was losing from the cancer, she was gaining in fluid, starting in her liver and gradually collecting at her extremities.

The fluid in her feet was the final straw.

On Good Friday, two days earlier, she could put her shoes on and went to an evening concert. Her date that night was Gladys Smith, the church pianist, who had arthritis so severe that her fingers were on 45 degree angles. Sideways. And still, bent fingers and all, she played the church piano as if it were her lover. The passion was a little much for our small conservative congregation. Often we were stunned into silence. Maybe we’d clap awkwardly afterward, feeling as though we’d just been witness to an R-rated scene that no one dared admit to watching. Gladys’ piano solos were like that. Passionate and yet unnerving. But beautiful. So beautiful.

Perhaps this is what Gladys and my Mother had in common. They were two ladies who never gave up. Gladys truly should not have been able to play the piano with her hands, ruined as they were, and yet, she continued to coax magic from those keys. She even crocheted. Borrowed time, perhaps. My Mother also lived on borrowed time, spending it recklessly as though it would never run out.

Gladys picked Mommy up and they went to the concert. Mommy wore shoes that night because she could. She also walked that night because she could.

On Saturday, she and I went for a slow stroll around the block. It was the day in between Good Friday and Easter Sunday; the cheese slice in an Easter sandwich. We managed to get around the small block with my arm around her arm, just like we used to do when I was a kid. Her small steps alarmed me. Once we had rounded the block she declared “Your Mother can still walk around the block!”. And then she reminded me, once again about not being a spring chicken any longer. She often referred to herself in the third person, using “Your Mother” in place of “Me” or “I”. She would have said, “Your Mother’s not a spring chicken, you know!”. 

Usually, when I’m confused, I have no words. I get so many thoughts, questions and feelings coming from behind me, up and over, covering my head and my eyes … they get all tangled and mixed and I am rendered speechless. On that day, my Mother was 56 years old and I believed she could do anything she set her mind to. She reminded me she wasn’t a spring chicken, but as far as I knew, if she really wanted to, she could climb a mountain or ride her bicycle across the city or build a rock garden any time she pleased. She could dig a hole in the ground like nobody’s business, move a bush from one side of the yard to the other and get anything unstuck saying “It just needed a little elbow grease. Your Mother still has some get-up-and-go!”  Mommy was stronger than me in every way I could imagine and yet here she was congratulating herself on simply walking around the block.

I was confused. And so, in typical teenage fashion, I dismissed it from my mind.

Probably four months before Easter, in or around autumn, my Mother declared that she was going to a healing service. She asked if I would come. By then, I had been to countless healing services and, frankly, my curiosity had worn off. They were all starting to look the same to me. Every one had a similar method to evoke the the spirit of God to descend and bless people with healing powers. But not everyone got blessed or slain in the spirit. Sometimes you had to repeat words or special phrases, other times just get oil put on your face. Occasionally, The KISS method was applied – as in Keep It Simple, Stupid. In those cases, simple prayer was the chosen method.  I began to strategize and wonder if it was most beneficial to be at the front of the line leading up to the stage, just in case the preacher’s anointing only lasted so long; I was worried that the healing mojo might run out by the time he got to my Mother.

Attending healing services began to seem a bit like playing Russian Roulette. If you went to enough of them and of many various varieties, surely one of those times healing would come your way. That is, if you had enough faith. I seriously doubted my Mother’s faith on this issue. Later, I began to doubt my own – as though, if I had enough faith, I could maybe have helped the cause. I also wondered if my own lack of faith was the bad apple in the bushel spoiling the whole bunch.

One healing service that stands out in my mind was held at Sir Winston Churchill High School in St. Catharines. As usual, Mommy and I went together. After the preaching was preached, it was time to put your faith to the test and line up for the healing. She left me alone in the nosebleed seats and walked down to the stage where we had seen a production of Pirates of Penzance a few years earlier (Incidentally, my first musical and a fantastic performance!). I watched as person after person fell to the ground, usually backward, but sometimes forward, after the healer gave them a small pat on the forehead. This was called the “Anointing of the Spirit”. Some went down easy and others needed a bit of a nudge or a second try. Once slain, they’d lay there. Some laid very still, while others convulsed or wept, but all eventually got up and exited stage right. I assumed, if they could walk, that they’d been healed from whatever their ailment was. This particular night, the healer/preacher was on a role, and now it was Mommy’s turn. Watching her, my heart thumped inside my bowels, nearly quaking my whole body. I grabbed the top of the seat in front of mine to find some balance while I tried to squash the hope rising in me.

She walked up, spoke quietly with the preacher and then he stood back, praying and calling on the Deity in the Lord’s Name, claiming the power of God and Jesus while casting out a few demons for good measure. When he moved his hand to my Mother’s forehead, I felt tingles run up and down my body. I imagined my Mother being filled with the Spirit and all of her insides being cleaned and renewed, the cancer cells vanishing into thin air. I imagined going home, celebrating and laughing at how we all thought she was going to die, but then she didn’t die after all. We’d talk about how we beat the system, consulted the right people and found the secret code all the while making sure we thanked the healer/preacher and God. What had been done could just as easily be reversed.

He continued in a loud and authoritative tone. I prayed, too, but with my eyes open.

Mommy looked small on the wide stage. I saw her one good eye close as his hand came forward.  She was trying her best to be submissive and to play the part of the receiver. His open hand rested on her forehead as he spoke and he applied more pressure. She leaned back under the weight, but she didn’t fall. He pushed harder. Her leg stretched back, bracing herself. The prayer continued. I began to pray that she would fall down like all the other parents had.

With a steady hand on my Mother’s head, the preacher gave a more aggressive push. Again nothing. There was a woman standing close by, ready to catch and lay her down as soon as she was successfully slain in the spirit. But now it was a battle of wills. My Mother was not an actor on a stage. If she was going down, it would be because she had no choice. Truly, if the Spirit could heal, the Spirit could also slay her without the help of a sickly middle-aged woman.

I gave the preacher an ‘ A’ for effort as I watched him increase in assertiveness and push my Mother’s forehead even harder. Tears streamed down my face. Healing or no healing, I just wished she would be slain already. My Mother took another step back and then another while the catcher kept pace in the rear and the preacher pushed onward. They were a conga line on a stage, my Mother leading from the centre with the other two dancers keeping pace and time at her front and back. The three of them, preacher, Mother and catcher, conga-lined all the way from centre stage to stage right, where the stairs were. The preacher prayed without ceasing, his hand firmly planted on my Mothers forehead. They would have toppled over the edge and into the crowd, if someone hadn’t given in.

Once stopped, my mother opened her eye, politely said thank you very much and didn’t have to walk far to get to the stairs as they now were right beside her.

She came back to her seat, her bangs slick with anointing oil. I couldn’t even look at her. In the car she said, “Well, that was interesting!” I was speechless and mortified as she went on to tell me “Your Mother was once the only person in a class to NOT get hypnotized!” Apparently hypnotism and healing services had something in common. She beamed with pride at her memory of being too head-strong to hypnotize. To me, there was nothing prideful about being the only one who didn’t get healed.

At another healing service which I didn’t go to, my Mother came back to announce that her eye had been healed! She went to the front, got prayed over, then her eye opened up without any effort at all. By the time she got home, the eyelid was already starting to wane. By morning it was nearly closed again. I suppose this was a temporary healing? This one confused me more than any of the others as I could see something HAD actually happened, but it wasn’t powerful enough to last. I truly wondered what that meant and what it meant for my Mother. It gave me just enough hope to keep believing she’d eventually be chosen and healed or hypnotized or whatever. And it was this hope that kept me blinded to the truth that was right in front of me on Easter Sunday morning when she couldn’t get her shoes on.

“Your Mother couldn’t get her shoes on” she said when I came home from church. “How can I go to church without shoes?” She was speaking in both third person and first person.  I followed along and tried to imagine her at church in bare feet or stockings and she was right, it couldn’t be done. At least not in early April when the ground hadn’t yet fully thawed. Shoes were an absolute must for going out. I hadn’t realized how important shoes were.

She showed me her bare feet which looked as if they belonged on one of those dolls made from panty hose, stuffed with cotton balls and pulled tight with thread at the joints. Hers were shockingly wide feet and very good for swimming. Not like mine, slender and elegant. Mommy was always jealous of my feet and often said so. I was always glad that she’d given those wide-foot genes to my sister and not to me. The two of them together were a pair of ducks.

Later, she called from the hospital to ask me to bring in the usuals; a pair of cotton underwear; her turquoise hair comb; nail file; reader’s digest; and cotton socks – the nice thick pair with the stripes at the top. By then I knew what to bring without her telling me. She’d been in and out of the hospital so many times, it was normal. I grabbed everything from her dresser and drove to the hospital.

Her feet were always cold. From time to time, she’d ask me to massage them for her, which I would do though I’d never had a massage before nor had ever seen one being given. I’d rub her toes and the balls of her heels and the tops of her feet and her ankles. What it was like to be cold and alone in a hospital bed, I hadn’t a clue. I now suspect that partly she had cold feet and partly she just wanted someone to touch her who wasn’t a doctor or nurse or preacher.

There was a time when she discovered hormones were released when you got a hug from someone. The hormone was called endorphins or something like that. “It’s good for healing the body”, she said. “Everyone needs seven meaningful touches a day and I’m not getting enough. How am I supposed to get better if I don’t get hugs? Your Mother needs a hug.” And so we would hug. (What happens if I didn’t really ‘mean’ the hug? Do you still get the endorphins if you are under the impression of “meaningful affection”? I hope she still got hormones she wished for, even though I was a reluctant hugger.)

Looking back, I can see the irony in this picture of a Mother and a daughter living together with the deafening tick-tock-tick of time signaling the impending end of the story. Both wanting so badly to be loved, but not knowing at all where to start or how to do it.

She trained me to have such a fierce independence and many useful and varied skills, that in the end, my self-sufficiency may have also caused her heartbreak.  Her daughter had no need for a Mother any longer and could actually get along alright without her, making what may have seemed a success into a colossal failure.

I often think about that one summer long ago when my Mother was on so many interesting and new drugs that she was undoubtedly high. And very happy. Perhaps that was as close as she got to being healed. Writing poetry and wearing a silk ribbon in her hair, both eyes opened wide to see the world and be seen. I think back to that time, when she was high and happy and full of life and laughter and I think, well, isn’t that what she wanted? Perhaps the solution had always been right in front of us in a pill bottle.

One week after our walk around the block, when my Mother reminded me she wasn’t a spring chicken any longer, I walked away from a hole in the ground at the Vineland cemetery.

My Mother died on the first Wednesday in April during winter’s last snow.

Each year that goes by I get a chance to reflect on these events that have left me with a lifetime of confusion and regret. Each year I’m also learning more about love and forgiveness.

J.

I decided to push myself into the crowd. To get closer to the feature at the front of the room which seemed to have such mystic and grand importance the term idol worship sprang to mind. There was a panicked sort of energy about the place. Perhaps even an anger residing below the surface like a river of lava under a volcano, getting ever hotter.

You’d think people would be excited, but I imagined this crowd had the potential –  just the right amount of volatility –  to turn itself into a violent mob like what I’d seen on stage in Les Miserables. We were in Paris after all … and I was at the Louvre.

Mona Lisa was watching us with that mischievous smirk on her face.

At first, the thick crowd in front of the famous Ms. Lisa repelled me  - as though it couldn’t possibly consider adding another body to itself. Then suddenly and swiftly it swallowed me up. Whole. Then there was no getting out – only going in. I looked over to Mark, who decided to stay safe on the sideline, as slick and shiny arms pressed up against mine, sliding and sticking, our sweaty liquids mixing on the surface of my skin. Panic rose in my throat. I pictured myself from above as though I was one of those grocery bags swirling in the middle of the ocean, stuck in a spiralling vortex of floating plastic. Just an oil-based product lost at sea.

My own insignificance overwhelmed me as I felt even smaller than I usually do.

Then a push from behind. A hand shoved against my back. My left foot stepped forward to stop the imbalance. A stranger’s sandalled foot under my shoe. A yell “Hey!” A woman’s angry face swivelled back at me. A sharp glare from her followed by an “I’m sorry” from my own small apologetic Canadian voice. Now, I had a strong sense of fear. Injustice. Me, shrinking … regretting, suddenly certain I didn’t care at all about Mona Lisa. What I cared about was my safety. Also, I wanted to hose down my arms. It was time to abandon the famed art and seek the exit.

Now, safely from the sidelines, I watched Mona and all her fans as the guards actively repeated the same phrases over and over again “Step back, Ma’am” and “Move this way, Mister”. Each person at the front of the crowd pressed up against the security rope, ipads and smartphones and cameras were frantically held up like torches to capture the momentous event. No one wanted to be robbed of the opportunity to record their experience. Equality was at stake.

Selfies of “Me and Mona” were documented and posted instantly to social media.

Mona Lisa fans

Did anybody care? Seriously? Actually?

I mean, I don’t even think I cared. Which is hard to admit since I love and appreciate art to a great extent. But it’s the truth. Before I came to the Louvre I spent no time at all thinking about Mona Lisa. Sure, I’ve seen copies of her painting countless times. I’ve studied her in art class. But it would make no difference to me if I never saw the painting in my lifetime. Anyway, the closest you could get to her was twenty feet… and even then she was behind a barrier of glass. A photocopy would reveal more detail.

And then there’s that other nagging question. Is it a replica?

Real or not, Mona was pummeled with a million-billion eyeballs from an unending, unrelenting and very thick crowd. But was anybody looking at her? Like, really looking at her. Or were they merely documenting their Mona moment with the snap of a camera – in a clinical and factual manor. Would anyone look at that photo later on and say, “Yes, that’s when I saw Mona Lisa – what a magical moment that I will forever cherish”. I doubt it.

It all makes me wonder … what was being documented if there was no real experience?

And, if there’s no experience, emotion or connection  -  then why take a photo?

At another place in the museum I overheard one woman say to another “What are you taking a photo of?” She answered “I don’t know, but everyone else is taking photos so I thought I should too.”

That’s the nail on the head.

And exactly what hype is. Hype ensures that we continue to chase dreams that belong to other people. Hype keeps us attempting to relive the love scenes from Paris – ones we’ve seen in romantic movies. It makes us go places and do things, seek out moments …  ever checking off the list.

But hype is empty.

Mona Lisa can only be viewed from 20 feet away and is probably a fake. The lineup to the famous cafe is two hours long. The Eiffel Tower is littered with pick-pocketers and guarded with machine guns. The quiet magical moment from the movie is now a cacophony of car horns, exhaust and tourists. The love-locks for the bridge are pushed by street vendors and a sense of cheapness has settled in. I commend the first romantic lovers that put a lock on the bridge. Great idea. Probably a really cool couple.

Graffiti on the bridge now says “Make Love, not Love Locks”. Unless making a love-lock means something to you, I guess.

The church pew in Notre Dame has become a refuge for exhausted tourists to rest their eyes in a “praying pose” after waiting in a skin-scorching, sunny lineup for several hours. Once inside the famed church, the interior of one’s own eyelids is more enticing than ancient stained glass, which is really unfortunate since the church is truly breathtaking, if you have the patience for it. For me, when I finally got to a pew, I wanted to take a nap. (that’s the sad truth)

Chasing hype is tiresome and therefore overrides the experience or any sense of “being in the moment”. The result is a grand series of underwhelming moments, few of which are meaningful. One can live a whole lifetime like that. In a sense, checking a list that the general public has hyped into existence.

It takes time, patience, curiosity and a great sense of risk-taking to discover ones own moments and to truly live in them. It also takes bravery to overlook the hype-list in favour of original discovery instead. In Paris, I was reminded to make my own memories and forgo the hype.

Here’s my moment:

It was the breeze, the way the sun was shining all dappled through the trees, the faint music in the distance, the fact that we were ready to take a break. It was the taste of the chocolate with that red wine. It was the mood we were in. The conversation. It was altogether nothing … and yet it was everything. 

It was a moment to pause. One to remember. Maybe even take a photograph. Funny thing, though… usually when I find myself in such a moment, I forget to take a picture.

I won’t tell you where our moment was. Just that it was somewhere in Paris. And it wasn’t on “the list”. I won’t tell you because I don’t want you to go there. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for any hype… and anyway, you should go and find your own moment.

Mark eating “the cake of his life”. A seriously special moment, indeed.

Make love, not love-locks

Vincent Van Gogh’s place.

unfinished

Lately, I’ve been wandering around a lot.

Not in the metaphorical sense, but actual wandering. And standing and pondering … looking into the green space of the yard at absolutely nothing for any uncounted amount of time until I hear a voice saying “Did you forget where you’re going?”

Yes. Perhaps I did.

I’ve been in a state of transition for approximately 15 months now and am tired of floating in this giant pool with no edges. I wish to find a place to climb out, dry myself off and start what I long to start. Lacking dry, firm ground to stand on I feel rather helpless, non-directional and well … floaty.

I never thought it would be so emotionally exhausting to shut down a business. But there it is, I said it. It is. In one sense, it’s freeing. Totally. Every day I’m thankful for the opportunities that await me. But I never imagined getting off the merry-go-round could be as difficult as it has been. Suppose I follow the metaphor a bit further – one must slow down in order to safely step off the wheel. Otherwise, centrifugal forces quite literally fling you out into the park, possibly sustaining several injuries including a big blow to the ego. Slow is good. But it takes so much patience to make a graceful exit.

I realized today that, unbelievably, I have been cleaning my studio for over 9 months. Not nine months straight (I’ve done some other projects too)… but actually, truly, I started the cleanup one day after my last wedding in the fall of 2013. Now it’s August and I’m still scrubbing, sweeping and painting. I might resemble Lady MacBeth saying “Out Damned Spot! Out I say!”

I’m starting to feel neurotic. Maybe so.

“I want my new creative space to feel sacred.” This is the mantra I repeat. I want it to be Clean. Washed of all that commercial-based business that went on in there for over a decade. It could be, even with all the washing, scrubbing and brushing layer upon layer of fresh paint, my space will never be never rid of the “ick”.

Perhaps the space isn’t the problem and it’s really just me.

I know imagery is helpful so I’ve been trying to envision myself as the butterfly, growing wings and then flying away on a cloud of creativeness. But I keep forgetting that the cocoon is first.

I so want to be out of the cocoon.

I long to start doing what I have set out to do when I decided to shut down my business. I’m searching for that creative girl who I used to know. She was about five foot two with blond, curly hair. Totally imaginative.  She was brave and courageous – willing to take chances and risk disappointment. She was experimental. Twenty years ago she was just getting started when she got shut down by the importance of survival. Bills. Mortgages. Hourly wages.

Has anyone seen her? Occasionally, I see glimpses of her but she’s still hiding. I can see her eyes peeking out from inside a cocoon. I think she’s afraid to let herself be seen. She needs coaxing. She needs to know it’s safe out here and that expression is welcome. That survival actually depends on expression, and not production anymore.

Instead of having my old self give the “young me” advice about how to live life, I wish it were the other way around. I’d like my little kid self to tell “the old me” about being free. Running risks. Being totally absorbed in creativity. I suspect she knows a thing or two about being artistic.

Lately, I’ve been attempting to channel her (my inner child) in some painting. She’s coming out slowly and tentatively, little by little. She shows up in playful birds, flying butterflies, balloons, rainbows and wild geometric scenery. She’s beginning to understand how to speak. It’s slow, at best. But it’s also a start.

Spinning a cocoon is a lengthy process. Cocooning requires time and so much patience. It depends on rest and peacefulness. Finally, wisdom to know when to emerge.

As for me … I’m still waiting for my wings. ]]> http://www.cherriesinthesun.com/growing-wings/feed/ 4 http://www.cherriesinthesun.com/and-be-loved/?utm_source=rss&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=and-be-loved http://www.cherriesinthesun.com/and-be-loved/#comments Wed, 07 May 2014 02:17:08 +0000 Jennifer http://www.cherriesinthesun.com/?p=724 On Sunday, May 4th, I had the privilege of being involved with the concert of my good friend Melissa Shriner. I have known Melissa for over 25 years! When I heard that she was going to have a Springtime in the Village Concert, I asked if I could share an original story.

Then I panicked a little bit.

I’m not really what you would call a “public speaker” type, so standing in front of a large group of people with a microphone is well… WAY out of my comfort zone. And so, since it scared me, I decided to do it. That’s how I roll.

The story that I chose to write about and share is a story of courage that I found in the most ordinary of places. My cat. Who doesn’t love a cat story?

Here it is.

Poetry and a hand bound Hannelore notebook containing my story. All a girl needs at a Sunday afternoon concert.

I have a little black cat named Coal. If you live in Jordan station and walk around the block on occasion, you can see her curled up in our window seat, napping in the afternoon sun or watching the birds chirp in the butterfly bush, just outside. Many humans would envy the posh life that she leads, involving many down-filled pillows and hand-knitted blankets, a fresh supply of food, (sometimes tuna from a can) and lots of love.

It hasn’t always been like that, though. There was a time when Coal wasn’t happy, loving and well-balanced. “Neurotic” might be a good word to describe how she used to be.

Sometimes change happens suddenly and drastically in a way that leaves you in awe. Typically, those are the stories we remember and the ones we tell our friends at dinner parties and gatherings in the back yard.

At other times, change happens slow and steady, day after day, and year after year until finally,  one day you stop to look at what’s there in front of you  – and see it anew for the first time.

When change happens slowly, you don’t always know when or how it happened  — just that it did. The transformation can be so gradual and so incremental, it’s almost too invisible to notice. But add it all up at the end -  compare what is in front of you now -  to what was – and the difference is undeniable.

That’s the kind of quiet story that tends to go unnoticed and exactly the kind of story that I witnessed in the life of Coal, my cat. Over the course of 7 years, she, slow and steady, evolved into practically a brand new creature. I can’t help but be impressed and inspired by what I have seen her accomplish, even if she’s just a cat … and even though it took an incredibly long time.

It was a cold November night when Coal arrived in our home for the first time. She was scarcely a couple of pounds… starved and skinny, her ribs visible beneath a shaggy coat of dull fur. Her green eyes were wide open and her tail puffed up like a bottle brush. The first time I scooped her up in my hand, she hung limp like a string of cooked spaghetti. She had given up completely and was ready to die.

As a new resident in our home, Coal maintained a safety radius of about 10 feet which she diligently enforced. Get too close and she would quickly creep away, her body hunkered low to the ground in some strange impulse to appear invisible.

Get even closer and rather than run, she got violent. We counted about 20 tooth sized holes pierced into my husbands skin after she ferociously and repeatedly chomped his hand when he tried to pet her. That day she earned a fearful respect from us, particularly when my husband’s arm was swollen up the the elbow.  After that, we learned not to touch her  – under amy circumstances.

Coal is a clever kitty who chooses unusual places to hide in a pinch. One time she disappeared into the mess of plumbing under the bathroom sink, her limbs stretched out like spiderman perched in a swinging chandelier.  We pried her out of the pipes one paw at a time.

Her ingenuity and dexterity was impressive.  Also, it was crystal clear she was willing to go to great measures keep her distance.

Coal had trust issues. Big-time.

Strangely, Coal never made a sound. Ever. I assumed her voice-box was broken. That she was mute. And so, she lived like that for years, silently eating and sleeping alone.

Coal was a hermit, and a freeloader, living like a teenager, rent-free under our roof,  getting a fresh supply of food on a daily basis without so much as a thank you. It was difficult to not resent her for it.

But I wanted to love her. If she would only allow it, I would pet her black fur, let her snuggle on my lap. I imagined her quietly purring, so contented and happy. But, how could I love her if she wouldn’t let love in?

One thing was certain. We needed to work on the trust issue.

Over the next year we decided to honour her 10 foot radius of space, only ever breaching it to offer an occasional kindness such as a tasty chicken treat. Also, I didn’t want to get chomped by her razor sharp teeth, so actually, it was a mutually beneficial arrangement to live together – but apart. Even though she weighed only 2 pounds, I have to be honest, I was a little afraid of her.

Eventually, another year went by when I noticed her 10 foot radius was beginning to get smaller. She no longer darted away when someone entered the room. She still didn’t trust anyone, and would often peer at us in a sort of longing kind of way, peeking from around corners, too scared to approach, but too curious not to look. Still, should anyone absently sneeze or cough, or move ever so slightly, she would dart away in a flash.

As the story of change goes, each day the radius continued to shrink just a little bit. Then, one day, out of the blue she hopped up on my lap, just to test it out. Then jumped away. I was elated. That was a big step for her! Over the course of a several weeks, she tried out my lap for just a split second, jumping away immediately, until one time, to my delight, she stayed, perched on the tip of my knee like she was hanging from a tree branch.

One winter morning, our mute kitty cat squeaked out high pitched, almost imperceptible meow. She had finally found her voice, if ever so slight.

Now Coal’s voice is constant in the house. She has joined the daily protest for fresh food and makes her wishes known in a very vocal manner when she wants attention. She assumes she is welcome on the bed and makes a place for herself right in the centre, often crowding me out. In the evenings she routinely jumps on our laps, demanding affection, drooling excessively in big wet raindrops, often pushing her face into my hand, quite forcefully.

Petting has now become serious business.

Each day she has accepted a new challenge or a new experience, she has let more love into her world and into her life. Coal has been transformed in every way you can imagine.

Her effort has added up to something over time.

Yes, in order to do this, she needed some space. And she needed that space to be respected. She needed to know, once there in that sacred place of trust and vulnerability, that she would be okay and it would all be worth the risk.

She showed me that trust can’t be forced. Patience is the the only way. But she proved to me that it’s worth the wait, no matter how long it takes.

Space and time. That’s all she ever needed.

She taught me what vulnerability looks like. Coal was only able to receive love once she set aside caution.  It takes bravery to drop barriers and put down defences. Courage, at it’s core is to do something that someone fears. I don’t know of anything more scary than opening oneself up to the possibility of getting hurt. But that’s what it takes to let love in.

There is strength in setting weapons aside and choosing love instead – even at the risk of injury.

I have heard it said that the greatest thing you’ll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return. I believe this is true. I would go so far to say that the most courageous act is in learning to be loved. 

This is what I have learned from my cat. Now, I know what you’re thinking… she’s just a animal and she’s probably just acting on instinct and nothing more. Perhaps. You can say that … but if you do, there’s no story and there’s nothing learned.

When I look at Coal and see more than mere animal instinct, I have the privilege to witness what courage, vulnerability and love looks like. I see Coal as an inspiration and a daily reminder that it’s not just enough to learn how to give love… but it’s just as important to learn how to be loved. 

That’s me at the front!

P.S. Melissa’s concert was outstanding in every way. I had shivers, tears and a great big smile on my face the whole time. She got a standing ovation and left the stage while we were still wanting more. That’s the way to have a concert!

Today was Easter Sunday. I was in church, attempting to be a part of the happy celebration, when my emotions poured in like a tidal wave from behind, washed over me suddenly and with great force. Tears let loose and I was aware of my strained face which bore the brunt of trying to keep the dam from bursting completely.  If I didn’t maintain containment I would soon become a “scene”.  You know, the kind of car-wreck of emotion that sometimes happens in a church pew where everyone wants to watch without looking like they’re looking.  Rubber-necking without the rubber neck. Everyone loves to see a disaster unfold. The messiness is awkward though, so the clean-up tends to be swift. One can only handle emotional messiness for so long. Especially in a public setting. Leaving my seat was unthinkable. That would only attract more eyes, more attention and more curiosity. So, I remained. Quiet and cemented in place.

As the tears dripped from my eyes and made tracks on my cheeks, I wiped them away swiftly so as to not call any attention to myself. People would begin to wonder and make assumptions about me. They might think I’m repenting from years of being backslidden. Or maybe I have finally realized my brokenness and I’m ready to walk to the front for prayer. Perhaps the message of salvation has just revealed itself to me and I am crying from relief at the long-awaited epiphany. What issue is big enough to shed tears over? A divorce? These are the things people conjure up when encountering emotional wreckage from a distance. I have speculated in such situations myself so it’s not hard to imagine someone else jumping to conclusions about my mysterious tears.

What I really wanted to avoid was that “knowing” rub on the back or the “It’s okay dear, let it out” comment from the well-meaning woman with the look on her face that says “I know your pain, I’ve been there” veiling her curiosity in concern. I didn’t want any sympathy. No prayers. No comments or solutions or bible verse statements. I didn’t want my precious, very real emotions to become tainted by insincerity or sloppiness, even if intentions were good. I wasn’t in the mood for listening to another’s tale of woe only to trump my own. I didn’t want to know about counseling and I most certainly didn’t want to hear that I should try to forgive myself since Jesus already did that in advance by dying on the cross and rising again on Easter Sunday.

What I wanted was to be alone in the crowd, to embrace my feelings and carry them with me for a while. I didn’t want to dismiss or be dismissed. Not this time. I just needed to dwell in this place, give my emotions space so I could figure out what going on.

My tears came upon me so suddenly that I had to backtrack to recollect what the trigger might have been. Emotions are curious that way – the body responds to them before the mind knows what’s happening. It didn’t take me long to suss out what had caused my emotional eruption. In fact, it was glaringly obvious.

It was Easter Sunday. Duh!

Historically, this has been a difficult holiday for me. I think I have been shedding Easter Sunday tears for twenty years straight now. I thought I was over it. Apparently not.

I won’t go into all of the details and bore you into tears, but I’ll sum it up like this: Easter Sunday twenty years ago was 3 days before my mother died and the last day that she was at home. Easter Sunday is the day when she wanted to talk to me and the day when I didn’t give her the chance to have a conversation. In short, I selfishly squandered the last chance I had to talk with my mother in exchange for an afternoon nap. I was 18.

Now, sitting in church, I accidentally recalled that afternoon nap from twenty years prior.  It showed as in a flash in my mind, so vivid and so very unwelcome, not to mention  inconvenient, as far as timing goes. A moment later I was ambushed by a tidal wave of emotion.

I believe I can sum it up in one precise word: regret.

I will admit a tendency to minimize my feelings. For example, when I recall a sad story from my past, my inner dialogue goes something like this: “That certainly sounds like a sad story complete with all the dramatic characteristics of the quintessential sad story narrative. I bet if you told that to someone they would feel sorry for you and your sad little life. But’s that’s all it is. A sad story. It doesn’t mean that you ARE actually sad or that you have to react to it. So, let’s not sit here and whine about it all day, wearing your sad story like it’s some kind of badge of honour, as though it makes you special or different. You’re just like everyone else. Everyone has sad stuff to deal with. Get over it. It’s time to move on.”

As you can tell, my inner dialogue can be quite brutal and has no patience for whining of any kind.

Since I don’t want to be a whiner, I typically shut the valve to my sad story and I move on, just as my inner dialogue instructed me to do. I suspect my inner dialogue is just repeating what she heard from other people, though. She’s getting her material from society at large.

There is a certain amount of time allotted for serious grieving, say, one or two years, but after that time has passed we are supposed to get our act together, dry the salty tears from our faces and go out into society as fully healed, well-adjusted and productive humans. Should things take longer, well, there are services, pills and well-written books to help. After a point, if there is still an issue, one learns to keep it to oneself.

After church I slipped out quickly and walked to the nearby cemetery to visit my mother’s grave. I sat alone by her stone in the sun and pondered my thoughts for a while.

My emotions had definitely taken me by surprise. The truth is that my feelings are real and like a crying child who just gets louder the more you ignore them, my emotions are starting to reach a deafening level.  Maybe I should silence the annoying inner voice. A muzzle would do the job. I’ve seen them work quite effectively on dogs.

Or perhaps not. Sitting on the stone, I decided that I had better start accepting my emotions and put a stop to the minimizing habit. Perhaps it’s time to start listening. I think this will continue to be a long road for me. I half suspect that this is a journey I’ll be on for a lifetime. Part of it will be learning how to accept the scar that I bear from my experience. Some things just don’t go away. They leave a mark, and that’s okay. I have lots of scars. I don’t pretend that I’ll be able to make it out of this life unscathed.

“It’s better to feel pain than nothing at all.” These lyrics came to me while I was perched atop the gravestone. I take a small amount of comfort in the feelings that I feel. At least I’m feeling something other than numbness. The scar reminds me of my mistake and what I lost, but also that I used to have something, too.

A few minutes later, Mark drove up to the cemetery and stopped to let me climb in the van. He asked how I was doing. I broke down again. Speechless. He silently handed me a Kleenex and put his hand on my leg to let me know he was there. That’s exactly what I needed. No solutions. No appeasements. No minimization.

He gave me more in that silence than he could have ever given me in words.

The suggestion from my boss motivated me to work quickly in the last few minutes of my co-op so I could attempt my hand at making another corsage. Broken stemmed daisies and roses that were too short to sell … these were as gold to me. Chores completed, I would make my selections from the scraps vase, threading a wire through the stems of stray blooms, carefully wrapping them with tape to create a new stem. Then I would begin assembly. Balance, shape and colour were all considered while I attempted to create beauty from those seemingly worthless discarded ingredients.

I have always loved making something out of nothing, so the scraps vase on the counter never lost it’s delight for me – even when, like the other more experienced designers, I was eventually allowed to make my selections from the overflowing buckets of fresh flowers in the cooler. But, even while designing with long stems, unbruised and unbroken flowers, I still longed for the feeling of euphoria that I would get from turning “nothings” into “somethings”.

My boss reinforced the ‘scraps’ mentality by stating ”A great designer can create something beautiful out of nothing”.  At the time, I couldn’t disagree. It made sense to me and it was a lofty and noble challenge to rise to. I have always had a knack for problem solving and designing from the scraps vase only galvanized my inherent skills.  Later, I would become renowned for my “end of day” arrangements that would be fashioned from the scraps I had collected over the course of my shift. My boss was all-too-pleased to see the profit. It’s free money when you can sell scraps in the guise of design.

Looking back on those days now, I can see the flaw in the mindset that I developed twenty years ago in my floral shop co-op. Time and experience have been great teachers for me and I have formed a completely opposite viewpoint on the subject of scraps. A paradigm shift, if you will.  I know it’s just scraps that we’re talking about, but bear with me as I attempt to explain my new philosophy on scraps to you.

The shift happened at a time when I was involved in a large event which required A LOT of flowers. I should have been very happy with this scenario since it was exactly what I had been striving for in my business for a long time. On this particular job, my client was amazing with great taste and a very healthy budget. The venue was beautiful and the season was setting up to offer me all of what I needed for fresh flower supplies. And on top of all of that, I absolutely loved the colours that had been selected. The bride had full confidence in my ability and didn’t hold anything back.

The world was my oyster.

And yet, somehow, I was paralyzed with fear.

When it comes to creativity, fear is debilitating. Fear comes in like a wild grizzly and tears you up from the inside out. Fear is deafening … your inner dialogue becomes hijacked by abusive language turning a happy, well-adjusted adult into a twitching, self-abasing heap of a mess.

I speak from experience as I have had this kind of fear creep into my life from time to time. The odd thing for me is that fear seems to show up when things are really great. Like this wedding where the world was my oyster, for example. I should have been delighted and excited to have absolutely no limits on my creativity. But that was precisely what the problem was.

I had become accustomed to limitations.

I felt comfort in having a budget that was a challenge or a colour palette that was difficult to bring together. There was a sense of calm when all I needed to do was make a situation marginally better.

The concept of “institutionalization” comes to mind.

“These walls are funny. First you hate ‘em, then you get used to ‘em. Enough time passes, you get so you depend on them. That’s institutionalized.”                                                                                                                                                                                       (Red, Shawshank Redemption)

I was happier with the set of confines provided by the old scraps vase.

Pointing out and naming the problem was exactly what I needed to do in order to overcome the fear that showed up just when things were going my way. I needed to find a way to move past it or through it. And give it a name.

This is what I have learned:

The fear I felt was a result of the vulnerability I experienced when all of the limitations were stripped away from me. Like a freed prisoner standing on the other side of the bars, I had a bizarre compulsion to return to my prison cell.

With very few limitations, expectations were high – both for my client and for me personally. Suddenly, I had no excuses to offer in case I wasn’t able to fulfill the dream. I couldn’t say “It would have been perfect if only I had a bigger budget” … or … “If only the colours of the bridesmaids dresses were nicer“ … or …  “it’s too bad that the bride had ‘odd’ taste” .

It was all up to me now … to rise to the occasion. Or not.

At the point that the fear set in, I have to be honest, what I really wanted to do was lower the expectations of everyone around me, including myself. Lowered expectations would have quickly solved the problem and put me into a much more comfortable place. A place that I knew very well. A place void of vulnerability. Then I could go back to doing what I did best – solving problems, creating “somethings” out of “nothings”.

Lowered expectations = no fear = no vulnerability = status quo

Basically, if I lowered the stakes, I’d return to status quo (problem solving). The status quo offered me predictable results and even a chance at gaining hero status. An altogether decent option.

But there was also another option staring me in the face.

Raise the stakes.

Raised expectations = fear = vulnerability = limitless potential (or huge failure)

Here’s a nerdy diagram that I have created to illustrate my feelings:

If I was to be honest with myself, what I truly wanted to avoid was massive failure. But this fear of colossal disappointment, of BEING a colossal disappointment, was also keeping me from realizing my potential – the vast, deep, beautiful and scary potential that was mine if only I could move past the fear.

In light of my experience, I could see that the saying “A great designer can make something beautiful out of nothing”  is actually a flawed philosophy. It’s just a catchy phrase which swiftly feeds the ego. A nice pat on the back, but that’s all. It’s a phrase that doesn’t suggest growth or risk-taking, as great designers are known for. Instead, it supports a status quo attitude of “good enough”.

I wish that the saying was something like this:

“An average designer can create something nice out of nothing, but a great designer can create an even more amazing “something” out of limitless potential”.

Admittedly, it’s not as catchy.

In other words, a great designer has the confidence to raise expectations and hopes in anticipation of even greater beauty. I wanted to be a designer like that.

A great designer uses the most beautiful flowers and finds the time to be creative rather than reactive. A great designer thinks in ideals rather than merely finding solutions to problems. A great designer has the confidence to put themselves on the line to move into a place of great potential. To take responsibility for their vision. Success or failure. No excuses.

After my paradigm shift, I needed an action plan to move myself forward to become a better designer. My first step was to dream a dream. Some kind of goal that I desired to achieve.

“Show people what you want to sell”. This became my new mantra. This phrase expressed my desire to take responsibility for my future – to own what I wanted to become and what I wanted to do.

That’s when I realized the pictures I was currently sharing with my potential clients showed work that I had done and not the amazing work that I knew I was capable of doing. My solution was to create a catalogue of work that showcased my potential as a designer. Something that was full of ideas, dreams and both practical and impractical concepts. All of it beautiful. All of it fun. Burgeoning with blooms. Exactly the kind of work that I wanted to produce for my future clients. In creating this catalogue, I was taking a giant leap and a big risk. My reputation was on the line. I was sticking my neck out. I was vulnerable. I was very alive!

I set about producing a major photo and video shoot. This involved a very large, very organized vision. From my own imagination.

Lots of money was spent on fresh product and props. We had models, photographers, make-up artists and cinematographers. It was biggest thing I’d ever done at that point in my career!

I was at the heart of it with my vision coming to fruition. Or not.

This is the thing with vision. It doesn’t always work out. Sometimes it bombs (as illustrated above). You become vulnerable and sometimes it leaves you wounded and bleeding. But vulnerability NEVER leaves you unchanged. On the other side, success or failure, you come out more mature, braver, stronger and more creative.

In my case, the shoot was a grand success. Now I had an amazing portfolio and video to show what I could and wanted to do.

And it worked!

My business was never the same. I was never the same. That major (and very terrifying!) project was a launchpad for design that was a game changer. Not just for my business, but also for me personally.

I learned that it’s okay (good, in fact) to have high expectations. Being satisfied with scraps and limitations was for amateurs. If I wanted to mature as a designer, I needed to create a vision that I could stand behind. And go for it. Sink or swim. Do or die.

(photos courtesy of Nataschia Wielink http://www.nataschiawielink.com) Thanks Nataschia!!

So, you may be wondering how that wedding turned out in the end. Let’s just say that this was a long lesson in the learning. I have had plenty of amazing (and disappointing) work to show since. (It takes lots of practice to build up a tolerance to vulnerability)

Now when I see that wild grizzly (Fear) who wants to tear me up from the inside and I feel that oh-so-familiar reaction, the one that wants me to protect myself, when I hear that inside voice that says “lower the expectations so you don’t get hurt”, I know what that feeling is. I know that loud, deafening voice. I have named it. Heck, I have even drawn a diagram of it!

We are very familiar, but let’s be clear – Me and Fear, we are not friends.

When Fear and I come face to face (which we often do when I am being my creative self) instead of retreating, I try to remember this language to get me through it.

Go ahead and raise the stakes.

Get a little scared. (It’s okay, you’ll survive) 

Tolerate some vulnerability.

Oh yeah … and SHINE.

We practically knew everybody around us since my sister and I were the local newspaper delivery girls. And those we didn’t know by name, we knew by sight. We actually trusted our neighbours.

Or, we certainly knew everybody well enough to know which ones we couldn’t trust.

This predates the pillow-case candy bag, back when we all wore home-made costumes made out of cardboard boxes, coloured construction paper, toilet paper rolls and popsicle sticks. Our little hands carried orange pails, which when full, signalled that the trick-or-treating was over.  Grateful and excited, we would head home to sort through what we had collected.

My sister and I in our clown costumes, hand-sewn by our mom. Circa 1982

On that day in October of 2011, I walked over to the grocery store display of halloween chocolates, feeling like a dough-headed sheep, allowing myself to mindlessly follow the herd. Here I was, in our so-called free society, a full-out democracy, and I felt as though I had no choice in the matter. That I just needed to keep my opinions to myself and conform. To buy the same box of “Fav’rites” chocolate that every other household in Niagara had purchased in preparation for halloween festivities.

I don’t even like factory candy bars. The honest truth is that I am a bit of a chocolate snob, preferring a nice Callebeaut chocolate on the occasion that I indulge. I am also a die-hard natural ingredients baker, strictly using only basics. No processed “food” is allowed in my kitchen. I believe in wholesome and natural ingredients, even if it takes longer to make and costs more money. A mortar and pestle is used in my kitchen to grind down whole spices like nutmeg and cloves. This is my style.

So, the idea of buying factory-made chocolates with all of their fake and processed ingredients not only grossed me out, but also ran completely opposite to my philosophies on cooking and baking.

Standing there, shoulders slumped, I looked at those boxes of so-called chocolates, my eyes brimming with resentment. As though it was their own fault that they were made from yucky palm oil and refined sugar. That the candy bars themselves were to blame for being filled with artificial flavour and questionable preservatives. Against all of my instincts, feeling angry and defeated, I picked up two of the boxes and slowly started toward the cash register.

To conform or not to conform …

Waiting in the line, I weighed out my options. Buy the candy bars and be normal or don’t buy the candy bars and turn the porch light off like a freaky halloween protester. Neither scenario suited me.

And then … the light bulb moment! I could practically hear the choir in the distance, a soundtrack to my genius idea. Purpose in my step, a smirk on my face, I briskly walked back to the candy bar display, dropped the boxes and went straight to my favourite place: the baking aisle. I needed brown sugar, “good” chocolate chips, unrefined flour, butter and 100 little clear baggies.

Feeling confident, inspired and generally quite amazing, I outlined my plan to Mark. I needed to bake at least 100 perfect cookies, wrap them in clear baggies with an added note of explanation on seasonally-appropriate orange paper! Fully aware that my cookies would likely be rejected from fear of embedded razorblades or poison, I forged ahead with my plan. It was the only one that fit.

And so, on Halloween evening, I packed all of my little homemade packages into an oversized bowl and waited for the doorbell. I have to admit to you that when I dropped those first cookies into the kids pillowcase bags, I started to freak out. What if my house got egged from angry trick-or-treaters? Worse yet … what if I became known as the Jordan Station Kitchen Witch?!?!

In the end, my little white house didn’t have any eggs thrown at it and I have continued my little tradition for two years now. This year will be the third. A few neighbours have caught the vision and have also started to make their own treats too. This year, I decided to up the ante and write a snappy little poem which I plan to attach to my homemade cookies. If you feel so inclined, please copy it down and use it. I would be thrilled to know I inspired a new tradition in your home and neighbourhood.

Here’s to non-conformity and good quality chocolate!

Sincerely,

Jennifer (the Jordan Station Kitchen Witch)

———————————————————————–

“Tricky Treats”

Ding-dong, knock-knock, “Hello, we’re here!”
“Trick or treat, smell my feet!“ The children cheer!
It’s a night full of goblins, ghosts and fright.
Porch lights and carved pumpkins alight on this halloween night.

Would you like a tasty trick or a wholesome treat?
A factory chocolate, or a homemade sweet?
Candy bars wrapped in colours so bright,
or chocolate chip cookies baked in an oven, just right.

This simple cookie has been combined
with brown sugar, butter and flour, unrefined.
Chocolate chips, and real vanilla are in its design,
made by human hands, a heart, a soul and a mind.

Unlike the factory which values profit, by far
whose heart is molded in the shape of a gold bar.
With a pulse that beats to the sound of “Clang! Cling! “
Counting money, cutting costs as the register rings.
Real chocolate has been replaced with date sugar and palm oil.
Preservatives and artificial flavour are now wrapped in its foil.

Which baker do you favour on this spirited night?
In whose principles and practices do you find delight?
The factory whose heart has officially been lost,
or the lady from down the road who spared no cost?

In the aisles of the store, her options were weighed
to label these cookies “authentic hand-made”.
No effort restrained, no care held back
in making these cookies into a healthy snack.

Tonight, don’t be scared by the things that you know
such as flour and butter formed into round balls of dough.
Corporations and factories are what you should fear
as they make artificial candy for people you hold dear.
Processed ingredients that you cannot pronounce
mixed with profit and shares and bulging bank accounts.

But, here is a chocolate chip cookie made with love
by a neighbour that you know, as well as the stuff that its made out of.
So, I hope you are brave and willing to take a bite.
And not be afraid on this Halloween night.

“Tricky Treats” written by Jennifer Elliotson of Jordan Station