Author and Inspired Writer

Although The Mister is the chef at Chez Beaudoin, our diets are not identical. I’m a wee bit more plant-based, (though I love my chicken and fish!), where The Mister occasionally leans towards animal protein. As long as he doesn’t overdo it and the meat is lean, I try not to say too much. So I didn’t bat an eyelash when he brought home some pork hocks the other day. I just politely inquired as to what exactly a pork hock was, and when he answered “pig shins” I swallowed hard and asked, unable to keep the quaver from my voice, “Are the hooves attached?”

“No.”

“Awesome!” I responded, feeling much brighter. “Well, I’m off to the showers. Shouldn’t be more than a couple days. Will you miss me?”

“I can’t tell you how much,” he replied, rattling pots and pans and pork hocks.

About an hour later when the hocks were bubbling away merrily on the stove, I emerged from my shower to a house that smelled awful! Like ‘how-have-I-offended-the-gods-that-they’re-punishing-me-by-making-me-smell-this’ awful.

“What a stink!” I said, coming into the kitchen. “Is that the pork hocks?”

“Not the pork hocks,” The Mister replied, stirring the pot. “It’s cat manure.”

I grabbed the back of the nearest chair for support, hand to my chest, and gasped, “Oh my dear Lord! Why are you cooking cat manure?!”

He stopped stirring.

Then he turned around, a tight smile on his face, and said in a voice one might use on a particularly dim-witted child, “No no. I’m not cooking cat manure. Cat manure has been tracked into the house.”

“Impossible!” I replied. “I haven’t left the house today, and you always change your shoes before you go outside.”

I watched his eyes slip to one side, then his lips. He turned back around and proceeded to vigorously stir the hocks.

“Yes, well, theoretically.”

“Theoretically, Gracie?”

Stir, stir, stir.

“Well, I might have forgotten to change my shoes when I changed the oil in the car a little while ago.”

“You wore your inside shoes outside?”

“Ee-yup.”

“And tracked in a crap load of cat manure on the soles?”

“Mm. Looks like.”

“Uh huh. Those wouldn’t be the shoes you currently have on your feet, would they?”

He glanced down, then back at the pot. Stir, stir, stir.

“Yup. Those are the ones.”

I took a deep breath, tried to count to ten. Got as far as two.

“And where have those shoes taken you since you’ve come in, my dear?”

He rested the spoon on the rim of the pot and looked up, considering.

“Well, kitchen, obviously. Hallway. TV room. Bathroom.”

“Office, living room or bedroom?”

“Ummmm…no.”

“OK then. Here’s an idea. Why don’t you take off those shoes, take ’em somewhere and clean them good, and I’ll wash the floors…scrub the floors…rip up the floors…”

“Aw no, Missus! I’ll do all that.”

“No no, I have to do it.”

“But why?”

I rolled my eyes.

“Florence.”

“Oh,” he said, returning to the pot. “Her again.”

I have been making my way through the complete works of Florence Scovel Shinn, and it is not an overstatement to say they are changing my life. Somewhere along the way I got this nutty idea that God was happy only when I was suffering; that Christ’s promise of “life in abundance” included endless worry, hardship, poverty, and sacrifice; and that anyone who believed they deserved better was guilty of the sin of pride and should get themselves off to confession post haste. Over the years, that idea loosened its hold on my imagination, a little, but then Tosha Silver’s book “Outrageous Openness” and Florence’s “The Magic Path of Intuition” found their way into my hands, and lo and behold, here was a God who wasn’t happy unless I was happy, who offered ways of easing my worries, and whose gift of ‘abundant life’ was as easy (and as challenging) as changing my mind. I haven’t got all this down yet, I’m still just learning, and I need practice, lots and lots of practice to make this life real.

Hence the cat manure.

Florence is very big on the power of words. To quote, “If you say you are going to do a thing and then do not attend to it, it will be done for you violently when you least expect it.” I think she overstates it just a tad using the word “violently” especially as she illustrates her point with a story of how a tassel on her belt that she had promised herself to shorten but never did, was suddenly shortened for her (to the exact length, mind!) when she caught it on the seat of the bus. I’d been saying for longer than I care to admit that I needed to get to those floors, but it took the intervention of the town’s feral cat population to help me keep my word.

I learned my lesson. Today was such a gorgeous day, I said I really should get outside and put my container garden to bed. But there were so many other things I wanted to do that I was inclined to let the garden go. Then I remembered the cat manure. And I’m proud to say I got on my gloves, yanked out all the dead plants, had The Mister throw them into the composter, and took in all the little ornaments. As Florence said, “Despise not the day of small things.”

Done, Florence!

Today, I kept my word.

As you are no doubt aware, Corporal Nathan Cirillo was shot to death as he stood honour guard at the National War Memorial in Ottawa on Wednesday. The gunman then burst into the Centre Block Parliment Building and exchanged numerous rounds of gunfire with police and security, before the Sergeant-At-Arms, Kevin M. Vickers shot and killed him. It was reported that Vickers, a former RCMP officer, had never killed anyone before this. The next day, as he solemnly stood to receive the grateful applause of the MPs for over a minute, I wondered what he must be thinking. Twenty-four hours previous, he saved countless lives by killing a man. Understandable if his emotions were somewhat mixed.

On the news broadcasts afterward, several people commented that Canada had lost its innocence with this tragedy, but when was Canada ever innocent? Have we never known the touch of fear or darkness in this country? Have we been so secure that violence has never crossed our borders? Are we so peaceful a people that we have never been troubled by internal strife, homegrown terror? Are we so smug to think these things to be American or Middle Eastern problems?

Just two days prior to the shooting in Ottawa, one uniformed soldier was fatally run down and another wounded in Quebec by a driver seeking to carry out the mandate to deliberately target Canadian soldiers and punish the country for participating in the American-led coalition against ISIS.

In 1984, a corporal in the Canadian army killed three people at the National Assembly in Quebec before another Sergeant-At-Arms, Rene Jalbert talked the man into surrendering.

In 1970, the War Measures Act was invoked as the Canadian government’s dramatic response to the terrorist activities of the Front de Liberation du Quebec.

We’ve not been immune to school shootings either. In 1989, in what would later become known as The Montreal Massacre, 14 women were gunned down at Ecole Polytechnique by a man whose stated motive was hatred of feminists.

And mass murderers, we’ve had our share. I won’t mention their names – they’ve received enough attention already. Suffice it to say that the worst of them may have slaughtered more than 40 women on his pig farm in British Columbia.

No. We lost our innocence a long time ago, but chose to keep the unpleasantness from our collective consciousness. And maybe it’s time to change that, admit that Canadians are no better and no worse than anyone else, put aside our stereotype of the polite and peaceful Canadian and take a realistic look at what we are and what we’re capable of. Then maybe we can come to grips with the problems we share with every other country, and find a way to heal.

If I had been in Parliment the day after the shooting, I too would have risen to my feet and applauded Mr. Vickers for his courage and selflessness. Then I would wish I could put my hand on his shoulder and apologize for the mark his act of heroism will leave on rest of his life, that we wish it hadn’t come to this.

That in spite of our history, somehow we thought it couldn’t happen here.

I love our little bungalow, I truly do, though sometimes you’d be hard pressed to tell, the way I neglect it. But I’ve resolved to do better, and marrying action to resolution, I armed myself with a container of cement and a trowel, and joined The Mister to patch up the cracks in the basement floor. This became our morning ritual after breakfast most mornings for about a week. I wanted to give the cement a chance to dry and the fumes dissipate before we had to close the basement windows with the coming of the colder air, so there was some urgency attached to our efforts.

In other words, we worked HARD!

Neither of us has ever done this kind of work before, and after our first go at it, we were both plum tuckered out. As the week progressed, we got faster and more competent, but there wasn’t a morning my legs weren’t trembling from the exertion. But we “got ‘er done” as The Mister is fond of saying, and a pretty fair job it is too, one day before we had to close the windows!

Heartened by this success, I tackled my office next, and you can read about that in my previous post.

Finally, I decided to wreak God’s own vengeance on the bedroom closet which hasn’t been thoroughly cleaned since nineteen-hundred-and-I’m-embarrassed-to-tell-ya. Oh, the treasures I found! A gorgeous pashmina from my eldest sister I thought I’d lost, scarves, a vest, and oh yeah, a couple of tote bags. How does one lose not one, but two tote bags in a closet that size, you ask?

It’s a gift you’re born with.

Although I am delighted with the results of my efforts, my allergies were not at all thrilled with the amount of dust that went up my little button nose. And for some strange reason, I did not sleep well, in spite of my exhaustion, for four nights in a row…which for me, is just asking for trouble.

Early Wednesday morning I woke up with a sore throat. By Thursday, my sinuses were blocked, and Friday saw me coughing and sneezing, and then the fatigue hit me like a truck. Just taking a shower used up all my energy and I alternated between the TV room sofa and the bed. I haven’t been this sick in ages.

“I hate it when you’re ill and can’t come to church with me,” The Mister said Sunday morning.

I felt all warm and lovey and replied, “Aw! Really?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Everyone’s gonna ask me, one at a time, ‘Where’s Penny-Anne? Where’s Penny-Anne?’ I’ll spend the whole time repeating myself.”

“Oh you poor thing,” I said, feeling somewhat less warm and a whole lot less lovey. “How you do suffer.”

“I know, eh? Maybe I should bring a sign that says ‘She’s home with a cold.’ and I can just hold it up when they ask.”

“Better yet, bring a sign that says, ‘She’s in Rio with Eduardo’. That should liven things up at the ole kirk!”

He decided he’d rather spend the whole time repeating himself.

The fatigue has made it impossible for me to work or exercise, so I’ve been enjoying more time for reading, and for wondering what the heck am I doing sick? Well OK, I overextended myself just a tad with all the cleaning and such…OK, maybe more than just a tad, but why couldn’t I just shake it off, bounce back, amaze the medical community with the speed of my recovery? Most of the symptoms have subsided, but the fatigue is still a lingering, undeniable presence, and honey, I got things I wanna do!

Lately, I’ve been introduced to Lissa Rankin, MD, through her book Mind Over Medicine: Scientific Proof That You Can Heal Yourself. I’m on my second time through her book and I subscribe to her web site www.lissarankin.com where she discusses spirituality, medicine and healing. Everyday she sends me a little message from what she calls my “Inner Pilot Light.” Others might call it my highest self, or inner wisdom, or spirit. Here’s the message I received when my illness was at its worst:

Dearest Penny-Anne Beaudoin, when was the last time you asked yourself what you needed? I see you running on empty all the time pushing the last vestiges of your energy to the very limits before you collapse into a coma of sleep only to do the very same thing the next day. The message for you today is simply this: self-care. You have to take time to replenish the stores of your life force. So ask yourself “What do I need today that would be restful and add abundance to my spirit?”

And it was signed, Conspiring to make it happen, Your Inner Pilot Light.

Well, draw me a picture why dontcha?

I need to rest. I need to tweak my diet to make it more nutritious with a daily green smoothie and some superfoods. I need to rest. I need to put all deadlines and commitments (most of which are self-inflicted) AFTER my commitment to my health. I need to rest. I need to stop worrying about finishing up The Magdalene Poems. I need to learn to pace myself. And, oh yeah, I need to rest. That’s my prescription. And I intend to follow it.

I also came across this little gem in Florence Scovel Shinn’s The Magic Path of Intuition. It’s a story of getting her watch repaired only to discover it lost ten minutes every day. She accidentally dropped it on her hardwood floor, picked it up, put it on, and lo and behold, it kept perfect time from then on. To quote, “In falling it had become regulated. So if you have a bump of any kind, know you are being regulated, and you’ll come out of it much improved.” Ah, so that’s what’s going on!

Next morning at the breakfast table I told The Mister, “I’m being regulated.”

He nodded sagely. “It’s like I keep telling ya, Missus,” he said, poking the air with his fork for emphasis, “fiber is our friend.”

“Oh, no, that’s not what…I was speaking metaphor…I mean, I just read…well, you know, you’re right. Can’t argue with that. I really should listen to you more often.”

He nodded again and winked.

“It could only help,” he said.

I’m currently reading The Magic Path of Intuition by Florence Scovel Shinn. I’m reading it because Tosha Silver mentions her as one of her mentors in her own book, Outrageous Openness – (see “This stuff actually works, parts 1 and 2” below). Surprisingly, Ms. Scovel Shinn published her books in the 1920’s, though you wouldn’t know it since everything she writes has a timeless ring about it…well, almost everything.

“Honey, do we have any blotting paper?”

The Mister poked his head around the corner

“Say again?”

“Blotting paper.”

“I haven’t seen blotting paper since I was a kid in grade school.”

“Huh,” I replied. “Did they have schools back when you were a kid?”

He made a face. “You’re hilarious. Why do you need blotting paper?”

“Well, Florence says, and I quote, ‘Keep your desk in order. Have fresh blotting paper handy. There is nothing like fresh blotting paper for attracting big checks.’ I wouldn’t mind attracting big checks, so what would be the modern equivalent of blotting paper?”

He thought for a moment then shrugged.

“Bounty?”

I gasped! “We gotta try that! Let’s put a roll on my desk and see if it is indeed ‘the quicker picker upper’ – check-wise.”

“Maybe you should try cleaning off your desk and see where that gets you. After all, that was her first suggestion, wasn’t it?”

Oh crumb! Yes, that was her first suggestion Mr Smarty Britches, and surveying my desk I had to admit there really wasn’t any place to put a paper towel, much less a roll of the stuff. But if I clean off my desk, then I’ll have to organize my bookshelves too.

Yep, a little voice replied.

I’ll have to delve into all those piles of papers on the floor and Lord only knows what’s taken up residence behind them.

Lord only knows, the voice agreed.

And if I do that, then I may as well do a purge and cleanse of the whole office.

May as well.

But that could take days!

Sure could. Better get started then.

Shut up, little voice.

Shutting up.

It took two days and I still need to organize my desk drawers and a small shelf beside my reading chair. Except for that, everywhere I cast my eye there is blessed order and cleanliness. I organized, I dusted, I vacuumed, and I steam cleaned the floor. The office is gorgeous.

And it struck me that this is the latest in a list of atypical behaviours for me of late. My accounts are up to date. I was behind by six months (not unusual for me) when I suddenly knew I had to take care of that. Surprisingly, it took very little time and effort. Then I made a big investment in a painting simply because I thought the Universe wanted me to have it. No, I knew the Universe wanted me to have it. And now I’ve cleaned my office within an inch of its life. So, like, what gives?

I’m coming to the end of The Magdalene Poems. I’m thinking maybe a half dozen more poems, but they are pivotal, I sense they’re going to be large, and I’m struggling to give them voice. Now, when I’m so close to the end, this is when I need to clear away the clutter, physical and metaphysical, remove all the energy blocks, open up the windows and doors. I feel I’ve “cleared the decks for Divine action,” as Florence says, and in a way honoured my Muse, my Magdalene, at the same time. I think I’m ready to go quiet and write.

With or without blotting paper.