In The Flow

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It’s called being in the flow. It’s that magical state where time loses its grip on you, and you find yourself completely absorbed in whatever you’re doing.

I’ve been experiencing it a lot lately.

As I delved into research and worked on my book, I became fully immersed. Every fiber of my being was engaged.

At first, I attempted to listen to a podcast as I often do while creating an art piece. It turned out to be a misguided idea. When I write, I need to let the words flow, and having someone else’s voice in my ears distracts a part of my brain, draws my attention away from being present to the creative process..

The same goes for music. When I’m in the studio, adding splashes of color and texture to a canvas, I adore listening to songs with lyrics. They ignite my desire to dance and sing along. My splashes of paint become more free, more expressive. But when it comes to writing, the fewer words, the better.

Classical music and new age compositions work wonders for me. The only exception I make for music with lyrics while writing is the recordings of 13th Century composer and convent Abbess Hildegard von Bingen. Her music stirs my imagination and liberates my writer’s mind from any creative blocks.

Her melodic chants soothe my soul.

Entering the flow-state is a powerful experience. It enriches my being, causing time to fade away. All that matters is the present moment, the only place where I want to exist.

In that realm, magic happens. Wonders unfold, and I am awestruck by the mystery of it all.

Ah, the mystery. It weaves through life, creative pursuits, and the words that appear on the page seemingly of their own accord. As I sit here, fingers dancing across the keyboard, focused on my one task, I lose track of time and space, surrendering to the flow.

That’s the beauty of the flow-state. When I am immersed, my soul dances. My spirits soar. Ideas appear as if of their own volition as words flow out to express themselves without my thought-ridden ministrations hindering their appearance.

Now, my bathroom… well, let’s just say it is suffering from my lack of attention. It’s a disaster zone!

Okay, perhaps it’s not that terrible, but you get my drift…

When was the last time you slipped effortless into ‘the zone’?

When was the last time you granted yourself the gift of immersing in something you’re passionate about, allowing your creative nature to flow freely as you mind (and body) dance with abandon in the pure joy of being so engaged, there is no time, just you and your endeavours?

The flow-state isn’t limited to the realm of arts. It can manifest while solving a scientific equation, baking, walking the dog, running, or riding your bike. All of these activities, and more, have the potential to draw you into that state of flow.

It’s different than mindfulness or meditation. You’re not trying to still your mind and simply sit quietly. You’re consciously bringing your attention to whatever you’re doing so that you can create or build something, find a solution to a pressing problem or mystery, or simply learn something new.

I hope you embrace it often. There’s no judgement in flow state — only the doing.

Let it all flow like a river, finding its path effortlessly.

And if you want to know more about flow-state — the brain even behaves differently when you’re in it — this website has some great information including ideas on how to enter it’s healing and creative spaces.

Remember the Core

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For some reason, as I dive deep into my morning meditation, the words “Remember, The Core” pop into my head. In my mind’s eye, the letters are capitalized, much like Calgary’s downtown shopping area known as The Core. But that can’t be what I’m meant to remember, can it?

In the midst of my meditation, a soft laugh escapes from within me.

The core.

Not a bustling shopping center, but rather my belly—the muscles I am meant to keep strong to support my skeleton, enabling my body to stay upright and in motion.

Today’s meditation was far from serene. I drifted in and out of focus, much like the wisps of smoke drifting along the river’s surface this morning. While the sky above remained a vibrant blue, the river valley was veiled in a hazy uncertainty.

I consult my trusted Air Quality app, a morning ritual I rely on several times a day. It shows a reading of 3 today, down from yesterday’s 9. Moderate risk. According to the app, it’s deemed safe to venture outdoors.

Here along the river, it doesn’t look it, I step out onto the deck. The smell of smoke lingers in the air, its presence visible above the water’s surface.

I close the door, disregarding the app’s advice.

Seated at my laptop, I find myself confronted with unwritten thoughts. I’m aware of what I’m avoiding.

Today marks the twenty-year anniversary of my rebirth. At 9:14 a.m., twenty years ago yesterday, the man whose name no longer holds power over me was arrested, liberating me to reclaim my life.

It was on this very morning, two decades ago, that I began to write myself back into existence.

Yesterday, while working on my book, tentatively titled “Dare Boldly: Cultivating Passion and Joy After Life Knocks You Down,” I took a brief pause to browse my social media feeds.

There, at the top of my Facebook page, a memory resurfaced from four years ago.

“On this day four years ago,” it began.

It was May 21, 2019—the date I shared an article on my blog recounting the significance of that very day in 2003.

The day I reclaimed my life.

The day I awakened.

The day I discovered that hope still thrived amidst the shadows of abuse.

I had forgotten.

Even though my book delves into the journey of healing after that relationship, employing it as a framework for numerous exercises within its pages, I had let the weight of that memory slip my mind.

Yet, as I contemplated the Facebook memory, all I could think was, “Wow, I’ve come a long way.”

This is not the first time the significance of that date has faded with the passing years. Life, like ripples on water, expands ceaselessly, unveiling beauty, wonder, and awe.

Today, as smoke gently skims the river’s surface, the Canada Goose—a faithful visitor who builds her nest on the riverbank below every spring—lands with a clunk on the railing of our upper deck. Standing tall, neck outstretched to the full length of her avian skeleton, she surveys the surrounding land, her eyes watchful for any lurking predators.

And every year, time moves forward, an unbroken stream of passing moments, each carrying its own gifts.

For amidst my journey into and out of abuse, I have gleaned one unyielding truth, a truth that forms the core of my existence and shapes my beliefs in the beauty of life today: Regardless of the chaos surrounding me, when I actively seek to find the value in all things, when I embrace the gifts within each moment, disappointment becomes a foreign concept, as transient as a wayward traveller stopping for just a brief moment at my doorstep before moving along its way.

Pain too is but a transient visitor.

Love, on the other hand, is eternal.

This is my core—the bedrock of my beliefs.

Guiding me, a steadfast North Star.

For love endures, now and forevermore.

Namaste,

Isn’t Life Grand?

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I woke up feeling lighter this morning. Excited to greet the day.

In the cozy embrace of my bed, I reveled in the serenity and tranquility that enveloped me, basking in a delightful sense of lightness.

Then, I rose and entered our ensuite, and was greeted by the sight of last night’s pep-talk on the mirror.

“Ah, that’s right,” whispered my mind. “You’ve got this.”

A smile spread across my face. Indeed, I do.

For the second night in a row, I had almost talked myself out of writing on the mirror before bedtime. The search for my glass-writing crayons seemed like a daunting task, potentially leading to the upheaval of my studio. But then, a brilliant solution dawned on me—I remembered keeping a set of gold and silver crayons in the kitchen drawer, reserved for those moments when I wanted to help guests keep track of their glasses.

Problem solved.

Mission accomplished.

This morning, I reveled in the rewards of honoring my commitment. And, because I know deep down that “I’ve got this” (primarily concerning the book I’m writing, but with additional benefits as well), after embarking on Beaumont the Sheepadoodle’s first early morning saunter (thankfully, the smoke has diminished, enhancing both the visibility and enjoyment), I strolled into the kitchen and whipped up a batch of scones, four dozen chocolate chip cookies, and tidied away all the dishes—all before 8 am!

What a marvelous way to kickstart my day—feeling invigorated and empowered. It simply required following through on a commitment I made to myself — the added benefit is my beloved has treats to greet him this morning and I have sweet delights to share with a dear friend who recently underwent a knee replacement. The first week of her recovery has been challenging, and now I have the chance to brighten her day with homemade delights infused with love and gratitude for our friendship.

Isn’t life simply grand?

Evenning Rituals

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I have a fondness for rituals. They act as my anchors, keeping me steady and in the flow. They forge a connection to something beyond myself, a collective unconscious that intertwines us all.

One of my treasured bedtime rituals is the “3 Things” practice. It serves as a serene reflection on my day, guiding me towards calm, gratitude, and a sense of flow. Before slipping into sleep, I embrace three aspects for which I’m grateful, three moments of grace that touched my day, and three dreams I wish to carry into the realm of dreams and write them down in my journal.

Recently, I introduced a fourth ritual that precedes my “3 Things” practice—I write down three worries, things that haven’t pleased me, or instances where I could have ‘performed ‘done better’. Once penned, I crumple up that piece of paper and toss it into the wastebasket.

This act of discarding is symbolic, urging me to release the self-limiting narratives I tell myself—the thoughts that hold me back and hinder my moving freely through each moment. By throwing them away, I relinquish the power they hold over me.

Yesterday, I had a heartfelt conversation with a kindred spirit—a beautiful soul seeking ways to rise above the darkness, to believe in their own luminous heart. We explored uplifting ideas, discussing what they were doing or not doing to stay in the light.

During our conversation, I shared a personal practice of mine: leaving love notes to myself on the bathroom mirror using washable glass crayons. “I haven’t actually done it in quite awhile,” I confessed. We agreed it was a good time to ‘begin again’. Always begin again.

As we talked about the love-notes on the mirror further, we came up with another idea. Before going to bed, write yourself a ‘pep-talk’ on the mirror. That way, the first thing you read in the morning will be your pep-talk.

What a great way to start a day, we both agreed and committed to do it.

Later, as I followed my nightly rituals, I remembered my commitment to give it a go. Already in bed, I chose not to go downstairs to my studio to fetch my glass-writing pens. It was more effort than I felt like expending in that moment and like Scarlett O’Hara, who famously said, ‘I’ll think about that tomorrow,’ I gave myself an excuse to not do the thing I needed to do to care for myself in the moment.

And that’s how easy it is to neglect the commitments that nurture our souls. It’s as simple as granting ourselves permission to deviate from our own journey, evading accountability and disregarding the actions that empower us to live boldly and be our best selves.

It may not seem like a significant transgression—I reassured myself this morning. But is that really true?

What if it isn’t solely about failing to fulfill a commitment, but rather, that this “not doing” forms a habit of disregarding the actions that nurture and love myself?

What if, in the act of “not doing,” I unconsciously tell myself that I’m not worth fighting for? That I’m not deserving of my own commitment?

You see, it’s not that I don’t want to engage in those practices—it’s the message my brain receives in the act of “not doing.”

What a fascinating awakening this morning. Not only do I have an opportunity to do better, I’ve also effortlessly identified one of my three things to write-down on the list of thoughts I refuse to carry with me into my dreams tonight.

I am grateful to have woken up to this chance to create a better world within myself today. It serves as a reminder that every journey comprises small steps—each step propelling us either closer to the state of being we desire or further away from our optimal selves. Last night, I took a step away from my desired state.

Some may argue it wasn’t a big deal. Yet, what if the significance lies not in the specific act I failed to complete but in how this “not doing” becomes a habit of neglecting the nurturing and loving things I know are vital for my well-being?

Let this morning’s revelation be a catalyst—an opportunity to cultivate a deeper sense of self-worth, commitment, and conscious participation in my personal growth.

How to Drain the Brain and Unclog Your Life

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I love to start my morning with a bath. It’s as if the physical act of pouring it, testing the temperature of the water to get it just right, and then, sinking into its warm, sudsy depths unlocks my thinking, and my day.

Yet, here’s the thing, after a half hour of soaking my body in its sudsy warmth, the water begins to cool. I have to make a choice. I either have to add more heat and keep soaking, or get out and start my day, letting the now not so welcoming waters drain away.

Some mornings are made for soaking. Others are made to get up and dance.

Whatever my choice, leaving the water to stagnate in the tub is not an option. I have to let it drain away.

What if, our brains are like a bathtub? We fill them and fill them with the flotsam and riff-raff of life, soak ourselves in every thought that arises and then, instead of letting the not so ‘clean’ thoughts drain away, we just keep adding more and more negativity. In all that darkness, we become lost in the murky depths of the stagnant waters of our thinking?

What if, to live with more balance and joy in the beauty of now, we need to pull the plug on our thoughts, grab a plunger and start draining the brain?

Just as in writing, where it’s essential to drain the story of excess words and unnecessary details, in our life journey, it’s crucial to divest ourselves of all the mental clutter that weighs us down. Negative thinking, limiting beliefs, and doubts can seep into every aspect of our lives, from our relationships and career to our physical and mental health.

Draining the brain isn’t about suppressing or denying these thoughts and emotions. Instead, it’s about acknowledging them, examining them, and then letting them go. It’s like giving your brain a deep tissue massage, kneading out the knots and tension until it feels lighter, clearer, and more relaxed.

And, bonus! As we drain the brain of negativity, doubts, and limiting beliefs, a beautiful transformation takes place within. We become more receptive to the wonders of life, better equipped to handle challenges, and open to embracing the joys and sorrows that shape our journey. With our minds running clear, we’re free to dance through life’s melodies, finding solace in the ebb and flow of the exquisite nature of our human existence.

How to drain drain your brain

1.	Identify the negative thoughts and beliefs that are holding you back. Write them down and examine them objectively. Are they based on facts or assumptions? Are they helping or hindering you?

2.	Challenge your negative thoughts and beliefs. Ask yourself: "Is this really true?" "What evidence do I have to support this?" "What would happen if I let go of this belief?"

3.	Practice mindfulness and meditation. Take a few minutes each day to sit quietly, focus on your breath, and observe your thoughts without judgment. This can help you become more aware of your negative thinking patterns so that you can practice releasing them.

4.	Surround yourself with positive influences. Fill your balcony with friends, family members, and mentors who uplift and inspire you. Read books, listen to podcasts, and watch videos that promote positivity and personal growth.

5.	Finally, be patient and persistent. Draining the brain is a process that takes time and effort. Don't get discouraged if you don't see results right away. Keep practicing, and eventually, you'll start to feel the weight lifting off your shoulders.

Remember, draining the brain isn't a one-time event. Just like a drain, our minds can become clogged again if we're not careful. But with practice and awareness, we can learn to keep our brains clear and our lives more balanced in the beautiful flow of our lives unfolding in wonder and awe, day by day.

So grab that plunger and get to work! Your brain (and your life) will thank you.

If your body is your home, where do you spend the most time?

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Each of us humans who live on this planet exist as one interconnected, interdependent body.

This body of mine, with its skin encompassing all my organs, veins, arteries, cell and DNA is my home. It is separate from your home yet interconnected through the air we breath, the earth upon which we walk, the rivers we swim in and the forests we walk.

Imagine that the body you inhabit is your home. Like many homes, it has an attic (brain), kitchen (heart), basement, (feet).

Where do you spend the most time?

Is it in your head, constantly thinking, worrying, conniving, constructing ideas, fears, worries, possibilities, excuses, plans? Do you store hurts and pains, building resentments like a hoarder stuffing the attic with old newspapers and things they cannot get rid of?

Is it with your heart, feeling every nuance of life, healing others, and soothing the fears and woes of many while not giving yourself the medicine your desperately need?

Is it in your feet, always focusing on the next step, ensuring the ground beneath you is solid, yet avoiding adventures into the unknown because you cannot see the path?

Now, imagine you don’t have a choice where you spend your time. Your body is the vessel that carries you through life. You are one unified, holistic being. Every element, including the skin, is interconnected and interdependent.

In our Western culture, we walk through the world as if the body is just the vehicle for carrying our big, all important head around. Without a lot of thought for the interconnectedness of ‘the all of who we are’ we become mired in a belief system and habits that over-emphasize the ‘brain’, leaving us stranded in our heads, which if you consider the head as the attic of your home, your body then becomes, like most attics, full of ancient dusty old boxes holding the junk and paraphernalia of life that you just keep stuffing away and seldom clean out, while the rest of the body slowly withers from inattention and misuse.

Reframing our attitude, ideas, and beliefs around the body as a whole, we cultivate a deeper understanding of our interconnectedness and promote holistic well-being. Recognizing our bodies as intricate ecosystems, each part playing a vital role in our being and well-being, we foster self-care, empathy, and harmony with the world around us, and everyone and everything in it.

Embracing the body as our home empowers us to value the wisdom of our hearts, the grounding of our feet, and the integration of our thoughts, leading to a balanced, authentic, and compassionate existence.

I am writing my instruction manual for life, As I write, I keep returning to the Mind/Body Disconnection. Often, my heavy head weighs me down, affecting how I care for my body as a whole. I feed my brain but neglect the rest. It’s time to take better care of myself, my one interconnected body that is, for the life of me, the only way I live.

Food for thought as I sit watching a squirrel leaping from tree to tree from where I sit under a smoky sky masking the sun’s light.

Somewhere, in this village I call my earth-home, my home is burning, reminding me again. I need to take better care of my home.

Namaste

When in doubt, choose Love.

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Both my daughters were Caesarean births. Not the birth story I had in mind, but hey, that’s the one they got.

Picture this: my gyno drops the bombshell that I have an “incompetent cervix.” Seriously? Only a man would say that to a nine-month-pregnant woman about to give birth and embark on the scariest adventure of her life. Couldn’t he have used a less terrifying term? Like ‘you have a beautifully imperfect portal to give this child entry into the world beyond the womb’?

Needless to say, it took a lot of post-birth therapy to get over the trauma of his declaration. But, with a lot of my posse of girlfriends, not too mention wine, I’ve come a long way. I’ve even learned to laugh at myself for taking it so seriously. Back then, though, it felt like he was calling me defective, like I was less of a woman because my cervix wasn’t up to par.

Fast forward to the moment they lifted my precious newborn out of the shelter of my womb, and I couldn’t care less about how she took the final plunge into this world. She was perfect, and that’s all that mattered.

And then, the even scarier part of the journey began. Learning what it meant to be a mother.

Being an overachiever and go-get-er-done kind of gal, I figured I’d have the basics down pat and be sending her off to University in no time flat. And then, real life interrupted.

The next day, lying in bed, watching my child in the bassinet beside me, counting her breaths (you gotta make sure they keep breathing. Right?), with every rise and fall of her tiny chest I felt the tension ease. We were off to a good start.

Until, a lady named Jody came waltzing into my room with a too cheery hello and a booklet titled “When you’re not woman enough to have a working cervix” (Okay, I might be exaggerating the title). She explained she was from the Caesarean Birth Support Group and had come to help me get over the trauma of missing out on the most womanly of arts; pushing my child into this world through the birth canal. Seriously? I cringed and pulled away when she tried to show the booklet to me. Who even needs that kind of support group?

Lying there, listening to her go on and on, I wondered if I had so mis-judged my motherly capacities that my daughter wouldn’t be better off remaining under the care of professionals until her eighteenth birthday. Was my incompetent cervix an even bigger indication of my unfitness to be a mother? .Jody carefully explained all the feelings I should be having (which I had no idea I was supposed to be having) as I sank deeper and deeper into an ocean of self-doubt. When she again reminded me that she was there to support me, I didn’t laugh, cry, or chuck my brand-new breast pump at her. I politely thanked her and showed her the exit.

Why do we burden mothers with so much judgment and comparison? We spend ages scrutinizing each other, insisting there’s only one right way to be a “good” mom, or to become one. Why don’t we instead, do what we do for our kids? — Support, cheerlead, and create a loving space for growth and learning.

The fact is, before actually becoming a mother, motherhood was never on my radar; it terrified me. I’d spent my twenties declaring I wasn’t mother material. In fact, the medical experts agreed, after two ectopic pregancies left me with one tiny half of a fallopian tube, they told me I probably never could. Did I need more proof than that as to the motherly material of my make-up?

And then, at 32-years of age, the miracle of my daughter happened and I realized, ready or not, I had to do the hardest thing I’ve ever done, learn how to be a mother for a child who entered this world in her own way, without an instruction book on how to keep her alive and thriving. It was like diving into an on-the-job training course where I learned to grow up one step at a time while doing my best to not count all my mistakes, and dwell on the misteps and falling downs.

Even now, with my daughters and stepchildren as adults, I’m still learning. It’s a never-ending journey where I must constantly let go of believing I have all the answers or know what’s best for them.

So, Jody from the Caesarean Support Group, I didn’t deprive my daughters of anything by skipping the “birth canal journey.” And if they ever feel they missed out, therapy is on me!

What I’ve learned through diving into the deepwaters of motherhood without having any idea of the its destation is that while becoming a mother was accidental, the mother I am today is no accident. My children have taught me, every step of the way, more than anyone else ever could, that there’s no perfect way to bring a child into this world just as there’s no one way to become or be a parent. There is only the way it happens. And when we give it our best, when we stop looking back at all our mistakes or comparing our path to someone else’s or to an ideal we cannot attain, the road ahead is full of adventure beyond our wildest imagingings.

And, when the path is dark and the seas are stormy, when in doubt settles in like a cloud, choose love—it’s the best way to navigate this wild ride called motherhood.

My Mother’s Love

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My mother and I had a challenging relationship.

In her view, I was always criticising her for not being the mother I wanted/needed her to be. In mine, I felt like I was never the daughter she wanted/needed me to be.

As we both grew older, the tensions between us eased, but finding harmony in a relationship where we felt comfortable and free to be ourselves was a constant journey into acceptance.

When she died at 97 years of age a couple of weeks before COVID lockdowns began, we’d reached a truce. As long as I didn’t try to get her to talk about the past, which in her mind was me just trying to make trouble as I always did, we had a modicum of peace between us. It was a tentative peace, one she was not willing to put to the test, Which meant, we never spent time together alone. Which, for me meant, we never talked about the things that mattered most.

At the time, wished it could have been otherwise, but my desire to ‘clean up the past’ was to her, a recipe for pain and more hurt. Silence was our companion, the boundaries of which were not safe to cross.

After her death, she began to ‘visit’ me whenever I was in the bath. I was a tad confused and consternated by her choice of venue. She’d arrive, dressed up á la Holly Golightly from Breakfast at Tiffany fame, long ebony cigarette holder in one hand, a martini glass in the other.

You are not my mother, I told her. My mother would never be so daring.

She laughed (something I did not recall my mother doing very often in life) and replied that on this earthly plain, the burdens she carried weighed her down so much she could never be find her lightness of being.Just as she could never be the mother I wanted (needed) her to be.

That shut me up.

My mother admitting she might have failed me?

I didn’t dare say it out loud.

It didn’t matter. She laughed at my thinking.

I’m spirit, she said. I can see through all those bubbles you pile on top of you in the bath to hide your naked body and, I can read your mind. Don’t worry. On this side of life, there is no judgement, only Love.

I wrote a lot about my mother’s after-life visits. They were healing, comforting and above all, loving. They filled in the missing pieces, smoothed out the rough edges and built a pathway to understanding, forgiveness and acceptance.

My mother’s and my relationship was exactly as it was meant to be. It was the starting point of the journey that brought me here, to where I am today, grateful, accepting and loving of the path I took to get me here, to this place where I am today.

No matter its hardships, no matter my falls, my tumbles, my getting lost and losing my way, it was the path I took. I cannot change the path behind me, just as I could never change my mother.

There were a thousand paths I could have taken, a thousand things my mother and I could ahve done differently. It doesn’t matter.

It is not the path I took nor how angry or resentful of my mother i was, or how I much I judged her lacking (and wished I hadn’t) that counts today, It is how bright the light I shine on my path, how much joy and love I dance with on my journey from here that makes a difference.

My mother taught me that. After she was gone.

My mother gave me life.

For nine months she carried me in her womb, praying for my safe arrival.

She did not intend to make my journey hard or difficult. She did not intend to hurt me or cause me to doubt who I am or my worth. And she did not purposefully or knowingly do the things she did that caused me pain.

Like me, she did the best she could with the tools and resources she had. She struggled. She fell. She got back up and tried again.

She hurt. She bled. She cried. She despaired.

Yet, through it all, no matter how difficult the road she traveled, no matter how dark the night or bleak the weather ahead, she never quit doing the one thing her mother’s heart told her she must do – love the child that was me, no matter how much she did not understand, agree nor approve of the road I was on. No matter how hard I fought against her. All she could do was love the only way she could. Her way.

My mother wasn’t perfect.

But then, neither am I.

What my mother was is the one thing I can never deny, she was the woman who gave me life. She loved me as best she could no matter how difficult I sometimes made her journey.

I am grateful.

I am blessed.

And,above all, I accept, she did the best she could in the life she gave me.

And in that life she gave me, I have come to know the truth about who I am. I am not the stories I’ve told that kept me walking in the pain of believing I was never enough for my mother, the world, or myself.

I am not the things I’ve done to prove my biggest fears about how undeserving and unworthy I am are true.

I am me, because of my journey and the way my mother loved me. I am awakened to my birthright of worthiness. I am awakened to knowing, without a doubt, I am a miraculous expression of divine love and amazing grace.

My mother taught me that.

A mother is not born in giving birth. She is forged in the crucible of life’s trials and tribulations teaching her with each painful and uncertain step, to become a vessel of love that can never be broken.

It is my mother’s womb that carried me into life. It is her love that could never be broken, no matter how much I found it lacking, wanting or deficient, overwhelming or too needy, it is her love that continues to shine on the path of my life today.

For, though it is her womb that nurtured me into being, it is not the womb that connects and binds us. It is Love.

To all the mothers, however you arrived at the threshold of motherhood, no matter how far the distance between your heart and the ones you love, may you always know how beautiful, special and divinely graced the world is by your presence.

May you know how miraculous you are, in all the radiant beauty of your unique expression of your love. And may you know, deep within you, that the Love you share so selflessly and with such devotion, no matter how it is received or felt or rejected, is exactly the Love the world needs now.

Namaste

Beyond the Rubble

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I am working with a dear friend on writing her memoir.

As a child, she and her family lost their home and survived the bombing of Warsaw which began September 1, 1939. They fled to a family estate on Poland’s eastern border only to be deported to the Gulag when Russia annexed that part of Poland in 1940.

Her journey to Canada is remarkable. As is she.

It is because of her inspiration, I paint today. Along with her husband, they were integral to my story of surviving an abusive relationship. They have always stood with me, giving me love, friendship and an extended family to belong to.

We have been friends a long time and working on this memoir with her is a journey through history, the horrors of those war years and the aftermath, and so much more. There’s a love story, poetry written between two hearts separated by thousands of miles. There’s the tumultous years of raising a family. Standing with her husband as he climbed the ladder of success he promised to build to provide for his family. And there is joy. In particular for me, the joy of our friendship.

This morning, as I do every morning, I pulled a card from my DeepTalk deck. “What was missing from your childhood?”

The trite answer could be so many things. A feeling of safety. Of being unconditionally loved. Of feeling wanted…

Yet, if I step back from pulling out the response from the pocket of my ‘victim story’ I keep stored in my memory that I have been known to haul out to soothe the edges of life’s inevitable sticky moments, I see a bigger picture. A more wholistic view of my childhood that transforms me from ‘victim’ to a powerful architect of my life today.

I am who I am today not despite my childhood and all the perceived wrongs and shortcomings of my parents. I am who I am today because of my childhood. Because of everything that happened throughout my life that made me, me.

I like me. Heck. I LOVE me!

I am the most fascinating person I know, if only because I know myself, inside out, better than I know anyone else. Better than anyone else can know me.

And that’s the beauty of writing your life story. (or working with someone else on writing theirs)

It gives you perspective. An opportunity to reflect, assess, and claim the things that happened not as things that broke you, but things that broke you OPEN.

In that openness, you have the choice to build back better.

My friend’s story starts in the first days of WW2 in Warsaw, Poland. She and her mother are baking a cake for her father’s birthday. And then, the bombs start falling. Five days later, when they emerged from the cellar to view the carnage, their home was gone.

Today, my friend lives a beautiful life. Not despite the hardships. Not despite the losses and grief and sorrow.

Her life is beautiful because from that rubble, she chose to find beauty in all things.

It is one of the most remarkable things about my friend. In the over 40 years I have known her, she has always created beauty all around her. A gifted artist, her paintings shimmer with the beauty that is at the heart of who she is. Her home radiates the serenity that lies at the foundation of her nature and her friendships reflect the loving care she puts into creating all things.

What was missing from my childhood?

Nothing. It was exactly what I needed to become who I am today.

I am a brave woman touching hearts, opening minds to set spirits free to dance in a world of Love, joy and harmony.

A world where beauty matters.

This morning, I choose to say, Thank you my friend for reminding me through your story, what is important in mine.

This morning, I choose to give thanks for my childhood. It was filled with all the things I needed to grow up to become more and more me.

Much gratitude

Namaste

It’s Never Too Late To Have Fun!

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10

It was 1am when the Uber driver dropped me off.

I could have been home for 11 but, as one of my companions at the Shania Twain concert and I walked towards a street a few blocks from the Saddledome where the concert was held thnking it would be easier to find a cab further away, we decided to join the others we’d shared the evening with for a drink.

Given the late hour, or early in the morning time to bed, you might think that was a mistake.

It wasn’t.

It has been a while.

A while since I spent an evening laughing with a group of thoughtful, compassionate, high energy, and fascinating companions exploring life as we sat perched around a hightop in a crowded downtown restaurant. We laughed. shared stories and a couple of plates of nachos (it was a Mexican restaurant) and then jumped into an Uber and got to the Saddledome just before the concert started.

For two glorious hours, we stood and cheered and hooted with the crowd, and sang along, as a diminutive yet mighty woman strutted her stuff and filled the giant space with her mastery of her art. When the singing and hooting and clapping ended, we went for a nightcap to talk about life, love, losses, careers, change, possibilities and on and on and on.

It’s the night cap part that did it. Put the cherry on the top, so to speak. Five of us huddled around a table in the corner of a bar at one of the city’s late night ‘in’ places. Giant windows separated us from the street where concert goers and late night partyiers walked past, gazing in. I wondered if they were checking to see if there was an empty table. There wasn’t.

At one point, I took a metaphorical step back and kind of watched myself sitting at the table, chatting, laughing, sharing stories and being part of the conversation. Except, my table companions weren’t of the grey haired set like me. They were my youngest daughter and three of her friends. Which is what made me sit up and pay attention.

“This is what you always imagined, Louise,” that inner sage voice whispered. “Spending time with your adult daughters.Sharing life’s moments, current and past. Building memories, unpacking old ones. Living life.”

It was wild.

Fun.

Exhilarating.

Which explains (kind of) the late hour. Who wants to let a good time go, especially when it’s full of such electric energy? Not to mention, it’s been a long time since the last time I stayed out until the witching hour, drinking, laughing, talking and simply having fun!

My challenge is always, no matter the time my head hits the pillow. Morning still calls early. In this case, 5:45.

Definitely not enough shut-eye

Definitely don’t care.

Along with the concert itself, what made the evening extra-amazing was the company I kept.

They’re all 30 something. Talented. Successful. Building their careers. Building their futures.

I’m… well I’m 60 something. Okay. on the cusp of the magical era of my 70s. Leaning over the edge of leaving this decade for one that feels like an open playing field. Until those moments hit when I feel time leaning over my shoulder reminding me in its hissing slithering voice of doom, You ain’t a young chickie no more, Louise. Wisen-up! Though, it’s possible my hearings going and what it’s really saying is, You gotta lotta life left in ya’ Louise. Party On!

After a night like last night, I’m not sure I’m even close to getting the wisen-up part perfected. Perhaps I’ll just, Party On!

Then again… maybe I am, wisening up. ‘Cause if living my best life yet at any age has any relevance, last night’s frivolities prove – It’s never too late to have fun! (and stay up late!)

Namaste