I have been running a race. Against time. Against myself. Against an unseen opponent. Running in the ‘fear fog’ as my daughters’ friend De calls it in her blog, 7 days. That space where my mind wants me to believe it’s in control, that it knows best, that listening to my heart is not wise.

My heart is wise. My head is strong — and it gets lead astray too easily by my thinking I don’t know my heart.

My head has been telling me I don’t know. I don’t have the answers. I’m not — tall enough, smart enough, young enough, educated enough, wise enough. My head has been shutting down my heart, advising it to stop beating so deeply. To just ‘go with the flow’ and let be.

Except, in my mind’s space, letting go and letting be is very different than in my heart-space.

Letting go and letting be in my heart-space comes from a place of wisdom, of compassion, of knowing and Love.

In my mind’s space, it comes from fear. In my mind’s space, letting go is all about denial, ignoring what is, refusing to feel what is possible when I let go of fear.

In my heart space, it’s all about being present. Of being aware of fear’s seductive call driving me to not — do, be, become — all that I dream of — and letting courage draw me into that space where my heart knows that all I dream of is possible when I — do, be, become — all that I dream of.

I have been wandering aimlessly through the ‘fear fog’, letting the past cloud my present and my presence to each  moment.

I felt it last night at dinner when my beautiful friend Kerry Parsons was sharing stories of the Healing Circles she’d held in Elbow Park, one of the areas hit badly by the floods a few weeks ago. We talked about community building, and spaces opening up and how, in the aftermath of such intense connection, people immediately race to fill in the spaces that opened up with what was, rather than what is possible if we just hold the space open.

And then she asked me, “And how are you doing in the aftermath?”

And I felt the space open up.

Ten years ago I awoke to my life with 72 cents in my pockets, a few clothes in a suitcase and my golden retriever Ellie at my side. I had lost everything. I didn’t even own a fork and knife.

There was something very freeing about being ‘without’. Freeing and liberating and terrifying. I remember deciding to rebuild on my terms. To reclaim what worked, and to let go of what didn’t. I have been incredibly blessed. My daughters have forgiven me for the pain I caused them and today, our relationship is stronger and deeper than it ever was in the past.

And, I have been blessed with family and friends who love me. With a man whose heart is true and who sees me through eyes of love. I have a home, work I love, and lots of belongings. In fact, from not owning even a fork and knife, I now have a houseful of stuff!  Some of which I keep working on getting rid of!

But still, my heart has been disquieted by the events of the flood. So many memories of what it feels like to lose everything, especially those things that hold such meaning — like my years and years worth of journals that I kept from the time I was 18. Or the book of poetry I wrote in my 20s. and the mementoes of my daughters’ birth and growing years. Gone.

But more than the stuff, it is the reminder of the pain I caused the two people I love most in the world. I have been stirring those dark and dank places where fear rots the foundation of my peace of mind.

I have been willful.

I have been disruptive to my own sense of grace.

I write this not to get your advice, or to have you tell me I’m okay — I know I’m okay. I write this because I know that acknowledging where the fear fog is clouding my sense of well-being is the only way to move through it. I write this because I know that in breathing into this space and allowing fear to be present, even in my unease, makes space for fear to ease away into that space where I have the courage to create my best life yet, today. Acknowledging where I have been disquieted by the past allows my heart to release fears hold on my present.

I am blessed. I am grateful. I am coming up for air. I am stopping the race away from what I fear and stepping with ease of mind and peaceful heart into this space where I become my own best friend, my greatest ally, my emergent companion.

I am letting go of the fear of what was, and never will be again, to embrace what is and always will be my guiding light, Love.

PS!  Big news. My daughter got a message last night, her building has been approved for habitation. She gets to move back home 2 weeks earlier than expected! Hip! Hip! Hurray!  (though I’ll miss her 🙂 )

What a difference a day makes.

Yesterday, I awoke after a restless sleep, my head heavy and foggy, my nose dripping, my cough annoying. “Oh no!” I thought. “My cold has gone in the wrong direction. Instead of weakening, it’s decided to kick-start a new phase.”

Turns out, it wasn’t my cold getting worse, it was an allergic reaction to the new bug repellent I just bought.

Go figure. It was really good at keeping the flying, biting, annoying bugs that fly about looking for tasty morsels of flesh to bite into away, but was causing a whole new buggy reaction in my body.

Much better this morning.

What a difference a day makes.

And it is true. A day can make an enormous difference.

Look at what happened here in Calgary. Four weeks ago yesterday, rains fell in torrents, rivers swelled and flood waters ravaged our city.

One month later, the sun shines, people are rebuilding, and life continues on.

But not without consequence.

My daughter, who was evacuated on the first day of the flooding, continues to live at home. The latest update on her move back date puts her at another 3 weeks displaced. She was lucky. She lives on the fourth floor of her building. The entire first floor was flooded and those residents lost most of their belongings and won’t be able to move back in for several more months. There are many homes and condos in the same condition. Months away from moving back in, they have had to find other living accommodations. The already tight vacancy rate in Calgary is now practically non-existent. One of my co-workers, whose apartment was flooded and then deemed uninhabitable due to asbestos in the walls, is 145th on a waiting list for one apartment he was looking at.

Others face even more dire circumstances. They lost not only most of their possessions, they lost their homes. The damage too great to restore, they must rebuild from the ground up. Businesses remain closed with many facing huge financial losses and a precarious, or unlikely future.

Yet, in the grand scheme of the aftermath of such a disaster, we have fared well. Compared to other places in the world where hundreds if not thousands of lives are lost in flooding, Calgary had one death with Southern Alberta having an additional three due to flooding. We did not have mass graves and funerals. We are grieving the loss of ‘things’, but not the loss of people. We were not forced to boil our water even. Our water works people spent hours in the water of the treatment plant, manually keeping logs and debris out of the system.

This is an amazing city I live in. It’s people are resilient, cooperative and compassionate. And, we bounce back.

Just like me this morning.

Yesterday, I awoke and thought my head weighed more than my body. Today, I’m feeling fine. Still some dregs of my cold linger but they are just minor annoyances that remind me to take care of me.

For those still impacted by the floods, they still face an uphill road to recovery. But the worst has passed. The journey is getting less arduous. The recovery less onerous. As they rebuild and reclaim much of what was lost, it’s important to remember, this too shall pass.

Tomorrow is another day. And what a difference a day makes.

Namaste.

We worked as a team yesterday, planting flowers, edging lawn, sweeping up the parking lot. We were at one of the buildings owned by the Calgary Homeless Foundation where I work. A contractor had donated a lot of end of the cycle plants and they needed planting. We decided to pitch in and beautify the building, and strengthen our team spirit.

It worked.

Not only did we ‘get up close and personal with each other’, we also got up close and personal with the earth. And what can be better than that?

There is something to be said for a team activity that takes you out of the norm of office routine into working together outdoors, enjoying the sunshine and the camaraderie. As we dug and tilled and planted and watered, we laughed and shared stories or simply enjoyed getting the job done.

At one point, the 97-year-old woman from across the street came over to see if the flat of bedding flowers we’d sent over with her daughter really was free. She commented on the good work we were doing, how pretty the landscaping was coming and how, while she’d had concerns about the goings on at the building, she was happy to report it was getting better. Definitely more quiet.

“If the others on the street don’t like it, they can plug their ears,” she said with a laugh as she covered her ears with her tiny hands.

Petite and feisty. At 97 she lives alone, gardens, cooks, and watches out for what’s happening on the street.

This morning, I read my friend Joyce Wycoff’s blog,  102? You must be kidding!    In her blog, Joyce shares a link to a site that can predict your longevity based on a series of questions they ask about your diet, exercise and mental well-being. Joyce is destined to live to 102. I’m destined to enjoy my life to 98.

Joyce also shares some really interesting observations about aging and asks,

Are we “human doers” or “human beings?” I think it is important to be in the present, to be grateful for everything in our lives, to be loving and kind toward all … however, I think this earth passage is a time for doing. We’re in a physical incarnation that allows us to turn the soil in order to create food and flowers, build bridges that connect one land to another, write words that open minds and touch hearts, generate ideas that transform problems into solutions, raise children so full of confidence and love that they can march boldly into the world asking, “What do you need for me to do?”

With almost 40 possible years still to be experienced, it is an interesting question to think about — Hey Universe? What do you need for me to do?

As Joyce suggests, having 30 or 40 years potentially to be experienced, it’s kind of a long time to just drift through my days doing little anyone other than myself.  40 years is time enough to learn a new language, to play an instrument, to write a book or two or three, to start a whole new career, to create a legacy.

There’s so much knowledge, wisdom, experience we can share. So much possibility to be explored on what can be when I let go of thinking, “I’m too old for that”.

With so much life to live, there’s no sense in dimming the lights in my ‘twilight years’. The world needs my light, and yours to get brighter no matter our age. It needs each of us to shine brilliantly so that we can create a whole new way of being alive and well in the 21st Century.

Thank you Margaret from across the street. Your spirit and your light shone brightly yesterday reminding me that we’re never too old to get out and be friendly, to be neighbourly, to be engaged.

And as Joyce reminds me in her blog, I want to keep living my life on purpose. I want to “wake up with something juicy pulling me into action.”

I am in the third week of a summer cold. Nothing remarkable, distinguishable or memorable about it, other than, it drags me down and leaves me feeling tired most of the time.

And feeling tired is not a comfortable state of being for me!

To quote my auntie Maggie, What to do? What to do?

Nothing, other than perhaps nurture myself, give myself a break and take it easy. Perhaps that’s why they invented summer vacations in the first place, to give us time and space to take a rest without guilt as a constant companion.

Poet Criss Jami wrote, “It has always seemed that a fear of judgment is the mark of guilt and the burden of insecurity.”

Feeling tired always makes me feel guilty. Perhaps the underlying motivation for my feelings of guilt is that I measure my worth on how much I do, and not on my value as a human being.

“If you don’t keep doing, people will think you’re lazy,” my inner critic whispers. “And nobody likes someone who’s lazy.”

My rational mind, hearing (well seeing actually because I just typed the words) leaps into action and replies, “Well, actually, it’s not about people thinking you’re lazy. that’s not what’s got you feeling insecure. It’s that you think you only have value in the world if you’re constantly doing, constantly in action, constantly saving the world. It’s all about feeling uber-responsible for the world, and not trusting the Universe to turn up and be present.”

My inner critic laughs. “It has nothing to do with saving the world. It’s all about the fact you’re just a plain and simple fraud. You’re lazy and cover it up with always doing things, trying to be a more than everyone else kind of person.”

Taking a deep breath, my heart responds. “Stop it both of you. Neither of you has the right to judge. I am doing my best and feeling tired simply means I’ve depleted my energies and need to take care of me. Taking care of me first is always important because if I don’t give myself medicine, how will I have the energy to take care of others.”

“Maybe it’s not your job,” my voice of reason states with a smug grin. “Maybe nobody wants you to take care of them. Maybe you need to take care of you because that is your job.”

Happy to have my voice of reason on the defensive, my inner critic leaps into the fray. “Yeah! You always think it’s your job to take care of the world. You just think you’re too big for your britches. You think you’re so great. Well you’re not. You don’t even have the energy to get up on time! You hit snooze 3 times this morning and now look at the time. You’re late!”

And my heart sighs and my voice of reason nods its head, and my soul laughs.

Laughter truly is the best medicine.

All this energy debating why I should or should not feel guilty about feeling tired (I did hit the snooze 3 times) when seriously, accepting what is, I’ve got a summer cold and I feel tired, does not mean I have to invoke the fifth or fifty-fifth amendment to explain why I’m feeling tired. The reason why I’m feeling tired is not as relevant as what I’m doing to take care of me where I’m at — in my summer cold cycle and all of that!

And it means, I get to decide if I hit the snooze and feel okay about hitting the snooze button or not.

I hit the snooze button 3 times this morning. The sun still shines. The earth still holds its orbit and the moon has gone to bed. Time for me to get up and get into action, without carrying a truck load of guilt on my shoulders!

Time to celebrate another day and give it my 100% even when I’m feeling like my energy is a 5 out of 10. Because, to ‘para-phrase/quote’ the amazing Thelma Box, founder of Choices, whether I’m at a 10 or a 3, I give my 100% to where ever I’m at.

Here’s to giving my 100% to the best of my ability today. Here’s to letting go of judgement and surrendering to Love with 100% of my heart.

We were 8. Family. Friends. Old friends and new. An impromptu gathering  pulled together late in the afternoon. My favourite kind. There was steak and lobster. Vegan and vegetarian, celiac and anything goes, all to ensure every dietary need could be met. Under the canopy of the CrabApple tree we sat out as evening turned to dusk to a sky-scattered sky high above. We shared a meal, friendship, wine. We laughed and teased one another, we swapped stories, told on each other and simply did what comes so naturally when people get together around a table. We connected.

The night before, C.C., his son Taylor, Vicky  his girlfriend, my youngest daughter, and 11 others stood out under the stars and watched The Greatest Show on Earth unfold on the Grandstand Stage at the Calgary Stampede.

It was spectacular.

We arrived in time for the Chuckwagon Races. Placed our Toonies on each heat. Won some. Lost some. And through it all had great fun. We laughed amongst ourselves and made new friends with the people standing around us. One couple were from Tokyo. Their attendance at the Stampede was by accident. A wedding in Edmonton, 3 hours to the north, a late departure for Calgary Airport and then a missed return flight to Tokyo earlier that afternoon and they found themselves with a night in Calgary.  “Go to the Chuckwagon Races and Grandstand Show,” the concierge at their hotel had advised. And they did.

Like us, they bought ‘Standing Room Only” tickets because in their case, that’s really all that was available. In our case, it was because it’s our favourite way to partake of the festivities. Gather up a large group of people. Go en masse. Stake out your turf as close to the stage as you can get and have fun!

And fun we had. From 20 somethings to the over 50 crowd, we laughed and joke and placed our bets and laughed some more. We met the couple from Tokyo because conversation with strangers is completely acceptable, and advisable, when at the Greatest Outdoor Show on Earth. As a Calgarian, I want to show off my city. I want to ensure everyone is having fun. And the first question anyone asks is, “Where are you from?” Learning that the couple from Tokyo had never been to the Stampede before, nor did they know about how to bet on the Chucks, we had to bring them into our group and teach ’em the ways. Imagine our surprise when the man in the couple picked, “the Rainbow Wagon” and won!

This year, ensuring everyone was engaged, and having fun and feeling part of the spirit of this city was more important than ever.

It was only 3 weeks ago that the entire Stampede Grounds, which included the rodeo corral and race course which is also where the Grandstand Show takes place, was under 15 feet of water. Except for the concerts that had to be cancelled in the Saddledome, which remains closed to the public, signs of the flood were not be found anywhere on the grounds, or at the Stampede. (link to photo of before and after)

The art exhibit, which is my favourite part of the entire 10 day festivities, was as inspiring and captivating as ever. Though in talking to the artists, many of whom came from places far-flung across North America, they had a lot of doubt before arriving that the show would actually go on. As one artist from Colorado said, “When I saw the pictures I couldn’t imagine you’d have it cleaned up in time. But I’d forgotten. This is Calgary and you guys got spirit.”

And we do. When Mayor Naheed Nenshi walked onto the stage before the Chuckwagon Races the Calgarians in the crowd went wild, hootin’ and hollerin’ for the man who was an inspiration to everyone throughout the crisis. I have never heard a public figure, especially a politician, receive such an ovation and such a noise from his peeps. It was incredible.

Later, the final number of the Grandstand Show was a tribute to the first responders who worked so tirelessly to ensure everyone was safe, and that the city was able to recover. Again, the crowd went wild.

It was a weekend to remember filled with special people, special sights and connections to hold close in our memories. The only missing ingredient was my eldest daughter. For years, I stood at the edge of the stage and watched her perform as part of The Young Canadians of the Calgary Stampede. Since leaving the troupe at age 21, (members of TYC are aged 8 to 21), we have watched the show together every year, standing on the tarmac, oohing and ahhing and reliving the fun and excitement of her days in the troupe. This year, she didn’t make it back. She has a wedding in August to return for and coming twice this summer just wasn’t on the agenda. And I missed her.

And while I missed her, and I know she too felt the pangs of regret of not being there, she was in my heart, as she always is. Her spirit is part of what Stampede means to me. Energy. Fun. Talent. Commitment. And, the capacity to dream, because, the Grandstand Show would never happen without big dreams.

Big dreams were evident Saturday night as we watched with eyes and hearts wide open. It was spectacular. Amazing. Stunningly beautiful and magical. From the opening number where two twins flew out over the crowd performing acrobatic feats I never imagined possible while hanging suspended from a rope, to Alberta Ballet performing Benny and the Jets from their Elton John show, to a troupe of ballet dancers/acrobats from China who awed us with their grace and balance, to the colour and spectacle of a troupe of First Nations dancers spinning around world champion hoop dancer, Dallas Arcand, performing  the night left me breathless and in awe of Bill Avery, the producer of the show, and his capacity to dream big and make the dream come true.

it was a special weekend. A weekend filled with dreams and fun and laughter and shared moments and above all, the wonder of our human connection lighting up the night.

I had a realization yesterday as I dug out the manuscript for the book I’ve been working on for the past year.

Recently, I wrote about my fear of writing. Yesterday, I realized it’s maybe not so much the writing it I fear — I love writing, it consumes me. And that’s the problem. That’s what I fear.  Being consumed by the writing.

I have always felt consumed by words. As a young girl, whenever my mother tried to talk to me when I was reading, my response was seldom gracious or kind. It was more along the lines of  ‘leave me alone. Can’t you see I’m reading?”  (honest. I didn’t know better. I was a teen!)

At school, I’d often spend my recesses walking around the schoolyard reading Ayn Rand’s, The Fountainhead, or Dostoevsky’s, War and Peace. And yes, the contradictions were lost on me at the time!

In my 20s, I started writing my first novel. It was about a 20 something married woman who gets hi-jacked to the cosmos to meet the man of her dreams only to discover, he wasn’t her husband. What to do? What to do?

In the final throes of my marriage, I thought I might be able to save it by writing romance into it. I decided to tackle writing a Harlequin Romance. To finish it, I sent my daughters over to Vancouver Island to their both sets of grandparents for 3 weeks while I house sat a friend’s home at Jericho Beach in Vancouver. I didn’t tell anyone I was in the city. Barely even saw my sister. I was so consumed with finishing that novel I didn’t want to be interrupted.

For three weeks I lived and breathed those characters and their stories. I was in heaven.

Coming up for air I discovered there really wasn’t much of my marriage to save, but I did have a completed manuscript.

And then I did what I’ve often done with completed things. I let it go. It wasn’t easy. Particularly the marriage part… Though I did send the manuscript off to one publisher who liked it and asked for some revisions.

I never did the revisions.

When my daughters were younger they always knew that any time I was sitting at my computer, fingertips flying across the keyboard was not a good time to disturb ‘momma bear’. She might be growly.

And I could be. Growly. Very very growly when interrupted.

And that’s what I’ve discovered. It’s not the writing it. It’s the being consumed by it.

Which begs the question… so what? Why are you letting fear dictate your actions Louise?

Hmmm…. good question. I do not want to be driven by fear. I want to be drawn by courage to do the things I love.

And I love writing. and I love the stories of the people I’ve met on the ‘other side’ of the street. Those incredibly complex, heart-driven, sensitive souls to whom life has given lessons that transcend the commonplace into that space where miracles happen — everyday.

See, one of the things I really felt working at a shelter is that it truly was a miracle that everyday, a thousand people woke up and took another step. They had lives most of us can’t imagine. Experienced things most of us could not endure. And yet, there they were, every morning, getting up and walking on.

It was, and is, a testament to the power of the human spirit and our collective will to live, to ascend hardship and pain and suffering, to cling to this fragile thread of humanity that holds us with a strength greater than even that of gravity’s capacity to keep us standing up.

As I write I realize — this has been my ennui. This has been the fissure of unease that has been quietly seeping through my being present to the wonder and joy of life. I am not writing the stories that move me. I am not sharing the awe and wonder I found working at a homeless shelter.

When I know better, I do better.

I have been the master of my own discord. I have been the keeper of my joy.

Yesterday, my eldest daughter called me and said, “Get over yourself mom. Your stories are amazing. People need to hear them. Stop stalling.”

I thank her. Because in her words I am reminded — To inspire my daughters to live their lives on the outside of their comfort zones, I need to be living mine fearlessly, passionately in Love on the other side of playing it safe.

Time to unleash myself. Time to set myself free. Time to let go and shine.

Namaste.

When we are born the earth shifts just a little bit. The space that once held no evidence of our presence opens and we are here, the start of our ripple, the beginning of our difference.

As we move through life, our ripple continues to move with us, the space we fill shape-shifting to reflect the words we speak, the things we do, the actions we take. Sometimes, our ripple is a series of beautiful, perfect concentric circles moving outward from our source. Sometimes, our ripple wobbles and bobs, loosing its definition in the rough waters we encounter.

And always, we are the source of our ripple. Always, we are the ripple-maker.

Not just some of us. All of us. Each and every one of us. We are the ripple makers.

Today, my daughter Alexis tells the story of a man who once found himself at the homeless shelter where I used to work. He wasn’t a perfect man by any means, but then, nor was he the most imperfect man who ever lived. He was just a man. A man with his own back story, his own life story, his own set of circumstances that, at the age of 55,  lead him to a place he never imagined he would ever end up, a homeless shelter.

In Terry’s case, except for the last two weeks of his life which he spent at a hospice, the homeless shelter was the last place he slept. The last place he called his home. He didn’t like it there, at the shelter. He didn’t like living amidst 1,000 people, having no privacy, no say in what he ate or where he slept or how he drank his coffee even. But then, most of the others didn’t like it any better either. Living in a homeless shelter isn’t something to be liked. In fact, it’s best if you don’t like it as that could give you the impetus to move on, to sort things out so that you can find yourself away from the place you never imagined you would end up.

For Terry, his finding himself away from the shelter never happened. It’s not that he didn’t try. He did try. Very hard. He turned up at cash corner every day hoping to be picked up for odd jobs. And when he wasn’t working, or looking for work, he volunteered constantly at the shelter, letting people onto elevators, showing visitors to where they wanted to go, leading the newcomers to the people they needed to see.

The challenge for Terry was, cancer had a bigger say in his destiny than he had planned. And in the end, it was the cancer that took him on May 31, 2011.

Now that could be the end of the story, except, here’s the thing about ripples, once they’re released they take on a life of their own. They float outward through time and space, bumping up against the ripples of others, creating waves in unknown places, stirring up spirits in unseen waters.

That’s the thing about ripples. We all make them, but none of us control their reach or impact or duration.

Sure, the Prime Minister or President or Pope know their ripples are mighty, but what they cannot know is how and where and when and what the reach of their ripple will cause someone else to do to create a new and different, and sometimes desired and sometimes not, new ripple from their reach.

We gotta be careful with our ripples. They have staying power.

I often use the story of a police officer whose words made a difference in my life when working with women and men who have experienced abuse and are searching for answers. I met the police officer at a time when I was rippling in fear and self-loathing and confusion because I knew the man who had promised to love me forever was lying, cheating, manipulating and scheming — and I was scared. I went to see the police to ask for help but because of the circumstances, there was little they could do. As I was leaving the police station, the detective with whom I’d been speaking said, “This isn’t love. Love doesn’t hurt like this.”

At least, that’s what I remember him saying. Maybe the words are not exactly how he put them, but I knew at the time, he spoke the truth. But I was already too deep, too lost, too frightened to listen deeply.

Fast forward another two years of living hell and the man who promised to love me is arrested and I am reeling in the aftershock of release from the confines of that emotional hurricane. As I sit on my bed, crying and shaking and shivering and praying for guidance, the words of that police officer come unbidden into my mind. “This isn’t love. Love doesn’t hurt like this.”

And that’s when I knew the truth. I wasn’t healing from a love gone wrong. I was healing from abuse. Because no matter how deep I dug into the things he’d said and done, I was always digging into lies. From hello to good-bye, I love you to I hate you, you’re beautiful to you’re ugly, he was the lie and there was no truth to be found in searching for my answers in him.

I had to look within me.

It is over ten years now since those dark days of abuse. And still, the ripple of that officer’s words resonate. Love doesn’t hurt. People hurt. Eachother. Themselves. The world around them.

And always, we have the choice. To make our ripple one of love and harmony, peace and joy.

Or to create discord, anger and pain.

Me, I know the ripple I want to make and so I do my best to ensure my ripple is always a reflection of what I want to create more of in my life.

My daughter wrote today of a man I once knew who in our brief encounter reminded me always that while we may not have control of the winds of change around us, we always have control of how we navigate rough waters.

And in our passing through, we create a ripple that even after we’re gone, can continue to move out into the world and inspire others to do the one thing we are born to do, Live. Fearlessly. Passionately. Completely in Love.

I burnt a pot of rice last night. Yup. I burned rice.

Now, you may think I’m revealing this to demonstrate my lack of culinary skills but it wouldn’t be true. I’m a good cook. In fact, at moments, I can be inspired in the culinary arts. It’s just, when doing the mundane, I sometimes forget to pay attention and in my lack of focus, accidents happen. Like burned rice.

It’s not that I burned the pot dry. It was dry to begin with. I hadn’t yet put the water into the pot. Just the rice. And then, I turned on the heat and remembered something I needed to do in my office. Left the kitchen. Got distracted by the piano, which still sits in the hallway since I rearranged the living room a few weeks ago. Slid sideways to get through the gap between the piano and the wall, which lead to the inevitable rumblings in my mind about my poor planning on moving it out of the living room in the first place (though the living room looks so much nicer without it!) which lead me to think about the email I need to send to check-up on the woman who is receiving the piano once she gets finished cleaning up and restoring her flooded home.

Right. Two things to do in my office. Call my bank to order new cheques (something I’ve been meaning to do for weeks now) and mail the friend of the piano woman. Oh, and I should send that application off to the University where I want to take a course. Oh right, gotta write the letter to go with it first. I really should make a list. Where’s my iPad. I’m trying to teach myself to keep track of my To Do’s on my iPad. Oh right. I left it at the office downtown. Pen? Paper? Is there not a single pen in this house that writes?

Forget it. I’ll just check my email. Oh look. A cute video about a cat thinking it’s a dog. It’s only a couple of minutes long. I must watch it now. If I don’t, I’ll forget and I could use a good laugh right now. And there’s always time for laughter. Laughing, I watch the video and think about sending it off to family and friends when I see my daughter’s car pull into the driveway. Oh good, she’s home just in time for dinner.

Dinner!

The rice!

Too late.

Smoke is billowing down the hallway, into the dining room, living room… everywhere.

Note to self. Check the batteries in the smoke detector. The fact it didn’t go off during that conflagration is an indication of its non-working state.

Do you have any idea how acrid and clingy burnt rice smoke is? Or how it sticks to the bottom of the pan, adhering to the metal surface like a barnacle to a whale. Ain’t no removing it. Which means, I not only burnt the rice last night, I lost the use of one of my favourite pots.

Which also means, we didn’t have rice with the delicious shrimp sauce I made with tomatoes, onion and Pernod and leftover Squash soup I’d made for C.C. the day before in an effort to appease him for having given him my cold while we were on holidays. Instead, we ate pasta. It was already cooked. See, I’d made the pasta when I made the shrimp dish and then decided rice would be so much better with my sauce. More delicate. More able to soak up the flavours. So, I’d put the pasta I’d already cooked aside and set the pot of rice on the stove, only to end up eating the pasta I’d begun with. It tasted okay, but you know, rice would have been so much better!

Note to self. Plan ahead. Stay focused and don’t let dogs who want to be cats fool you. A cat is a cat. A dog is a dog and never the twain shall meet.

I never did get my cheques ordered nor did I send off that application. I really should make a list. Now, where did I put my pen? Are there no blank pieces of paper in this house? Oh wait. I’m trying to teach myself to use my iPad for list-making. No. Wait. I’ll have to do it later. I forgot my iPad at my office downtown.

Oh well. It wasn’t all a disaster. My daughter loved the shrimp sauce with pasta and I did get to enjoy a few moments with her before going off to a community association meeting with a co-worker. When I walked into my co-workers house where I was picking her up, she asked, “What’s that smell?”

“I burned my To Do List,” I replied.

Yup. Burned it right onto my retina’s so that I at least don’t forget to order new cheques and get that application off. Deadline’s coming up and I don’t want to forget about the course I want to take.

Maybe I should write myself a reminder on my iPad?

Now where did I put that silly thing?

Oh well, in lieu of finding my iPad, here’s the video I watched!

The other day, my daughter Alexis wrote about how she just couldn’t make it to the washroom in time.  Her blog, Shit Happens, is hilarious, and insightful. In her vulnerability (revealing you pooped your pants on the way home from work kinda takes down all the walls) she discovered that her fear of ‘looking good’ to others got blasted away in the aftermath of her revelation. The next day, Alexis shares that

The best part about pooping your pants in public is that after suffering through the humiliation of that experience, there is hardly any shame-inducing scenario that one could dream of that could ever elicit that level of embarrassment again.

This morning, reading Ann Koplow’s blog, What I’m Avoiding, reminded me of Alexis’ insights –when we come clean with our fears, when we open ourselves up to ‘being real’ by fearlessly facing our trepidations, our self-concerns, our judgements and our inner lies — we live life on our own terms.

And, seeing as this is my one and only life (that I know of), living it on my terms is way better than living it on someone else’s.

I think it’s one of the things I admire about my daughter the most — she is fearless in her willingness to go inside and get dirty. And in that state, she is willing to open up, be vulnerable and let go of shame and self-limiting beliefs and behaviours that would keep her from living on the wild side of being free.

It took me a lot of years to get there — and there are still days when I struggle with appearances, wrestle with doing the right thing versus the expected, jostle with turning up regardless of what others say by tuning out the noise of what I perceive to be their condemnation, criticism, judgement and/or expectations.

My inner critic can be deafening — and when I give it free rein, it is deadening.

Because, when I’m giving the critic free rein, I am not listening to my heart. I am not hearing my soul calling me to breathe, to be, to surrender and let go of my thinking to make way for my being, present, here, right now.

I have been struggling with direction lately. Struggling with a sense of ennui that is robbing me of focus, attention, and commitment to doing the things I am truly passionate about. I’ve been drifting.

Sometimes, it is okay to drift. Sometimes, the drift is where the quiet finds us. And in the quiet, we hear our soul calling us to be still. To stop running and simply slow down to a walk or even a crawl. And sometimes, in the drift we find it’s not the winds of change hurling us about, it’s our fear of change that keeps us moving away from where we truly dream of being.

And in the drift I find the nexus of my ennui.

I have a book I started working on last year — Lessons in Love: Everything I know about being human I learned at a homeless shelter. — Lessons in Love chronicles the amazing world of the homeless shelter where I worked — its people, its happenings, and the love and humanity I found working there.

I’ve been avoiding working on this book.

It’s time to come clean. To face my fear. To recognize that ‘avoidance strengthens fear’ and in my avoidance of writing Lessons in Love, I’ve strengthened my fear of writing.

I’ve been drifting for far too long. Filling my time with ‘otherness and otherlies’ that don’t add up to a whole bunch of anything, to avoid facing my fear of writing.

Because seriously… that is what has risen as I sat in the silence of my meditation this morning and let my inner guide give voice to my fear.

I am afraid of writing!

Kind of a funny fear when you know I write here every morning.

But Lessons in Love isn’t this kind of writing. It has a structure that I have been rebelling against. Time to take heed of my friend Maureen Doallas‘ words which she wrote me some months ago — don’t begin with the lessons. Begin with the stories. The stories are what makes Lessons in Love powerful.

I am a story-teller.

I don’t fear telling stories. What I fear is giving advice. Sounding like I know or have the answers.

I don’t have your answers or anyone else’s. I know that.

But I do have mine. And when I get still, real, real still. When I stop running from my heart, I can hear my soul calling me to simply tell the stories without trying to make them be the answer.

The stories are not the answer, but they do illuminate the darkness of homelessness, poverty, pain and suffering with the one thing I know is always the answer — Love.

Because what I learned working at a homeless shelter is easy to sum up — No matter the question — Love is always the answer.

Namaste.

My Catholic roots are woven throughout the memories of my childhood. Friday evening Rosaries, listening to the clicking of the beads as they passed through my mother’s fingers, her whispered Hail Mary’s as she prayed the decades and began the cycle again and again as I impatiently waited for it to be over so my sister and I could go out and play.

Saturday afternoons in the quiet of the church where my sister and I helped her ‘do the flowers’.  The careful carrying of the vases of week old flowers to the sink in the back of the sacristy, the pouring out of the stale water, the careful selecting out of still living plants and the placement of the new flowers that waited by the sink, wrapped up in old newspaper.

Then there was Sunday morning with its inevitable rush of getting four children all dressed up in Sunday best, out the door and in the car and down the road to church. Sitting on the hard benches. Swinging my legs, looking around, being poked by my sister and poking her back and then, the inevitable admonition from my mother to sit still, be quiet, pay attention. On Sundays, there was no breakfast until after the 10am Mass. I prayed the sermon would be short, the greetings afterwards of neighbours and friends even shorter. Always, my father would meet someone and invite them back for breakfast. Always, they came. My father’s breakfasts were legendary.

Coming to Barry’s Bay to visit Andrew and Ursula has become a tradition C.C. and I treasure. In the past, we have come in the fall to witness the turning of the leaves and to spend the ebbing of the summer season with our hosts as they prepared to return to Calgary for the winter. Andrew and Ursula, like so many people of Polish descent, are fiercely proud of their heritage. In 1859, the Kashub’s fled Poland to settle in the Barry’s Bay area in what is recognized as the first Polish settlement in Canada. Streets, towns, valleys, rivers, lakes all bear the mark of this proud people and their efforts to settle what was then a wild and unpopulated area of the country.

As a young married couple, Ursula and Andrew brought their family to Barry’s Bay every summer to the secluded bay where their beautiful summer home now sits. Back then, the family lived within the confines of a one room cottage that served as kitchen, eating area and sleeping quarters for their family of 5. Today, the land Andrew’s father purchased over 60 years ago with two friends, has been subdivided into 4 lots where Andrew, his brother, Conrad and two other sons of the original owners have built their summer retreats. Surrounded on either side by Crown Lands, there are no other cottages on the bay. It is quiet, serene and peaceful. And it is steeped in Polish tradition.

Whenever we’ve come in the fall, we’ve visited the site of the Karpaty Scout Camp a place where Ursula came as a young girl and later as a young wife to share her love of the outdoors and Polish tradition. For 50 years, the Camp has been the site of hundreds of a jamboree where young boys and girls come to the banks of Halfway Lake where the Karpaty is located, to learn the ways of the forest, and always, the ways of the Catholic church.

At the Karpaty is a “Cathedral in the Pines” where every Sunday during the Scout camps, mass is celebrated outdoors.

Yesterday was the beginning of the Scout Camp jamboree. It was also the first mass of the season and the Bishop, as well as the Polish ambassador were in attendance. We had to go.

It seems that no matter how far I have come from wondering where God lived from Monday to Saturday, and wanting to know why girls couldn’t be priests, the rituals of my childhood run deep within my body. As we sat outdoors and the congregation prayed and the priest recited the liturgy in Polish, the responses came naturally to my mind.

Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus,

Holy, Holy, Holy,

Dominus Deus Sabaoth.

Lord God of Hosts.

Pleni sunt coeli et terra gloria tua.

Full are heaven and earth of thy glory.

Hosanna in excelsis.

Hosanna in the highest.

It didn’t matter that everyone around me was speaking Polish. It didn’t matter that I didn’t understand a word of what they were singing. The essence of the words lived within me.

Yesterday, I sat amidst the pines, listening to the mass recited in Polish, and felt connected to life, to nature and to a faith I have long ago left behind as I learned to carve my own spiritual path in the world.

And yesterday, I was reminded that no matter what path I carve, it is the security of my roots that gives me the freedom today to explore my path without fearing where it will lead me. For in my roots is the unshakable belief that even though I no longer practice the faith of my childhood, this is a world of glory, and this is a life to be lived in joy and Love in a universe of great mystery and wonder.