The world is misty grey this morning. There is no surface to the lake, no definition between the water and sky. One world melts into another erasing the far shore, erasing all definition of matter on earth. Only the trees stand out in stark contrast. Red. Green. Orange. Yellow. Grey on grey trunks standing tall in the forest all around.

Our hosts held a dinner party last night. Thirteen people gathered around a table laden with food and wine. Laughter. Story. Sharing. The conversation ranged far and wide. Most of the guests have retired here. Most had spent parts of their childhood in the area only to return to the call of the lakes and rivers and forests as they moved from worker bee to retirement mode.

From police officers to Information Technology managers to corporate executive the table was crowded with lives lived being productive, adding value to economies, societies, families, humanity.

I listened and watched and participated in the discussion and felt the tug of memory pulling me into its thrall.

All through my growing up years, my parents loved to entertain. They loved to gather people from all walks of life, from every economic scale and sit them at their table and ply them with amazing food, wine and conversation. They loved the act of creating connections. Of introducing this woman to that person who might help her achieve a goal. Or that man to that person who might help him fulfill a dream.

My parents were masters at the art of setting a table and filling it with laughter, light and love.

Sitting at the table last night, the candles glowing softly, voices laughing and chatting and cutlery clinking, glasses raised in toasts to ‘the chef’, absent friends, each other, life, I was reminded of those dinner parties long ago. Of those times that connect me to the past and to family. Of those times that embedded in me the desire, need, to gather people together and share.

After dinner we passed a small stone around the table and as each person spoke they shared something about their day they loved. It was inspiring to listen to the simple gratitudes each person expressed. To sit immersed in the joy each person shared about their life that day and every day.

One of the things I shared was meeting a fear this morning and moving through it.

I have never shot a pistol. Guns terrify me actually. But one of the guests skeet shoots with our host once a week. He arrived in the morning and they set up targets and invited me to have a go.

I decided to do it.

In the end, I discovered it wasn’t that scary and it wasn’t about shooting. It was about trying something that scared me. About challenging myself to set my sights on a target and aiming for it. Again and again.

I missed the target, every time. But with practice I’m sure I could be better at actually hitting the cardboard and not the tree behind it. (Sorry tree) Even the chipmunk knew he was safe. He sat to the left of the target and never budged while I shot the pistol. Cheeky devil! But he was right. There was no hope of my hitting him, even by accident. I was way off target!

Like life. We set our sights on a target. We aim for where we want to go and then we keep moving forward. Keep trying. Keep aligning our sights to reflect our direction.

I aimed a pistol at a target and missed yesterday. By a mile.

In life, the goal is to keep aiming. Keep aligning. Keep re-directing my attention to where I want to go, what I want to do, what I want to achieve. And no matter what, to not be distracted by squirrels chattering in my head, or trees blocking the light.

And to keep doing it. Keep going in the direction of my dreams.

I may never pick up a pistol again — in fact I probably won’t. It’s not that I’m afraid of it. It’s just I don’t want to shoot anything — including the branches off trees!

But, I will never quit aiming at my goals. Never quit shooting for the stars to achieve my dreams. As the saying goes, shoot for the moon, even if you miss, you’ll still end up amongst the stars.

It was a day of aiming for the stars yesterday. A day of reflecting in the light of the beauty of the world all around and knowing, to make a difference in the world, I must never let go of my dreams. Never let go of aiming for the stars to.

It’s a big world out there. The universe is calling. Gotta go.

Namaste.

I am laughing at my impatience this morning. Laughing in frustration that is. Twenty minutes to finally be able to load my blog and the page to enter a new post seems excessive. But then, if I hadn’t pushed buttons while I waited, perhaps it might have been a bit faster.

The internet connection here is on a ‘stick’, or is that ‘schtick’, ’cause it sure feels like a comedy of errors trying to get anything to load.

And I laugh again as the childhood adage my father used to quote pops into my mind — “Patience is a virtue. And you have none.”

I do so, I used to quip back vehemently stamping my right foot to strengthen my position. I do so!

Not!

Really.

I mean, I can be patient. With people. Dogs. Cats. Fish even.

But technology? Not quite so patient and forgiving. Seriously. It is here to serve, not hinder, my morning routine.

And the morning began so well.

The sky which yesterday was covered by rolling grey clouds is clear and blue today. The sun shines lighting up the leaves that are turning ever more quickly with each passing day. Brilliant reds and auburn, rusts and golds spread out along the hillsides, tiny patches becoming great swathes of autumn’s glory.

I walked down to the water’s edge this morning, my iPhone at the ready. I forgot my camera in Calgary – yes, seriously, I forgot my camera — and must use my phone to snap and capture the world around me.

And I laugh again. Thank goodness for technology! Photos from my iPhone are usually what I share here!  Except… of course… the internet connection is so slow, I can’t load photos. 🙂

But, I’m off to town later. Our hosts have organized a dinner party for us. They’ve invited several neighbours over to meet and greet. Over food and wine and laughter and good conversation we’ll spend an evening communing.We’ve invited a guest too. Ever gracious, our hosts suggested we include my new friend Brenda Missen in the evening. What a blessing. What a gift. New friends and old. Mixing together. Making connections. Sharing. Creating ripples of joy and friendship.

And now, I’m off to help my hostess prepare for the evening’s festivities. My snit with the internet over, I am once again filled with the joy of being present in this world of beauty. Outside the window, sun filters through the trees, splashing green and yellow and red leaves with light. Patches of sun dapple the road leading up the hill away from the cottage, speckles of light inviting me to explore, take note, be present in the day.

Technology’s okay, as long as it doesn’t affect my mood, my state of being, my presence of mind. Technology is simply that — a man made tool designed to facilitate being present and connected in this 21st century. it does not rule me.

So there!

Not patient? ha!  Fooled it. I am so patient. I just don’t have time to sit around waiting for technology to catch up with me!

See you later. I do have to connect into a worksite later to take care of a few business aspects of my world. I’m going to post some photos — taken with my iPhone.

And, I’ll comment on comments others have made in previous blogs as well — another issue with a slow connection is getting into my Comments page. Mostly, it won’t load and trying to comment individually really does tax my patience!

May your day be filled with wonder and delight. May you be immersed in the beauty all around. It really does make a difference – to be immersed in beauty.

I have brought my big city fear to the lakeshore.

The thought drifts through my mind as I sit on the dock, the moon a semi-orb of golden light above me, one half dark, one half light. Clouds scuttle in front of it, drifting effortlessly across the night sky as silently as the thoughts drifting through my mind.

I have brought my big city fear to the lakeshore.

I sit in the dark and feel the silence. I hear the water lapping against the wooden rungs of the dock. I hear the autumn breeze whispering through the trees.

I let fear drift away like a leaf undulating on the water’s surface, bobbing along in the water’s pull, moving further out of sight.

Fear is like that. It visits in moments of quiet. In the dark. It lives buried somewhere within me, waiting to rise up and disturb my peace of mind.

I visited with Brenda Missen yesterday. She’s the writer I mentioned meeting Friday night. I read her book over the weekend. Tell Anna I’m Safe is a ‘can’t put it down’ kind of read. A thriller but more than that, a deep psychic journey into the fears, and promises, that live at the heart of our being human.

We talked about fear yesterday. About living in the wilderness, alone, along a lake. Brenda feared bears and then, she took herself into the woods. Alone. With just her canoe and dog. She made friends with her fear. Bears are now her companions on the trail. Silent, mostly unseen sentinels along her journey.

Brenda doesn’t lock her doors. She doesn’t fear.

I admire her. Not fearing. I admire her willingness to simply explore. Her inner being. The world deep within her. To not fear the journey. To simply be open to discovery.

Sitting on the dock, alone, late at night, a few pinpricks of light far along the shore, far in the distance from other cottages where the occupants still rest by the lakeshore, I realize…I know too much fear. I want to let it go.

What is this fear I feel, I ask myself? Where does it arise from?

I come back to the house. Climb up through the dark woods without the aid of my flashlight. My eyes have adjusted to the dark. I am comfortable finding my way without the aid of artificial light. I let my senses guide me.

Your fear is man-made. It is of your history, the ever present voice within me whispers. Let it go.

The others have gone to bed. The house is quiet. I close the door behind me. I choose to not lock it.

C.C. is sleeping when I crawl beneath the covers. I close my eyes. My mind imagines the unlocked door. It is hammering at my senses. The door is unlocked.

I beathe.

Yes it is.

People don’t lock doors here. Far off the beaten path. Tucked within the forest. At the water’s edge. People don’t lock their doors.

And in the city, it is important to lock the door. It is a statement of not letting fear enter. Of stating unequivocally, my home is my sanctuary. Fear from out there has no place to enter.

Here. Where the wind whispers through the trees. Where forest meets lake and stars shimmer in the night sky and clouds fly by unimpeded, there is no separation of out there and in here. There is only nature. Our nature. Your nature. One world. One planet. One people. One nature.

I breathe into the quiet of the night. C.C. sleeps on. I close my eyes. I close my thoughts to fear and welcome in the night.

I let it go. I let my senses guide me to that place within where fear slips out beneath the unlocked door. Out into the night.

There is nothing to fear but fear itself, said Winston Churchill in the darkest nights of World War 2.

There is nothing to fear but my thinking, I remind myself in the night and let thoughts of my fear drift away.

I slept soundly.

Letting go of fear makes a difference.

I jumped into the lake yesterday. It was cold. Freezing actually.

Fall has wrapped its colourful arms around the lake, streaking the trees with golds and reds and auburn leaves not yet ready to fall. Every morning the colours appear a little more intense, a little more vibrant as the cool autumn nights remind the trees of their seasonal habit of embracing the world in brilliant hues.

And the water cools.

It’s about 16 degrees Celsius now. 61 Fahrenheit. And the air is no warmer.

But I had to jump in. It is a ‘commitment’ I made last year when we came — that every day, regardless of the weather, I would swim in the lake.

In my head it seems like a good idea. In actual fact, in the doing, I’m not so sure.

But a commitment is a commitment and so… I jumped in.

C.C. came down to the dock with me. He’d turned the steam room on so it would be hot when I got out, walked down the sloping trail through the trees to the water with me as I talked myself in and out of the water. 

“Do I really want to do this?” I asked him as I stood at the end of the dock, my towel robe still tightly wrapped around my body.

“I don’t know,” he said. “It’s your idea.”

I pondered. Felt the cool breeze against my cheeks. Dark clouds scuttled across the sky in the distance, edging their way closer to the sun.

“I’d better do it before the clouds block the sun,” I said.

“If you’re going to do it, do it soon. I’m getting cold,” he replied.

I pondered some more.

I’d had to buy a new bathing suit the day before. I’d forgotten mine at home. And, while this is a secluded bay, there are still houses scattered along the shore. I wasn’t sure I wanted to give them a display of me au naturel!

I stood and contemplated my commitment.

Seriously? I wanted to jump into the lake?

And then I thought about the exhilaration. The feeling of being totally, completely alive that first shocking dash of water ignited in my being. I thought about the laughter. The sputtering and gasping. The screams of exultation.

And I thought about how the day before I hadn’t jumped in, and how I felt disappointed. Saddened. Like I’d cheated myself of an experience I enjoy – no matter how much I mutter and murmur about it.

I like feeling totally, completely alive. And jumping into freezing water makes me feel totally, completely alive.

“I know it won’t kill me,” I said to C.C. “And when I get out, I know I’ll feel awesome.”

He laughed. “It’s up to you.”

I dropped my robe.

And leapt.

The water crashed into my body. My skin sang out from every pore it’s displeasure at this sudden immersion into cold.

I sank quickly to the bottom. Sputtering. Spurting, eyes wide-open, Ipushed off from the silky mud at the bottom of the lake. Pushed upwards.

My head broke the surface. I screamed in delight.

C.C. stood on the dock and laughed. “You gotta see your face!” he exclaimed.

I screamed back. “It’s cold!”

I flailed my arms about. Made a couple of half-hearted strokes as if to swim out into the bay.

It was cold.

Very cold.

I switched directions. Paddled desperately back towards the ladder at the end of the dock. Scrambled up the metal rungs.

C.C. stood waiting with a towel outstretched to envelop me.

It was good.

Very, very good.

Sometimes, the decision to jump isn’t about holding back, it’s all about letting go.  Like the words of a song I heard the other day on CBC by an Indie group named, “The Stars”. “Hold on when you get love. Let go when you give it.”

I had to let go of shore to get into the water.

I had to let go of disbelief to let love fill my heart.

Earlier that day I’d spoken to my eldest daughter about jumping in. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” she said. “Nobody’s telling you to jump.”

And that’s true. I don’t. And no one’s forcing me to leap.

And still, I wanted to. I wanted the feeling of letting go.

And so… I debated. I hemmed and hawed and then realized, it’s not about having to jump in. It is about wanting to. It’s about doing what brings me joy. What ignites my passion, my sense of aliveness. What gets my heart beats pumping wildly in the rapture of now.

Life’s like that. Sometimes, the biggest difference we can make is to simply jump into the flow. Leap from the shore and cast off our fears and trepidations. Let go our hesitations, our mind chatter, our doubts and simply jump.

I jumped into the river yesterday. It made a difference.

I’ll be jumping again today.

PS – this is a cellular internet access and very, very slow. Hence, why I’ve not posted any photos. I’m going to take my laptop into town later today to see if there’s a coffee shop with free wi-fi. I’ll keep you posted. 🙂

I am in sitting by the window looking out upon the boreal forest of the Canadian Shield turning red. Seriously — I don’t know if this is the boreal forest or not – but I sure do like that term. Such poetry in its words.

And uneventful, effortless flight. A drive in the darkness beneath a star strewn sky and C.C. and I are here, by the lake, settling in, communing with eachother, nature and the quietness of the world around us. No traffic noises. No street scape sounds. Nothing but the silence of forest and the sound of rain dripping from the corner of the eaves and off of tree branches.

There are heroes everywhere on the journey. From baggage handlers to counter clerks and flight attendants and pilots. From ground control and air traffic control and all those who make it possible for us to fly effortlessly through the air. From those who work on creating these marvels called jetliners, to those who ensure every nut and bolt is screwed in tightly to ensure safe travels, there are heroes everywhere on the journey.

Think about it. At noon we leave a city at the foot of the Rockies. Fly across prairies that reach out to the horizon, across lakes and forests to land five and a half hours later after a stop-over in Toronto at Canada’s capital city, Ottawa. A rental car organized — they didn’t have the mid-size we’d reserved so we opt for a Mustang instead of the only other option, a Suburban.  We drive through darkness and here we are sitting by a lake in the morning light filtering through trees turning green to red beside a gun-metal grey lake that ripples in silent waves beneath equally grey skies. And it is beautiful.

Think about it. For us to travel so far countless people played a role in our journey. Unseen hands that service and direct and ensure our travels unfold without mishap. And should a mishap happen, unseen hands that smooth out the ridges where travel and the uncertainty of the future meet.

There are heroes everywhere on the journey and today, I celebrate them.

And, I celebrate a writer named Brenda Missen. I met her last night at the pub where Charles and I stopped to grab a bite to eat on our way to the lake. The manager at the Wilno Pub kept the kitchen open late for us — he is a hero! Brenda was sitting at the bar visiting with the waitress. I over heard her mention, “my book is still touching people. I’m still getting requests from book clubs,” and, in the course of chatting with our waitress, a laughing comment to her friend at the bar, I discover her name, Brenda Missen.

“You wrote a book about a woman who went missing and was killed by her partner. She was your friend,” I exclaimed when I heard her name.

She looked suprised. How do you know me? she asked.

I heard you interviewed on CBC, I told her. It was the Monday of the September long weekend. I was driving back from Saskatoon and there you were, travelling with me as I crossed the prairies.

Wow she said. That interview must have been a repeat of an interview I did almost two years ago. It’s the only time I was interviewed on CBC.

And we chatted and were astounded by the linkages in our lives.

Brenda’s book, “Tell Anna She’s Safe” is told as a fictional account of a woman who goes missing and whose best friend searches for her. It’s Brenda’s story but not really. It’s really the story of a woman she knew, Louise, who fell in love with a man in prison and who disappeared one day in April 1995. She’s recounted it as fiction — but there is much truth in the story-telling.

And there she was, sitting at the bar on a Friday night when we happened to stop in on our way from Ottawa to the lakehouse where we’re staying for the next week.

I bought her book. “I happen to have some in my car,” she said.

We’re meeting up this week for coffee.

Brenda Missen in a hero. She wouldn’t let the disappearance of her friend go unnoted. She wouldn’t let her story die.

I am off today for ten days surrounded by the reds and golds and umber of autumn leaves falling in eastern Canada. C.C. and I are catching a noon plane to Ottawa and then travelling 2 hours west to Barry’s Bay where we will spend the week by the lake.

I am happy.

I am worried.

The timing is not the best. In fact, it probably couldn’t be much worse. A website launch for Calgary Counselling Centre set for October 1. Organizing for National Depression Screening Day — both the Day itself and a morning breakfast co-sponsored with the Calgary Chamber with the Mayor and various dignitaries in attendance and a panel of 3 speakers set to kick it all off– yup. really bad timing.

But… this is an annual trek for C.C. and me. A week with dear friends in their summer home along the lake. A week to kick-back and just be in the presence of friends — good times, food, conversation, wine. They’ve got a dinner with their neighbours planned for us, a day of traipsing through art studios during the community Art Walk. Boat rides. Reading. Relaxing. And, oh yes, keeping up with my emails and such.

It cannot be avoided. Taking my laptop so that I have access to my Counselling Centre desktop. It is important.

When faced with a choice, decision or opportunity always choose in favour of your passion — and my passion is to do my best. In this case, my work at the Counselling Centre takes precedence. I can’t ignore it — too much rides on ensuring the events go off without a hitch.

Choosing to feel stressed won’t help. Choosing to let anxiety override both my holiday plans and my decision to stay connected to the office won’t make me feel better — in fact, it will just make me feel worse.

And so,  I breathe into the moment and choose to take my laptop knowing I am committed to checking in every morning with the office and then be present to the world around me the rest of the day.

Sometimes, the choices we make need to be centered on creating harmony — in spite of the chaos and busy-ness. For me, that means accepting, it is important I fulfill on my commitment to the Centre and it is important I am present with C.C. and my friends.

which means, I choose how I turn up — with anxiety or with harmony.

I choose harmony.

So much better to create harmony in my life than discord.

So much better to be accepting of what is than to be consumed by what I’d wished it to be and isn’t.

I am off on a holiday this week. Being present. Being at rest is important. And, to be at rest I know I must be conscious of my commitments here. I have a great team pulling the final details together. And, I am responsible for supporting them as best I can to ensure they know — I am committed to their excellence too.

How I look at things always makes a difference.

Choosing harmony over discord is always my favourite path to making the difference in my life be one of grace and ease.

And… I’ll be checking in here, writing every day and sharing photos of the changing leaves and my awareness of the world around me — and the difference I see in every day. Tomorrow is Heroes in Our Midst and on Sunday, Jodi Lobozzo Aman from Heal Now and Forever Be In Peace will be the guest blogger — exciting times await! Hope you’re along to enjoy them too!

Namaste.

I awoke at 4 this morning. Wasn’t falling back to sleep so I got up and started working. Three hours later, I see how engrossed I’ve been!  I didn’t even realize so much time had passed.

Being engrossed in what I’m doing makes a difference.

I had dinner last night with my delightful and beautiful friend Kerry Parsons. As we chatted, Kerry asked me a question about when I am living from my authentic, or essential self, what is it that I do in the world? I create space for people to explore and uncover their own magnificence, I replied without hesitation.

I liked that answer. I liked that it felt so natural. And, I like the way it feels. What better thing is there for me to do in the world than to do that, I wondered? And I couldn’t think of a better response.

It’s an interesting question — What do you do in the world when you are living from your authentic or essential self. That place where you are filled with grace, ease and wonder. That place where you are aligned inside and out.  What do you do in the world?

Living the answer to that question is my life-long quest. To be ‘on purpose’, to be in my own magnificence means to awaken other’s belief in their own magnificence.

Several years ago, while teaching a course on self-esteem at the homeless shelter where I used to work, a man asked me, “How can I be a good man when all I see is what a bad person I’ve been?”

He was from the Sudan. Once a child soldier he had come to Canada for a better life and then found himself locked in the grips of homelessness, poverty, abuse. He was at the shelter to take a course that would provide him the tickets he needed to get a job on one of the oil rigs. And he didn’t like himself very much.

“Do you want to be that bad man or the good man who lives within your heart?” I asked.

“I want to be a good man,” he promptly replied. “But how can I forgive myself for the things I’ve done?”

“What’s in it for you not to forgive yourself?” I asked.

“I was a bad man,” he replied.

“What if I told you when I look at you I see a magnificent human being?”

He laughed and said, “I’d tell you that you need better glasses.”

I too laughed before replying. “My glasses are fine and regardless of what glasses I’m wearing, I see you as a magnificent human being. That’s my word — magnificent. You may have another. But I know that for me, I want us to connect through our magnificence, not our mediocrity.”

He nodded his head but his resistance was high.

I invited the class to close their eyes and imagine, just for a moment, that they were magnificent human beings. That they embodied the spirit and essence of magnificence. To sit up, breathe into, sink into, be, just for that moment in their imaginations, magnificent.

When he opened his eyes I asked him, ” Did you feel your magnificence.”

And he smiled a beautiful, radiant smile and said, “Yes.”

“Then it exists,” I told him. “Within you is the knowledge of what it means to feel and be your most magnificent self. Your job is to remember it and the best way to do that is to think about your magnificence and quit reminding yourself of your ‘badness’. To simply allow space for your magnificence to grow. It is within you. You lived it for that moment. Now, let those moments grow.”

It is within each of us. This place of magnificence, beauty, perfection, authenticity. Our essential nature. It is within each of us.

It’s just in the journey of life, we forget who we are born to be as we try to make sense of the world around us.

But it is always there. It cannot leave. It is our truth. It is us.

I thought about my response to Kerry last night and knew — that is what I want to do in the world. To always inspire people to recognize their magnificence and live it.

What about you?

What’s your true calling in the world?

How do you plan on making a difference, today, tomorrow, everyday? What gift are you willing to share with the world so everyone  can see your light shining. Are you willing to connect with everyone around you from your place of magnificence? Are you willing to let letting go of all that would hold you back from letting your true self be seen and known?

Try it… you might like it!  🙂

Namaste

I went to a play last night. It was a brave and courageous production. A moving story of human drama unfolding. Theatre Calgary’s production of Next To Normal, Music by Tom Kitt, Book & Lyrics by Brian Yorkey, is visually stunning and compelling. It is the story of a woman and her family’s journey through her bipolar disorder. Filled with moments of discord, frantic action, blissful excesses, dark depressions, Next To Normal was one of those events where saying, “I’m really enjoying it,” didn’t quite cut it.

It’s hard to enjoy mental disorders. It’s hard to say, “That was fun!” when what you are witnessing is very real, challenging and true for so many.

1 in 5 Canadians will suffer from a ‘mood disorder’ such as depression in their lifetime with 2% of all Canadians experiencing bipolar disorder.

It doesn’t seem fair. But then, a mental health disorder isn’t about fairness, because depression, bipolar, schizophrenia don’t discriminate. They don’t care about age or sex or size or faith or social status. A mental health disorder doesn’t care ‘who’ you are, it just cares that you are under its control.

There is no fair in a mental health disease.

I once dated a man who was bipolar. I was madly in love with him. I met him 3 years after the end of my marriage. He was the first man I loved after its end. We dated for 2 years and lived together for a year and a half. He was incredibly charming, witty, funny, energetic, smart.

When he was up.

When he was down. Watch out. In those moments that could last for weeks, I was evil incarnate. I was woman and I was bad, wrong, not fit for man. I tried to make it work. I tried to be compassionate. Caring. Kind. And then, I tried to be invisible. Quiet. Unseen.

It took a toll on me, and my daughters who also adored this man who in his ‘upness’ made them laugh incessantly. In those moments, he was the father figure they had never had, the one who heard them, saw them, recognized them as miraculous beings and helped them believe they were capable of anything.

And then, the dark moods would hit. He would hide in our bedroom for days on end, sitting beside the fireplace, reading, sleeping, never getting out of his pajamas. He was fastidious but in those moments of darkness, he couldn’t care less if he shaved, showered or changed his clothes. He couldn’t care less.

At the time, he didn’t have a diagnosis. That came later. After the tears and the pleading for me to stay, after the fights and the anger and telling me to go. After his diagnosis he went on medication. His moods evened out, but I was already gone.

I wonder sometimes if I hadn’t spent that time with him, would I have been so susceptible to the abuser. Would I have been so invested in someone else telling me how amazing and wonderful I was? I met the abuser just a few months after the ending of that relationship. And, while I told myself I was emotionally stable, I don’t actually believe I was. There had been too many moments of his words piercing my skin, inflicting pain deep into my heart for my emotional and mental well-being not to have been adversely affected.

There is a difference though, between the words of that man I once loved and the abuser. The man I once loved had a mental health disorder that drove him into despair. He didn’t want to nor mean to hurt others. He just couldn’t see or feel or know what he was doing when the disease was in control.

The abuser… well, let’s just say he wanted what he wanted because that’s what he wanted and what he wanted was all that counted. Let’s just say, it wasn’t that he enjoyed hurting others, it’s just, he didn’t have the capacity to do anything else because lying, deceiving, manipulating was who he was, always. And there were no drugs, or even therapy, that could keep him from being who he was.

Both these men made a difference in my life. Through them I learned, after the fall, how to stand up and be true to me, no matter what is happening in the world around me. I learned to hold onto myself, regardless of how fiercely the winds blow. I became my ‘I’ in the eye of the hurricane. I became my own control at the centre of my mental health.

I went to a play last night. I was moved. To laughter. Tears. To thoughts of my own mental health. To recognition of my own well-being and good-fortune.

I am one of the 1 in 5.  I was once severely depressed, suicidal. Today I’m not. I got help.

We’ve got to check up on our mental health.

You you can check up on yours on October 4 through National Depression Screening Day — an online test for depression. It’s anonymous. free. Easy. Just go to http://www.calgarycounselling.com and follow the links. No one has to know.

Yet, isn’t that part of the problem? The fact we don’t talk about our mental health?

Maybe if we did, we’d make a bigger difference in the lives of the 1 in 5 Canadians for whom mental health is not a bed of roses.