I think about not posting. How, it’s a holiday in Alberta today, Family Day, and I should spend it with my family (but even the cat and dog are still sleeping) and I don’t really need to post everyday and I don’t feel very inspired today so why should I post and really, who am I kidding? I don’t need to post today.

I listen to the voices in my head. Clean up the dishes from last night’s ‘family dinner’, browse through Pinterest, read a few blogs. Not feeling inspired I don’t bother to comment on anyone’s posts.

It’s a gorgeous day outside. The birds are twittering at the feeder. Ooops. Gotta fill it.

Come back in. Finish clearing off the dining room table. Putz around some more. Check out the Pairs Figure Skating Champioships. Take another look at Pinterest. Read my daughter’s blog. Wow. She’s so amazing. I’m not feeling inspired. Glad she is.

Really, I don’t need to post. It’s a holiday.

Think about another coffee. Nah. Water would be better. Fill the water-filter thingie. Pour myself a glass. Stand at the kitchen sink watching the birds gather around the feeder. Turn around and notice the fridge door, — stainless steel + golden retriever + sun shining through kitchen window = ugh. Really? All that hair and dust? I just cleaned it yesterday. I clean it again.

Decide it’s time to get out of my pjs. Talk with my sister on the phone. A girlfriend. Arrange a meet-up this week.

Really? Do I need to write a blog? I’m feeling blah. Head cold fogging my thinking. Seriously? I’ve got another cold? What’s with that. Think about googling ‘frequent colds’ but decide against it. Really? What are they going to tell me other than I need to boost my immune system. Hmmm… I worked at a homeless shelter for 6 years and prided myself on the fact that my loved one’s brought colds into the house and I never caught them. Hmmm… maybe my immune system adjusted to the stress of that environment and strengthened itself. Does that mean stress can have its advantages?

Maybe I’ll google it.

Nope. Feeling uninspired. I’d really rather just go back to bed.

But there’s that painting I’m working on in the studio. The seascape that seems to be revealing itself as a pond with water lilies.  Very Monet-ish.

Consider going down to the studio but the blog is calling. My mind won’t let it go. Is this a self-defeating game? to not write. I know that writing my blog every morning sets my day up for inspiration. It opens my access to the muse, clears my thinking of vestiges of sleep and ennui that threaten to curl up into little dust-balls in every corner, stopping the free-flow of ideas that are always present — when I set myself free of worry, angst, thinking I don’t have to, self-defeating games and limiting beliefs — magic happens. Trusting in the process, I become the ideas flowing freely.

Hmmm…. maybe that’s it. Maybe I’m just stalling on writing my blog to keep myself in this place of unease.  Maybe, I’m telling myself a story about feeling tired. Maybe the truth is, what I tell myself becomes my truth.

What if I tell myself I want to write my blog because it’s good self-care. It inspires me.

They I’d best go write my blog. Because seriously– I have no desire to feel uninspired, tired, or even weary of living life to the fullest every day.

That negative, limited thinking does not transform my day into a thing of beauty. It only keeps me feeling BLAH.

I don’t like blah.

Think I’ll go write my blog.

And so I did.

Feeling inspired now. Think I’ll go explore what is calling to be released in the studio.

Have an inspired day! Mine promises to be!

It’s Valentine’s Day. The day for Cupid’s arrow to pierce even the crustiest of hearts. The day when chocolate makers rub their hands in glee and flower shops dance the kaching’ka jig.

It’s a day when lonely hearts feel the lack of someone warm to hold onto, when reminders that ‘love is all around’ echo hollowly in their empty beds.

I’ve never been a huge fan of Valentine’s Day. Always thought it was just a tad commercial, a tad too contrived. I mean, if it’s love why do we have to force feed one another with protestations of our sincerity? Shouldn’t Love be the norm? Shouldn’t it simply be ‘the given’? Why do we need to dress it all up in glitz and glamour?

harumph.

Perhaps I need to see The Grinch who stole my Heart and ask him to give it back!

Just kidding. Really. 

In ancient Rome, Lupercalia was a festival that included lots of unruly behaviour. It was often filled with more debauchery and unbridled sex drives run amuck than protestations of undying Love so the Christians converted the Lubercalia festival to one celebrating ‘Love’ of the more tame (and sane) variety to protect its people. And while no one knows for sure which Valentine it was named after, many believe it was dubbed Valentine’s Day at the end of the 5th Century in honour of a cleric who was executed for performing marriage between soldiers — the Emperor at the time had forbidden soldiers wed as he believed unwed men made better soldiers.

Regardless of its origins, I find the pressure of Valentine’s Day overwhelming!

And yet, this past month, I have been secretly creating a book of Love for my beloved. Like my art journal, it is a hand-crafted tome filled with images and words to celebrate Love.

And, just as when I spent a year writing a love poem a day for C.C., I discovered in the course of creating his book of Love, that the journey lead me deeper into my own heart, into my own creative essence and capacity to know and feel and understand and express, Love.

The book is called, There is No Edge to Love. The title is taken from a poem I wrote in the poetry book I gave to him last year, Love is the Mirror.

Happy Day of Love and Light everyone!

I am in a meeting when she arrives. The receptionist comes to get me and I excuse myself. I think it will only take a few minutes to complete what I need to do.

I love it when serendipity and fate step in with moments of human brilliance that leave me breathless with awe.

Her name is Marlene Clay. I’ve asked if I can write about our encounter and share her story.

Of course, she replied. If it can help one person, why not?

Marlene is a social worker. For over 33 years she has served people in need, working with marginalized populations to help them cope with life’s travails.

For the past 10 years, she also cared for her husband of 30 years until he passed away 17 months ago.

I was devastated she tells me. Lost.

To ease her grief she threw herself into the music of Bon Jovi, an artist she has followed throughout his career.

But she doesn’t just listen to his music. She decides to go to as many concerts as she can, no matter where in the world he is performing. Which is why last year Marlene attended 15 concerts on Bon Jovi’s world tour and travelled to 5 countries outside Canada. England, Wales, Scotland, Ireland, and the USA.

As she’s telling me her story, my eyes are widening in awe. There is a grace and openness about her that is compelling. Her eyes sparkle and look deeply into mine. I feel like she can see me, deep inside. Hear me. Know me.

She has come to the Foundation offices where I work with a book she wants to present to Bon Jovi at his Las Vegas acoustic concert next week. 200 people. An intimate setting and a chance to ask questions, chat, and get to know the man behind the music.

I don’t want to go and ask the normal questions, like, where do you get your inspiration from, or what do you do when you’re not playing music, she tells me. I want to do something that will make a difference to him too.

Her idea. To present him with a copy of the Calgary Herald’s book The Flood of 2013, with a message from the Calgary Homeless Foundation on the inside leaf. The Foundation has a connection with Bon Jovi. We were recipients last year of his largesse. As the first stop on his world tour where Richie Sambora was not in attendance, Bon Jovi had donated $100,000 to the Calgary Homeless Foundation as a way to make-up for his lead guitarist’s absence. His donation made the headlines but this was a way to make our thanks more personal, said Marlene in an email last week to ask if we’d be willing to write in the book.

I’m going to his acoustic concert in Las Vegas and want to give him a copy of the Flood of 2013 book and tell him the story of how his donation made a difference in people’s lives, she wrote.

Which was why I was sitting with Marlene yesterday afternoon, writing a note in the front of the book on behalf of the Foundation.

I asked her why she wanted to do it. We had sent a thank you letter at the time of the donation, and while this seemed like a nice gesture, it was  a bit out there.

I met him, personally, she says. He made a difference at a time when I really needed something to help me deal with my grief.

And she went on to tell me the story of last year, just a few months after her husband’s passing, while sitting in the lobby of a hotel in Toronto she had the opportunity to meet him in person.

He happened to walk right past me, she said. And I knew, this was my moment.

Marlene jumped up and approached Bon Jovi, or Jon, as she calls him and said, “Can I tell you something?”

The super-star stopped, looked at her and replied, ‘Yes’.

“Your music makes a difference.” And she quickly told him about following his tour, listening to his music in an effort to cope with her grief.

“Bon Jovi looked at me and said, “I’m so sorry”, and then, he stepped right up to me, put his arms around me and hugged me,” she said. “He held me like that for a few moments and then, stepped back, smiled and turned and walked away.”

And in that moment Marlene felt her grief lift. She felt as though her husband Leigh was there, making it happen, making it all possible.

Even my grief counselor is surprised at how well I’m doing, she laughs.

And she is. Healing. Living. Moving through the grief with grace, her heart open to all that is possible when we accept that no matter what happens to the one’s we  hold dear, Love is always present, Love is always creating miracles all around.

I spent an hour with an amazing woman yesterday. We laughed and chatted and in our conversation I felt connected to the beauty and magnificence of the human spirit shining brightly.

I wasn’t expecting it. Didn’t anticipate such a simple task to be so filled with generosity of spirit and light.

I am blessed.

Marlene has promised to let me know what happens at the concert. She’s promised to get a photo and when she returns, to get together for tea.

I’m looking forward to our next encounter.

I like being surrounded by people of grace.

I am coming up to an anniversary of sorts.

Conrad, the man who had promised to love me ’til death do us part and lied his way into my heart, was actively engaged in making the death part come true at this time 11 years ago. On February 26, 2003, we left the city without a word to anyone. Headed west, over the Rockies towards the coast where we would spend the next 4 months hiding out as he planned his escape from Canada, and my demise.

I had already become silent. I had already become the walking breathing dead. I smiled. Talked. Did what he told me to do. And waited.

I plotted ways to kill myself. Dreamed of the ways he would do it.

But I stayed silent. And still.

These were the days of my being buried alive. These were the days of the roaring in my head that drowned out everything but pain and fear and shame and self-loathing.

I haven’t often gone back to those days in memory. It was one of the keys to my recovery. After his arrest and my receiving the miracle of my life, I knew that I was not strong enough to venture back into the darkness. I knew that I needed to stay in the light for a long time to awaken my heart’s memory of beating freely, of breathing without fear. I knew I could not go back to the darkness without risking getting lost in the pain. So I stayed in the light.

Eleven years after his arrest, going back to the darkness is filled with healing. It is filled with release and freedom. I can go back there without fearing what lies in the past. I can go back to cleanse myself of whatever vestiges of shame and pain and sorrow remain.

It is a gift.

To be able to return without fear. To be able to look at those memories without feeling my skin crawl, the hairs on the back of my neck rise. Without crying.

It is a gift to be able to write of those days with a soft heart and gentle soul. I am grateful.

In February of that year, my heart was broken, my soul in tatters. I had run out of options. Run out of energy. Of the capacity to pretend I was okay. My daughters were staying with their father and stepmom. They were terrified of losing me. Horrified by the act of  my disappearing before their eyes. I was erasing myself from their lives and they were powerless to stop me.

So was I. Powerless. I had given my power away. Given it completely to this man for whom I had no feelings other than a sick and twisted belief that only he could keep me safe, only he had the answers to my release — and though I knew that release was through my death, I didn’t care. I desperately wanted it.

We were living in a house outside the city limits. Conrad had leased it and told me it would be a place for us to build again. It has an indoor pool, he said. Your daughters will love it.

But my daughters refused to come to see it. They would have nothing to do with Conrad. They’re trying to turn you against me, he screamed. Just like everyone is.

And I would reassure him that it wasn’t true. I would reassure him that I loved him, always would.

It’s the funny thing about our spirit’s fight for life. No matter how dark the world around us, the will to live is strong. It will do whatever it takes to keep the embers of life flickering within.

I didn’t love him. How could I? I knew by then he was the lie, but I had become an extension of him, a victim of his creation. I was attached. To his lies. To his every move. I dared not move of  my own volition. Talk out. Speak up. Act out. I dared not do anything.

In this house there was no furniture. Mine was all in storage and every day Conrad would tell me the movers were bringing it to the house. Everyday he’d speak to the woman at the storage place to arrange its arrival. The driver’s lost, he’d tell me. The truck broke down. I’d listen to his end of the conversation and feel lost and alone and frightened and horrified of what had become of my life. I’d later learn he’d been speaking to himself. There was no one else on the line. He’d never spoken to the woman at the storage centre. Never once after the day all my daughters belongings and mine were delivered to her care.

It was what he did.

It was what I became.

The unseen person at the end of his lies. The one on the line who never hung up.

It is an anniversary of sorts coming up. The memories want to flow free. I allow them.

And in their freedom I breathe freely, my cells cleansed of their cloying reminders of days gone by. In their flowing free I know that was then, this is now.

In the now, I am free. I am brave. I am courageous. I am loved, lovable and loving.

I am an alive and radiant woman, touching hearts, opening minds to set spirits free.

And that includes mine.

namaste.

My Note from The Universe has given me pause for thought this morning: “Louise, happiness postponed until dreams are realized is happiness that never comes. You already rock.”

The note began with a request that I think about all the dreams I’ve had that have already come true. And reminded me of how often I’d said, “when I have….; when I do….;” how fulfilled I’ll feel, how my life will be on fire, how I”ll know all things are possible…

Keep your promises, The Universe admonished.

A couple of years ago, I made a promise to myself that I would eventually clean out the basement and turn it into a studio. Last fall, I kept that promise.

Several years ago, when I was released from a relationship that was killing me, I made a commitment to myself that I would write a book about my experiences. The purpose wasn’t to retell the sordid details of those dark days. My purpose was to inspire others going through similar experiences. To let them know, they were not alone. There was hope. They could survive. And thrive.

Last week, I received a phone call from a producer of a documentary show that was filmed here last fall about my journey through that relationship. The crew flew in from the US to interview me and my eldest daughter as well as some other’s who were involved in the story. The documentary is finished. It will air sometime this spring.  It is the second documentary made about that story. The other still shows up on the Oprah Network. I continue to get emails from people telling me how the story inspires them, touches them, helps them.

It is a promise fulfilled.

When I was in that relationship, Conrad liked to tell me how he would give me ‘the story of my lifetime’. It would be all about him. How he turned from the darkness of a life of crime (he told me he was a member of an organized family) and created a world of value through love.

I did get ‘the story of my lifetime’ — it’s just not the one he imagined.

The story of my lifetime is the one I’m living today. This story where I am free of the fears and anxieties of the past. This story where I am centre stage of my own life, fully, completely, passionately alive.

Living my dreams, now.

But here’s the catch.

I’ve got some dreams I’m not living fully. I’ve got some thoughts I’m not expressing freely. I’ve got some goals I have not yet realized.

What’s it going to take?

“A dream is your creative vision for your life in the future. You must break out of your current comfort zone and become comfortable with the unfamiliar and the unknown.”  Denis Waitley*

Am I stuck in my current comfort zone? Is fear holding me back from really getting big, large, outrageously living my dreams?

But whoa, my inner critic calls out. Shouldn’t you be getting ready to retire?

I am not the ‘retiring’ kind. I do not envisage sitting with my feet up, sipping tea and playing bridge in the afternoons.

It is not my nature.

The other night at dinner with my youngest daughter, I laughingly told her I thought it was time I ‘reinvented myself as an artist.’

There is truth in laughter.

If I were to paint a picture of my life 1 year, 3 years, 5 years down the road, what would I create?

I would create a life where I am ‘out there’ doing what I’m doing now, sharing my stories of living in the rapture of now on the outside of your comfort zone. I would be painting and writing daily and using all my creative expressions to inspire others to delve into theirs and express themselves, in every way possible.

And then, I think about Denis Waitley, the author of the quote above.

He built an empire on his capacity to inspire and motivate people until one day it was discovered that all his admonitions to people to Speak Up. Tell the truth and Stay Unattached to the Outcome were built upon a lie he’d told about his education. He didn’t have a Masters Degree from The Naval Academy and his PhD could not be verified. (source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Denis_Waitley) 

Denis Waitley encouraged people to get out of their comfort zones and live it up.

So do I.

But… what if in not living my truth beyond my wildest imaginings I am withholding my best, turning my back on the abundant nature of the Universe and its desire to create better?

It is a desire that can only be achieved through each of us expressing ourselves in our own unique and creative ways.

What if each of us is here on this planet to live it up? To express ourselves through continuously stepping beyond the limits of our comfort zone. Actions that will further the evolutionary promise that is human kind?

What if we are each stuck, in some way, in our comfort zones. Living and loving life, but holding onto unmet, unexpressed dreams?

What’s it gonna’ take for each of us to know we make a difference in this world, each and every day — and it’s up to us to live it to our fullest through the fulfillment of our dreams.

“Just in case you ever wonder whether or not you make a difference, you made a difference in my life,” she told me, her soft brown eyes looking intently at me, her hands holding mine.

She had been a client at the homeless shelter where I used to work. It was a sudden change in her circumstances, an unexpected hiccup on her path that landed her there. “I just need someone to help me with my resume,” she had said to me on that day, several years ago when we’d met.

I’d connected her with one of the staff in the shelter’s job training program and they had helped her with her resume.

“You took the time to hear me out and then to do something about it,” she said.

That resume got her a job in house-keeping with a large organization.  On the day we meet again, many years after that first encounter, she is a member of the client advisory group I am working with at the homeless foundation where I now work. We are talking about story-telling.

I ask the group for a word or two that they would like the world to see them as. Passionate is one of my words I tell them, what are some of yours?

Strong. Caring. Compassionate. Kind. Thoughtful. The list goes on.

And what are the words you think of when you think of homelessness, I ask. The words you think people use to describe you or other people in that state?

These words come even faster. Dirty. Scum. Garbage. Drunks. Addicts. Lazy. Good for nothing. Freeloaders.

They are endless. They are painful. They are cruel.

Write of your experiences of being judged as dirty, scum, garbage, but write from your place in the first list, I tell them. Write of what you know about homelessness, but let people see your strength, courage, compassion, thoughtfulness, kindness.

Show them your humanity is not different than their humanity. Help them see that homelessness is a state of living. It is not who you are.

Homelessness makes you feel inhuman, one of the men in the group says. You’re constantly feeling  an outsider. It gets so bad I have to not care any more. I can’t let what other people think about me matter. I don’t care if they like me or not.

Another man jumps in. Yeah. I know what you mean, but the problem is, I do care. I just can’t let it show.

He is back in school. He wants to work in the sector when he graduates. After 20 years of living rough, letting alcohol and drugs dictate his every move, he is clean and sober and on track to live the life he’s learning to dream about.

It’s hard to trust in dreams when you’re homeless, the group tell me. Dreams are for losers. Dreams will only disappoint you, let you down. Dreams leave you vulnerable, and there’s one thing you can’t be when you’re homeless and that’s vulnerable. Bad things happen to people who let down their guard.

I spent a couple of hours last week in conversation with people willing to share their lived experience of homelessness because they want to include their voices in the city’s plans to end homelessness.

They were honest, forthright, open, funny, articulate and accountable.

I got a ticket, one man shared. $250 he cannot afford but will have to pay. The group had suggestions of what he could do. One man asked, who are you most angry with — the guy who gave you the ticket or yourself for forgetting to stamp your ticket at the station? Myself, he admitted. It was a stupid mistake. And then he adds proudly. But I didn’t get angry. I didn’t get disrespectful with him. I kept my cool.

That’s a win, the group agreed as they applauded him for his accomplishment.

And then, as I was leaving, the woman came up and thanked me for something I’d done years ago. I’d always hoped to one day see you again, she said. I always wanted to thank you.

What a gift her words are. What a blessing.

In her sharing I am reminded once again, we are all connected. And in that connection, everything we do makes a difference in how we are remembered in this world.

Let my connections always remind those I meet of kindness, compassion, caring and Love.

Like Ghandi, let me be the difference I want to create in the world. Let me be Love.

He is intent on finding justice. On righting wrongs. On creating equality for those who have little to no voice. For those who do not have the capacity to fight.

He is intent on creating a system of care that will serve the elderly. For bringing the public’s attention to what he sees a gaping wound in our society: the fact that so many of Canada’s seniors will end their final years without dignity, without hope, without care.

“We have to stop this,” he tells me as we sit in a local coffee shop one afternoon. “We must ensure that every Canadian from the Prime Minister all the way down to the man and woman on the street gets involved.”

It’s all about awareness he tells me and gives me the statistics. 68,000 doctors in Canada, only 300 geriatric specialists. Only 30 percent of those who need palliative care receive it. But even beyond the numbers is the unescapable truth. We are an aging population and there’s not enough care to go around.

I ask him why he’s so passionate about this issue. In the four years I’ve known him, he’s talked about it, shared ideas, spoken of his goal to raise his voice and draw people out to support him. But still, justice for the wrongly accused would make more sense. Isn’t that what happened to him? Isn’t that what he is most passionate about?

He acknowledges he is, but it is too close, he tells me. It still has the capacity to mess with his head.

His name is David Milgaard. He is one of the most amazing human beings I know.

After 22 years of being wrongfully imprisoned for a murder he did not commit, he is not bitter. He is not angry. He does not carry a chip on his shoulder. He does not blame or deride or denigrate those who put him behind bars or the system that was so evidently lacking in its commitment and use of due process it stole over 22 years of his life. He was 16 when he was arrested. 18 when he was convicted to life imprisonment with no chance of parole for at least 10 years. It is one of the sad ironies of his case. He never did receive parole. He wouldn’t confess to a crime he didn’t commit and without a confession, the parole board did not consider him fit for parole.

And still, he is not bitter. He is not angry.

He is kind. He is passionate. He is caring. He is humble.

One day, I’ll be counted as one of the elderly, he says. So will you. Shouldn’t we be doing everything we can, right now, to ensure there’s something to look forward to? A system that will take care of us properly?

He is right.

We can do better. We must do better.

David wants me to get involved in his campaign. He’s mounting an event, The Assembly of Hope, to raise awareness of elder care, to demand changes in our social policies and framework to ensure government enacts the necessary changes to take care of the elderly with dignity, respect and better care.

And I think of my mother.

My sister Anne and I are blessed with our eldest sister Jackie. Our mother lives in an assisted living facility and Jackie is her main care-giver. She drives her to doctor’s appointments, advocates for her care, takes her for lunches and invites her friends to join in. She knows her doctors, her nurses, all the staff at the facility by name. She is constantly working to ease the load of my mother’s 91 years, constantly on alert for changes in her moods, her needs, her physical health. Jackie is constantly taking care.

Jackie carries the burden, she lessens our load, even our guilt, of not being there for this woman who gave us life. Anne lives a thousand miles away. I live in the same city and still, I do not step in. I do not intervene. I let Jackie do the work.

Perhaps it is time to make change happen. Perhaps it is time to stand up and add my voice to the mix, not just for my mother but for people like my sister who give so selflessly to ensure our aging parents have the care they need.

They are the wayfarers, the pioneers, the trail-blazers who have set the course. Perhaps, if the government constructed its elder-care framework around the system of care my sister has built around our mother, there would be no need for anyone to raise their voices. Because in listening to those who do the lions share of the work, the answers are already there. The path is laid out. The way is clear to what needs to be done.

I am having dinner with my youngest daughter. It is a regular bi-weekly event for us though it’s been a few weeks since we’ve had our mother/daughter get-together. January was busy and before that Christmas. We were due this time together!

We talk about current events in our lives, work, her plans for the future, a recent trip and then our conversation turns to days long ago. The pain we both felt and the power of time to ease the strain of what was as we learn to accept the power of love to heal all things in the here and now. She tells me she has found there is value in all things, it’s just sometimes it’s hard to see it until you’re far enough away from the source of the pain.

“What is the value you’ve found in being diagnosed with epilepsy?” I ask.

It was four years ago when she got the diagnosis. It was a surprise. A shock. There had been no symptoms, nothing to suggest its presence. Over the years I’ve watched her navigate the uncomfortable waters of change, watched her learn to accept and live with the consequences of the changes its demanded in her life. It wasn’t always easy but she has always surfaced above it with grace. She’s even made jokes about it and let her friends tease her about it. It is her nature.  “There’s not much else I can do,” she says. “I can’t change it.”

And that is the value its taught her, she tells me.  To let go of trying to control everything.

It is a powerful lesson.

Motivational speaker Brian Tracy said, “You cannot control what happens to you, but you can control your attitude toward what happens to you, and in that, you will be mastering change rather than allowing it to master you.”

I have in my life been known to try to control everything. I believed if I could control the world around me, my world would be under control.

Time. Experience. Life has taught me otherwise.

I cannot control the world around me. I can only control how I respond to it.

Being in control is my ego’s fear based response. My ego likes to look like it has all the answers. Like it knows what’s goin’ on, what’s goin’ down, what’s goin’ round.

My ego is not my friend. In its fear based responses, it leaves me exposed and vulnerable to outside circumstances slipping in and messing with my hearts desire to know and experience life in all its richness right where I’m at, as I’m at, with all that I’ve got in that moment.

My ego would like me to believe I am powerful enough to create, change and cure everything that happens in my life.

It just isn’t true.

What I am powerful enough to do is create and change how I act, what I do and say. I can’t control my immediate emotional response to circumstances as they arise. I can’t control my thoughts swooping in. I can control how I let my emotions dictate my responses. I can control how I let my thoughts sweep me away or strengthen me to respond with grace. I can control what I do with my emotions. Where I go with my thinking.

I saw this in action the other night as I drove past a motel where long ago, the man who loved me in ways that were killing me and I once stayed. It was the beginning of February, the month we would leave Calgary without a word and I would wait everyday for the next four months to die. The night was bitter cold. Ice particles hung in the air, my tires crunched along the snowy road as I drove. I have, over the past several years driven past that motel many times, and never had a reaction. And then, on this night, unbidden, tears began to flow. Not a lot, but they were there.

My immediate reaction was to condemn myself for being stupid. Ridiculous. Silly.

It’s been 11 years. Get over it already! my mind ordered.

My heart knew better.

It’s okay, it whispered. You’re safe. Let the tears flow. This is just a memory looking for release. No need to control memory. Memories are of the past. And the past isn’t real. It can’t hurt you. Let it flow free.

And in its flowing free I felt the release, and relief, of knowing that was then, this is now.

And in the here in now, I am wildly in love with my life today.

In the here and now, I am living my life for all I’m worth. Celebrating the moment with all my senses awakened to the beauty and wonder and awe of living each day in the truth of who I am when I live on purpose in the rapture of now.   I am an alive and radiant woman, touching hearts and opening minds to set spirits free.

Nameste.

Even before she named it out loud, I suspected its presence.

Even before she said the words, I heard them spoken in everything she did.

She was disappearing before my eyes. Vanishing. Carving out the soft curves of her body. The edges of her bones becoming visible beneath her skin.

I felt powerless. Helpless. Confused.

To confront or not to confront? To ask or to let go? Be patient or inquisitive?

We talked around it. I shared articles I thought would interest her about self-esteem. Self-worth. I talked about my own healing journey from abuse. Wrote  my blog and purposefully wrote about body image, self-concept. I know she read what I wrote. I know she heard the words. Saw the love shimmering.

But what I couldn’t know was how no matter what I said, what I did, how much I loved her, how much I cherished every cell of her being, she could not hear nor feel nor acknowledge nor see the beauty I saw. She could not hear the words, take in the truth, feel the Love. All she could feel was the pain of being lost in the maws of a monster  insisting she was unworthy. A monster who consumed every thought she had, every morsel of food she took into her body, everything she did.

ED held the reins of her existence. ED decided her destiny and she was lost in his vicious insistence that the only way to become worth, to be free,  to live was to be less, get smaller, become invisible.

It is Eating Disorder Awareness Week in Canada.

Alexis, my eldest daughter is one of EDs victims.

She works everyday to be a survivor. And one day, she will be its victor.

For now, it is a daily journey of one breath at a time. One conscious choice of LIFE over ED. Of choosing worthiness over worthlessness. Of picking up a fork and eating that last piece of pie, of taking that forbidden bite of fruit without throwing her hard won progress away in the name of EDs insistence he is the master of her body. The keeper of her life. The holder of her destiny.

As a mother of a daughter with an eating disorder I too must stay conscious. I too must choose LIFE over ED. I too must choose to be Loving. Informed. and Fiercely Embracing of my daughter exactly as she is.

I cannot shy away from this monster who would consume her. I cannot turn my back on EDs power to speak lies.

I must stay committed to the truth.

She is not ED. And ED is not her.

ED is a mental health disorder that has taken up residence in her mind and body.

ED can be conquered. ED can be outed.

As long as we speak up. As long as we stay conscious. As long as we stand in the light.

ED has no power in the light. Though ED would like me to keep dragging the past forward, scouring my memory banks searching for that one clue, that one moment in time that would say, ‘here’s where it started’ so that I can retrace our steps and unravel the source of EDs presence.

That’s when ED wins. When I step out of the light of this moment to live in the darkness of my fear.

I will not do it. I will not let ED have his way to believing he owns my daughter.

I choose LIFE over ED. My daughter deserves it. I will not waver in my resolve to love her, exactly the way she is. To speak truth. To speak up. To speak out.

ED cannot survive when we let go of silence. ED does not like anyone to have a voice.

I cannot oust ED from my daughter’s mind and body.

I can speak up and in my voice, and all the voices of its victims, survivors and victors, joining together we can shine a light on the darkness so that everyone can one day see their way to freedom.

It is Eating Disorder Awareness week in Canada. Let’s all play a role in lighting up the darkness. Let’s choose LIFE over ED and any other disorder that would have anyone believe they are not worthy. 

We are all worthy. Of life. Of love. Of joy. Of freedom. We are all worthy.

Alexis’ blog today, In the Broken, is a song of courage, gratitude, bravery and love — It can be read HERE.

Therapist, teacher, counselor and all around amazing woman Jodi Aman, writes a thought-provoking, spirit stirring blog today called, “Can you be too generous? I don’t think so.”

Jodi writes about one of the many simple tools to living a better life that Choices teacher — Giving is receiving. More than that though, giving can also be healing, writes Jodi.  She demonstrates its healing powers through a story she tells about a day when, in great distress, she saw a tiny turtle lying on the ground, a piece of gravel in its eye, its body dehydrated. The act of picking it up, giving it water, taking care of it until it could be released to the river, completely shifted her thinking from her own pain to the turtle’s distress and what she could do to help it — and in that moment, she was healed.

Jodi writes, You can give and be a victim of it, and you can give and not be a victim of it. 

It is all in our attitude. Our choices. Our willingness to let go of pain to move into the promise of hope and healing.

What if, giving is healing?

What if, when I give I am feeding my heart, and my mind, what it most needs?

Several years ago, when I was in the first days and weeks of awakening from a relationship that had been killing me, I chose to get actively engaged in my healing by giving back. Every Tuesday morning I would ride my bicycle to a church some miles away and join with a group of people who made sandwiches for the lost souls who lived on the streets of East Vancouver, a notoriously drug-riddled area of the city where junkies and prostitutes and dealers jostled for attention.

Making those sandwiches was just such an act as Jodi describes in her article.

In buttering the bread, layering it with meat and cheese, my thinking shifted from my own woes to thoughts of the people who would be biting into the sandwiches I was making. I imagined that when they bit into each sandwich, they would feel the one thing they couldn’t see that I was consciously layering between each bread slice — the  one thing I needed most in those first fragile days of my recovery, self-love. (My TEDx talk from a couple of years ago, Lessons in Love, describes the power of that act.)

In the conversation around me, in connecting into community, I was lifted out of my own pain to a community of giving and receiving. In the stories we shared, the laughter, the prayers, I felt connected, supported, part of something greater than myself. I wasn’t different than the people I was making sandwiches with. I wasn’t ‘other’ than the people for whom we were making sandwiches. We were all one. All connected.

In giving back I received the gift of healing.

It was powerful.

So often, our minds become trapped in the darkness of our pain, churning around and around the same thoughts of what is wrong as if continually thinking about them will pulverize them into sand. Instead of minimizing our pain though, our continual thinking about it reminds us of all that went wrong, all that is not right, and in those reminders we feel hopeless, exhausted and defeated. And in our exhaustion, we tell ourselves there’s nothing we can do, nothing we can change, nowhere else to go that will be any different.

It’s not true.

There is always something we can change. Our attitude. Our position. Our perspective can all change when we give back, no matter how broken, defeated or exhausted we are, giving back feeds the soul.

I saw this constantly at the homeless shelter where I used to work. People who had nothing, choosing to give to others. When asked why they volunteered, the response was always the same, ‘it makes me feel good’; ‘it takes my mind off my troubles’, ‘because I can’. It was those who chose to volunteer clearing tables, washing dishes, sweeping floors who had the greatest sense of grace in the chaotic world of a homeless shelter.

Giving back is healing.

Give back to yourself today and take a few moments to read Jodi’s article. It’s great soul food.

Can you be too generous? I don’t think so.