She has defied the odds, again.

To everyone’s amazement, she’s turned the corner and is doing better.

“God’s not ready for you yet,” the doctor told my mother yesterday.

This morning, a haiku wrote itself into being.

All is well.

There is a picture of me at five years old, arms flung wide, like I’m flying. Most likely, I’m dancing.

I love to dance. As do my daughters. As do my sisters.

Recently, at the wedding of a friend of my youngest daughter, the bride’s father came up to me to tell me that they were all standing in awe, watching my daughter and I dance together.

I laughed. It’s just what we do, I told him.

Dance. Laugh. Play. Eat. Share. Be. Love. Together.

I am blessed.

One of my earliest childhood memories is of being at one of my mother’s family events in Paris and dancing and spinning and twirling about to the music that blared from a cheap stereo that never stopped playing the songs of my mother’s complicated history. French. Indian. Spanish. Portuguese. Hindu. Tamil. English… A beautiful potpourri of sound that flows wildly through my body today.

She was always a complicated woman, our mother. Yet, in all her complexities and insecurities and the sadness that invaded her pores like soot clinging to a chimney, she constantly taught us the value of family, of being connected, of being and loving together.

Yesterday, as my eldest daughter spoke on the phone about her Nana, I listened to the loving and compassionate words of wisdom my daughter shared and wondered, when did she become so wise? So loving. So caring.

And I knew.

The wisdom, the love, the willingness to give and to care deeply are woven into her DNA. They are threads pulled through from the warp and weave of my mother’s tapestry of life. It is the tapestry that created the warp and weave of my life, my sisters’ lives and my daughters’. Those threads of gentleness, kindness, compassion, thoughtfulness… they have always been running through the threads of my mother’s loving hands weaving, weaving, no matter how bent and painful arthritis has made them. She has been quietly weaving her story and the stories of her mother and her mother’s mother and countless women of our family before her, into our DNA.

I am thankful.

These threads that link us are what make our family, our family. They are the story of our lives; colourful, textural, beautiful, woven together, taking separate paths, creating unique patterns and pathways into the future and always coming back together in the loom that is our family history filled with the DNA of wisdom, love and the willingness to care deeply from our hearts and live freely from our feet up through our whole bodies dancing our way through life, committed to feeling every moment, intensely, deeply, in Love.

I am blessed.

The warp and weave of my life was woven from a history of fiercely loving women who danced together, laughed together and above all, Loved together.

The world around me is turning white. Snow falls, heavy like rain, covering the world in its pristine blanket.

And still, behind the grey skies, the sun is shining. I just need to wait long enough for the clouds to clear for it to become visible again.

This too shall pass.

In a world of impermanence, of constant change, all things do pass.

It is a comforting thought.

In a conversation with a friend the other day, she shared some of the struggles she is going through. “I don’t know what to do,” she said. “I just don’t know what to do.”

“What if you choose to do nothing but stay in the angst of what is?” I asked.

She smiled and replied, “Then I’d have to give up control.”

And we both laughed.

So much of what we struggle against is about grasping for control of what we cannot change.

For my friend, there is nothing she can do to change the circumstances she is facing. And that can be a scary place.

Years ago, when my brother and his wife were killed in a car accident, I wanted to change what had happened. I wanted to rewind the story so I could pull their car back from that one place on the highway where their path intersected with a semi-trailer’s and everything changed.

I was powerless.

In facing my powerlessness, I had to get present with what was. I had to get present to my tears and fears, grief and anger to find compassion for myself and all of us affected by the impact of that one tragic moment where their path in this world ended in a fiery crash.

In my powerlessness I found my strength and courage to be present in my grief and anger through love.

Ultimately, no matter what circumstances we face, when we get present with what is and let love be our constant light shining from within, illuminating our hearts, we become centred in the eye of life’s storms. Centred in love, the winds of change can howl and swirl all around us, without pulling us off course. In that place, love becomes like the sun, always present, always guiding us, no matter how grey and stormy the world around us becomes.

Namaste.

___

As Easter Sunday approaches, my brother is on my heart. It would have been his 69th birthday this April 15th. He was 49 when he died. The truth today continues just as it did then, I carry him in my heart, always. 

I struggle sometimes to balance my ego and my heart. Okay. A lot.

There’s always this voice inside whispering…. What about me? What about me? Sometimes, it doesn’t just whisper. It stomps its feet and flails about in agony, seeking recognition, acknowledgement, applause.

And then, there’s my heart. It wants to breathe freely. It wants to feel deeply and be at peace. But it’s hard to be at peace when my critter mind is nattering about what ‘we’ need to feel happy, satisfied, enough. To not hear my critter’s mind, I protect my heart from its constant whining in the belief, if I just turn my back on it, I’ll be okay.

It is hard to be at peace, if I am constantly expending my energy resisting part of who I am.

Last night as I sat in a circle of four women, listening to RamDass’ teachings on aging, I felt embraced in grace. And in that grace was the suffering that is included in all life. In that grace is my struggle, which is part of our collective struggle, and my ease, our ease, of being at peace.

For in all things, there is balance. It is the way of the world. Where there is sadness, there is joy. Where there is darkness, there is light. And where there is suffering, there is grace.

And when I become out of balance, so too does my suffering.

It is in my mind’s desire to understand, to stay attached to, to make sense of suffering, loss, pain, grief, that I remain stuck in my own suffering. Caught up in my need to make sense of my suffering, I block my heart from being free to feel deeply for fear, to feel the suffering will only make it worse. With my heart blocked off, I cannot be vulnerable. And without being vulnerable, I cannot be of loving service to the world.

And so I create my own unbalanced wheel of suffering, constantly seeking to resist that which I fear, and avoiding at all costs, that which will make my heart be open to the pain of suffering.

Avoidance strengthens fear.

When I was released from a relationship that was killing me, I was terrified that if I started crying, I would never stop. I wanted to avoid tears at all cost because to me, allowing the sadness in, risked being consumed by it.

My avoidance and fear were making me sicker than I already was in the aftermath of an abusive relationship.

I had to teach myself that I could cry without drowning in my own tears.

To begin, I gave myself permission to cry for 10 minutes on the hour, every hour. The rest of the hour had to be filled with doing those things that healed and supported me on my recovery journey. Reading. Meditating. Writing. Going for a walk in nature. Sitting quietly in the presence of my own heart…

Gradually, I decreased the time permitted to cry until I no longer felt consumed by my fear of tears and sadness. In the absence of my desire to avoid my fear of crying, joy slipped in. What a beautiful gift. To feel joy amidst the sorrow and sadness of all that had happened in my life to bring me to that moment where I was lost and found.

Sitting in that circle last night, it was beautifully clear to me. I cannot avoid aging. I can do things to mitigate the impact of the aging process on my body and mind, but I can’t avoid the constant march of time and my body’s evolutionary process.

Giving into nature’s way, finding peace with the passing of time, does not mean I do not feel the aches and pains of my age. It does mean, the aches and pains are not all of who I am. Within those aches and pains are the joy and freedom of being my age, in the presence of grace.

I do not need to give up on being present in this world, doing the things I enjoy, or even give up on me to become my age. I simply need to give up on believing suffering isn’t part of the journey. And in those moments when I am acutely aware of the suffering that is within me and all around me in this world, to breathe into the pain of feeling stuck in suffering, so that I can be free to live my life, with grace, amidst the suffering and the joy, the sadness and the elation, the hatred and the love.

The gift of aging is that the light becomes brighter in the darkness and the pain becomes more acute in the ease of living with grace. And in that space, I am free to choose loving awareness, again and again.

__

Thank you Wanda S, Judy A, Marilyn W, for creating a circle of loving kindness.

Returning from a meeting, I wait on the C-train platform for the next train to arrive. It is mid-day. Busy. Lots of people grabbing a train for the cross-town ride.

A train pulls in, the doors open and everyone steps aside to let the passengers exit.

At the tail end, a woman walks towards the open doors, passes two men standing aside at the doors inside the train. She doesn’t hesitate. She doesn’t stop. She punches the man closest to the open doors in the stomach and walks away.

It is not a gentle, ‘nice to see you buddy’, kind of punch.

It is violent. Mean. Gut-wrenching.

Those of us who witness the attack, take a collective breath in. We are surprised. Shocked. Stunned. By the time we realize what has happened, the woman is long gone. The man who was punched is laughing. Albeit nervously, but he is laughing with his friend.

“Do you know her?” his friend asks.

We are all on the train now. The doors are closed and the train is moving to the next station.

“Never saw her before in my life,” the man who was punched replies.

The two men chat with a third man, a stranger who got on behind me. They are laughing. Joking. Making light of what just happened.

I stand and watch and listen and feel slightly sick to my stomach. It wasn’t funny. It was confusing. Distressing. Sad.

I wonder if the woman who did it had any idea of what she was doing. When I saw her briefly, just before she punched the man, she was muttering to herself. I wonder if she had compromised mental capacities. I wonder if she possibly had a hatred of Asian looking men. Both men have Asian looks. The man who was punched had a beard. Perhaps that was a trigger for her.

Regardless of what caused it, none of it makes it right. I am disturbed. And grateful. Grateful these men were laughing, and hadn’t angrily run after her or stood on the train and cursed and yelled expletives to her departing back.

One of the men jokingly says to the stranger, “So this is how you treat Montrealers in Calgary?”

“No it’s not,” the stranger states. “I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

Neither had I. Except, I have. I had forgotten. It was a young girl walking out of a building at a youth facility. I was there for a meeting. Our paths crossed just as I was entering. She grabbed my arm, kicked my shin and dug her nails into my hand.

I had never met her before.

At the time, I was taken aback. Startled. I gently asked her to please let go of my hand and arm. She did, but not before telling me I couldn’t go in the building.

I have to, I told her. I have a meeting.

Is it about me? she asked.

No. It’s about me.

That seemed to satisfy her and she walked away.

And just as I did then, I wonder now about hatred. Violence. Abuse.

What had that woman experienced in her life to make it okay to lash out the way she did? What had she not experienced?

Love? Kindness? Consideration? Gentleness?

What had she not been given to cause her to think punching a stranger in the stomach would lead to anything good?

Guidance? Safety? Security? Ease of being in this world?

As I stand at the doors waiting for the train to stop at my station, I smile at the man who was punched and say, “I’m sorry that happened to you.”

“It’s okay” he replies. “I don’t think she even knew what she was doing.”

Except, she did know what a punch was. She did know how to lash out.

And I wonder again if she’s ever known the beauty of Love embracing her in kindness and gentleness. I wonder if she ever had the grace of feeling safe, secure, like she belonged in a world where hatred, violence, fear were not the way.

And I wonder how she will ever know the difference if she never stops doing what she’s doing to create more of what she’s doing now.

I wonder how any of us will if we don’t stop using hatred as a weapon and fear as our defense against Love.

Uniquely Myself

I trust that who I am is perfect for my unique journey and soul path.
Soulful Woman Guidance Cards (#32)

When I was younger my mother used to comment that she wished I’d stop doing things my way. She’d plead with me to please just be like ‘the others’.

I wasn’t good at it. I always wanted to carve my own path, seek my own course. Just because others did it one way didn’t make it a good way for me.

Yesterday, while visiting her at the hospital, a nurse came in to help her sit up higher in her bed. She was doing really well after the hip replacement surgery two weeks ago. Was walking a few metres with the help of a walker and though she still needed one person to help her get out of bed, she was determined to get up on her own.

And now, she’s not doing well. A cough that she’s convinced is pneumonia, (the x-rays will be back today) has left her feeling weak, frustrated and defeated. She’s not allowed solid foods and is confined to bed. Looking at her yesterday, I could see the ravages of no food on her frail body. She’s lost more weight and is now below 90lbs.

On the phone with my middle sister yesterday, my mother asked her to promise that she’d be here for her funeral. I’m ready to go, she told her. I’m sure it won’t be long.

At my sister’s admonishments that she’d be fine soon, she laughed and said, well we have to be able to joke about it don’t we?

I don’t really believe she was joking. I think she’s preparing us for what comes next.

My mother has proven to be resilient and stronger than even the doctors imagined. Her doctor calls her ‘the floor mascot’. One of the nurses told me she was doing better than any other person on the floor, in spite of them all being decades younger.

My mother does it her way.

Always has.

Perhaps it is what she saw in me that concerned her so much long ago.

It is not always an easy path. Sometimes, it feels like going against the flow. Pushing against the wind, especially in those moments where you know, without a doubt, what is best for you, and others are holding on to the way things were.

When it comes to our parents, no matter our age, it is hard to let them go.

For my mother, she is ready.

She was so excited to be walking, to be showing everyone that at over 94 she was not some helpless old lady lying in bed, ‘a burden’ (her words) on everyone. And now, despite her desire to reach 100 years of age, this latest setback of a cough that is now confining her to bed, keeping her on a liquid diet only, is bringing her down.

I understand. Life isn’t about constantly fighting the winds, it’s about setting your sails to let the wind carry you where you want to go.

My mother is tired. Her resilience is waning. Her conviction she can get through this weakening.

I want to tell her to do it her way. To be her own unique self travelling this segment of her journey with the grace she has shown all her life. To let go of aspiring to reach a certain age, or prove people wrong. (She’s been so proud of the fact she’s proven the medical staff wrong. They thought she’d be confined to bed forever.)

I want to tell her to be her own unique self on the journey of her lifetime. That no matter when she takes her final breath, the gift she’s left behind is carried forward in the grace-filled women who follow in her path. From my sisters to my daughters to my nieces, the grace my mother has always shown through trials, tribulations and triumphs is what inspires each of us to continue to live with grace in all ways, in all things.

Thank you mom. Your courage, strength and grace continue to amaze me and inspire me to live as uniquely me, travelling my journey creatively and lovingly, just like you taught me.