Author and Inspired Writer

As I write this, a thunderstorm is rumbling through the Burg. Feel bad for all those who came to our annual Art By The River event, but hoping for better weather tomorrow for them. In the meantime, I’m SO grateful to be snug and dry inside my wee housie.

A couple of people asked how I was doing today, so I thought it time for an update. Let me start by saying The Missus is doing MUCH better! The symptoms of the erosive gastritis are easing, and some days trouble me not a bit. Once in a while though, I’ll have a day where everything seems to bother my stomach, and I don’t know why. But mercifully, those kind of days are getting fewer.

I’ve gained back some of the weight I lost, and I’m continuing to wean myself off the Zantac. Although I still take a nightly dose, I’ve reduced my morning dose to every other day. I even accidently went three days in a row without my morning med with little ill effect. So yay me!

My diet is continues to be a little bland, but I’m going to try introducing foods with actual taste soon. I love my restorative yoga and I’m back to a much reduced exercise program of low intensity cardio and weight training. And my sleep, always an issue, is improving. So yay me again!

All through this little odyssey, the Divine Powers That Be have showered me with videos and books about stress management and radical self-care. My dear friend and Yaya sister, Susan, sent me (and all the Yayas) Don Miguel Ruiz’s newest book – The Mastery of Self – and if ever there was a book I needed right now, this is it! How to recognize my prior domestications and attachments, how to avoid being dragged back into them, and how to love others, especially “difficult” people, unconditionally, without violating my own personal truth. At the same time, I somehow I got in with the gang at Hay House – a mega-publishing house in the area of self-help, healing, and spirituality – and I’ve been enjoying free videos and ebook downloads from such notables as Christiane Northrup and Doreen Virtue, and I’ve learned so much! Like how we were meant to live in a near constant state of relaxation; that when circumstances demand a fight or flight stress response, we are supposed to return to relaxation immediately after the threat has passed. But so many of us are conditioned to live our lives stressed out all the time. And when our bodies have had enough, they start to break down, forcing us to take the rest we so badly need. To regain our health, we need the treatments, procedures, and medications our healthcare providers offer us (both Western and alternative), but there’s even more we need to do for ourselves, our inner work, especially regarding our thoughts and emotions. I know now that I’ve been living in a state of hyper-vigilance for years – always waiting for the other shoe to fall, the next thing to go wrong. I also discovered that I don’t know how to express anger well, which keeps me brooding on past hurts. And I’ve found, to my astonishment, that I can think a dozen negative thoughts before even stepping out of the shower in the morning!

Not a record I’m proud of.

But to my great joy, I’ve also learned that my heart is teachable, wide open, and ready to gain wisdom so I might do better for myself and others. So rain down Your guidance, Beloved Divine, pour it into me! Give me eyes to see, and ears to hear, and a ready spirit to learn the lessons that will lead me into the abundant life I was meant to live.

And the thunder boomed, “Amen!”

Seems like ages since I last wrote. Crazy busy for the last month or so, but the last couple of weeks I’ve added a new dimension to my self-care – restorative yoga, and I’ve put that ahead of almost everything else lately, including blogging.

I did practice yoga back when I was a lot younger and a wee bit more limber, but I let it go in favour of other forms of exercise I thought would lead to better fitness – cardio, weight training, and core building. Then the erosive gastritis hit and sapped my energy for months which turned out to be a blessing since it directed me to a “kinder, gentler” exercise designed to heal and restore balance.

If you’ve been following my blog for a while, you know I been receiving massage therapy for some time now, and loving it! (For those of you in the Burg who are interested in trying it out, my therapist’s name is Allison Beaudoin. That’s right – Beaudoin. No relation, but a kindred spirit. Her web site is www.allisonbeaudoinrmt.com ) So profoundly relaxing, I look forward to it every other week, but the problem was, it wasn’t enough. I needed something for in between, especially since some lower back pain has been making its presence felt. I was at the point where the only way I could relieve it was to lie down, and that’s not always convenient. Early in the morning, I’d try out some yoga poses I remembered, but it didn’t seem to be making a difference. I don’t know if I actually prayed for guidance on this, but a few days later as I watched a video on self-care, the psychologist recommended restorative yoga for people who have suffered trauma, or illness, or stress. There’s even a restorative yoga program for veterans who suffer from PTSD. Sounded good, but I wasn’t really interested in turning myself into a pretzel. But wait! RY uses pillows and blankets to help you to hold a pose.

Pillows and blankets? Tell me more!

Every pose is designed for comfort. The books say things like, if your feet tend to get cold, put on a pair of cuddly socks. If you need another pillow under you head, use it. If you want another blanket for support or to cover up with, by all means! Oh honey! you are SO speaking my language! The first pose I tried really sealed the deal. It’s called The Pose of The Child and basically required me stacking a bunch of pillows and blankets on the floor, crawling on top, and relaxing. I can do that. I can so do that.

I’ve only been practising a couple weeks, but already I feel calmer, and best of all, the lower back pain is all but gone. It takes about an hour a day, which is sometimes difficult to squeeze in, but I think that will get easier as it becomes more routine. And The Mister even built me a box for all my accoutrements that stores under my desk which saves me commute time back and forth gathering up my all props.

So if you don’t heard from me for a while, chances are I’m sprawled atop a big fluffy mountain on the floor of my office getting myself rebalanced.

Whatever works.

This past Wednesday was the one year anniversary of the passing of my dear friend, Jill. The Mister and I had a little service in the memorial garden we’re creating in her memory in our backyard, and although I had great hopes the garden would be completed before the 6th, it’s barely begun. The weather, some health issues, and Canada Revenue all conspired against my best laid plan.

Wait. Did you just say, Canada Revenue?

Indeed I did, dear reader.

You see, every year the Canada Revenue Agency selects tax payers at random (so they say) to have their tax returns audited in whole or in part. This year, we were the lucky recipients of a love letter stating that CRA wished to review our charitable donations for the last year to make sure they had made the correct assessment…which I’m pretty sure is code for “We think you’re lying, sweetie.” So instead of working in my wee garden, I was gathering receipts, documents, and folders for the last five years, (thank God I haven’t throw away a receipt since 1966!) plus a trip to our accountant, an hour’s drive away. Not fun. But necessary, I suppose.

But though the garden’s not finished I have made a good start. It’s been raked and leveled in places, and the perimeter tiles have been laid. The morning of the service, the birdbath was set up and filled, and I changed into a gorgeously bright mu mu that Jill never got the chance to see but would have loved. The Mister was downtown to pay for a bouquet of flowers I’d ordered for Jill’s family, a simple, elegant arrangement called Heaven’s Gate – three huge Gerbera daisies, Egyptian orchids, little rose buds, baby’s breath, everything pure white surrounded by a wall of green leaves. I loved it the instant I saw it.

When The Mister returned and changed his clothes, he insisted on putting a sign in the front door window stating that we were out back.

“Why?” I asked.

“In case someone needs to find us.”

“Yeah but, the car’s in the driveway. Wouldn’t they automatically come around back?”

“Oh yeah, probably,” he said tearing off pieces of Scotch tape, completely ignoring me. I tried again.

“Ya know, if you leave a sign that says we’re out back, thieves could easily, EA-SI-LY, break in the front and clean us out, and we’d be none the wiser.”

He looked up from his task.

“It’s happened before,” I assured him. “I saw it on the news.”

He returned to his taping. “Seems to me I heard something about that too,” he said.

Exasperated, I finally said in a most unladylike tone, “I’m not interrupting this service for anyone. I don’t care who it is. Jesus himself could come to the door and I’m still not interrupting this service!”

He looked at me over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow.

“OK. Maybe for Jesus. But no one else. I mean it!”

“I get it,” he said, closing the inside door. “So what are we waiting for?”

We stood under the trees in a warm breeze, facing each other on either side of the birdbath, and took turns reading a selection of prayers and poems and the beautiful tribute written on Jill’s memorial card by her daughter. We ended with The Mister reading the poem I had read at Jill’s funeral – “Death is nothing at all” by Henry Scott Holland. There were tears and hugs and a smile or two. Seems The Mister picked up a few mosquito bites during the service, but my mu mu kept fluttering like a flag the whole time we were out, and I was bothered not a bit. Then we went back inside for some lunch and to share some memories of our friend, but before anything else, The Mister removed his sign from the door.

“Honestly, I don’t understand why you found that necessary.”

He shrugged. “Oh, you never know” was all he’d say.

We’d just finished our meal when there came a knock at the front door. The Mister answered it, and lo and behold, it was the delivery person for our florist holding the beautiful Heaven’s Gate.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake!” I muttered jumping up from the table and hurrying to the door. “They must have confused the billing address with the delivery address! Which means Jill’s family hasn’t received anything yet!”

I reached the door and said, “No! There’s been a mistake! This isn’t right!” But The Mister just smiled and winked at the delivery person and sent her on her merry way closing the door behind her.

“You don’t understand,” I said getting frustrated again, “there’s been a mistake! They’ve mixed up the addresses. We’ve got to get this over to the family!”

“There’s been no mistake,” he said gently. “These are for you.”

“They are?” I said in a small voice. “From who? And remember, if you make me cry, I may slap you.”

“From me.”

He put the flowers on the table and took me in his arms. “You’re grieving Jill like she’s a member of your own family. Her family is receiving beautiful flowers today and I wanted you to have the same.”

“That’s why you put the sign in the door window, isn’t it? So you wouldn’t miss the delivery?”

“Yup. Still feel like slapping me?”

“Oh geez!” I hiccuped against his shoulder. “Maybe later.”

Heaven’s Gate now has pride of place in the middle of all the other plants in our living room, or as my dear sister Chris dubbed it, ‘the Botanical Garden.’ And I’m still overwhelmed every time I look at it. A beautiful link between the living and the dead. A symbol of presence, generosity, thoughtfulness, and family. And a reminder that Love goes around, and comes around, and never stops moving in our lives if we keep our hearts open.

To my dear friend, Happy Anniversary!

And to my Mister…thanks.

I mentioned last time that I’d taken the first steps towards creating a garden in memory of my friend Jill who passed away last year. It’s going to be a tile garden. “A tile garden?” you ask. “Never heard of such a thing.” Probably not. I think I may have invented it.

Readers who have been following me for some time know how mad I am for yard sales. Over the past two years or so I’ve been collecting tiles of all shapes, sizes, and colours, bathroom tiles and kitchen tiles that sellers would sell by the boxful, as well as ceramic coasters. I’ve accumulated quite a little collection. After a while, The Mister couldn’t contain his curiosity.

“Missus, what are you planning to do with all those tiles?”
“Haven’t the foggiest,” I replied.
“Don’t you find it passing strange to be buying up tiles when you don’t have a plan for using them?”
“Oh-ho yeah.”
“You’ll let me know when you figure it out?”
“You’ll be the first there, Pa.”

Then Jill died, and the grief was so heavy and hard to bear, and remained mostly unexpressed because although she was just a friend, I grieved her much deeper than that, and I think I was a little embarrassed by it, thought people would be offended if my emotions were to get the better of me in public. And that just made it all the harder.

I read and sang at her funeral, but I wanted to do something more to memorialize her, something that would help me heal in the process. My dear friend Karen Rockwell, a social worker, calls it “inviting in the grief,” making room for it, acknowledging and expressing it. This is what I want to do with the tiles. This, I believe, is why I’ve been collecting them for so many months. I just didn’t know it at the time.

On our tenth wedding anniversary, The Mister and I planted half a dozen trees in the backyard, and with the passing of time they’ve formed a little grotto right in the centre of the yard. Because of the shade they afford, no grass grows beneath them, which leaves a little space of bare earth. That’s where I want to “plant” my tiles.

Last week I picked up all the twigs and raked the ground. Then yesterday, I laid down some cloth, the kind you put under patio bricks to keep weeds from springing up, (it has a technical name I can’t think of at the moment), that divides the grotto into three areas, one each on either side of the vertical strip, and one behind the horizontal strip. The T formation gives me access to all areas of the garden and will provide a relatively dry, unmuddied pathway after a rain. What I thought would be an easy job of pegging down the cloth proved a little more complicated, as just as I got the strip in position, a breeze would spring up and I’d have to go chase one corner, get it nailed down, then race down to the other end and do the same there. It must have looked hilarious.

“Having fun, Goddess?” I asked under my breath.

I think I heard laughter.

After a while, The Mister came out to see just what was transpiring in the back forty and to offer his help.

“No thanks,” I said. “I’ll only ask for your help if things get so frustrating I’m close to tears. Right now, I doing well.”

And I was. My one goal was to get all the cloth pegged down. And surprisingly, even to myself, I got all of it done – the measuring, the cutting, the chasing, the pegging – until there was only one peg left. I pounded that little sucker for all I was worth, but it refused to go in. I tried a different peg – nuthin’. I used a metal rod The Mister had left me for starting the holes – still nuthin’. My legs were shaking from fatigue, and I was getting hot and bothered and discouraged. Finally I called in my big gun.

“Pa, my green eyes are a-turnin’ blue. And I’d really like to take a shower before the neighbours start complaining.”

“Want me to finish it off then?”

“If you would be so kind.” And I gave over my peg and wooden hammer.

After I’d performed my ablutions and was once more fit for human company, I asked The Mister how he made out.

“Well,” he replied, “I know why you couldn’t drive the peg in.”

“Oh really? Why?”

He got a funny look on his face.

“There’s cement under that part of the ground.”

I dried my ear with the corner of a towel.

“You mean to tell me, I spent twenty minutes trying to drive a plastic peg into a slab of cement with a wooden hammer?”

“Pretty much.”

“Where’d the cement come from?”

Again that look.

“You remember the old barbecue pit?”

“The one you removed so we could have a backyard wedding twenty-seven years ago?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

“What about it?”

“Seems I missed a bit.”

Uh-huh.

We’re not quite sure how we’ll work around this little glitch, but I’m of the opinion, and The Mister backs me up on this, that there’s very little that can’t be fixed with a discrete application of duct tape. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Later I waked out to the garden and whispered, “What do you think, Jill? Except for that one corner, the peggin’s almost done.”

“Oh darling,” I heard her reply. “You’re just a Christian with a few doubts and a lot of questions. I’d never call you a Pagan.”

More laughter. And this time, some of it was mine.