Creativity takes time March 15, 2016

I grew up being creative. From “composing” my own songs and recording them, to playing the littlest witch who saved Christmas. I am crafty, creative and colorful. Every corner of my life speaks this truth. But as the mother of two young boys and a working mom, I am realizing how much time it takes to be this best version of myself.

When my first son was born, I laid it all down to dedicate myself to him. At the time, I thought that was what a working mother had to do – give up part of herself to be a good mom. I know better now. In recent years, as my second son grew out of toddlerhood, I had to face the reality that I was unhappy. Initially I blamed it on many things – we didn’t have enough money, maintaining our home required more than I had to give, my marriage needed a tune up, I didn’t want to teach any longer, and so on. Looking back now, having navigated through all of those feelings, it was none of those things.

I was miserable because I wasn’t creating. Somewhere along the path of adulthood, I had lost the essence of my joy. I was created to create. But I had stopped believing that truth.

It was wrong of me to give up that part of myself, because being a happy maker helps me be a better mom, wife and teacher. It even makes me a better sister, daughter and friend. Residual happiness carries us a long way in this life… And when times are tough I sit down to create. Or I take time to be in Creation. Or I let the blessings of this family that I have helped create wash over me. And I find my centre, my happiness, the creator inside me. I was created to create. And then I do. I steal a quiet moment to write, or read, or craft something that can only come from me.

My creative corner (also my vanity!), where all my best making happens.

 

What peace it brings! What time it takes! To still one’s mind and heart in this world where busyness is our currency. I want to be productive, not busy. I want to make, not fret. I want to hear and see and be all that Creation has to offer.

But this takes time. It takes purposefulness. It is a choice. I choose to create, because that is where my happiness lives.

Hearts and hands full October 18, 2015

Today is a crisp, cold Autumn day. The idea of a warm cup of tea and a good book appeals to me more than following through on a promise, but my children have elephant memories and alligator tears. I admit to being slightly disgruntled as we bundle into sweatshirts and rubber boots. “Mama, I needs a snack,” says the wee one, and I hustle up yogurt raisins and 2 chocolate cookies for each boy. ‘Mama needs that cup tea,’ I am thinking.
Too many moments later, our family of four is strapped in to the car and heading for the wooded trail that circles the lake. The car window is open a crack and the sound of a cold wind in the trees whistles by my ear. The smell of wood burning and Pumpkin Spice tea tickles my nose. It is the sound and smell of Fall.

I lower the passenger mirror, that less than a decade ago I used to touch up my make-up on our way to a dinner party. Now, I use it to spy on the munchkins in the backseat. They are both looking out the windows, watching brightly costumed trees sway in the wind that whips across the lake. The older one, already 7, draws his brother’s attention toward something across the water. “Mama,” says the wee one, the baby sound in his voice growing more distant with each week in pre-school, “all dose colors is so bee-u-ti-ful.” He smiles at me in the mirror, knowing that I am watching him as he watches the scenery.

I glance at his brother, who grins also, displaying a large gap where one front tooth is missing. Freckles, a remnant from warm summer days, scatter across his nose and the wind slips in through the barely open window, ruffling the strawberry blond hair that falls on his forehead.

I shift my gaze from the backseat to my own reflection. A few wrinkles have wound their way around the edges, but my eyes still sparkle and smile. There is still silliness, and sexiness, and mystery within. Sometimes I wonder if this life we have built is real – it is too sweet, and painful, and full of love to truly be.

He parks the car outside a chainlink fence where a gravelled path winds its way into the woods. The colors and the sun are so bright here. We both get out. There is a moment, so very brief, where it is just him and I, the wind and the trees, and we catch each others eye. The corner of my mouth turns up slightly and his eyes twinkle. It is the closest thing we have to a Caribbean cruise for two. The muffled sound of the boys calling for me makes its way out of the window crack and we disembark and return to land. We each help a boy out of his seat and make sure coats are zipped and hats are on.

In one palm is a steaming cup of spiced tea, in the other a small hand. And it feels so good to have hands and a heart that are full. We carefully make our way around the fence, despite signs that insist we shouldn’t, using a well worn path in the grass. Once on the other side, the boys take off as if the wind that ruffles the leaves has lifted their wings. And hubby and I are alone, sort of. Wild boys bark and bay at a distance. And together, the four of us, we wander this trail with hearts and hand full.

Roommates July 27, 2015

 Have I never told you about the three dudes I live with? They are the greatest guys. No, seriously, the greatest. So funny, and sweet, and silly. I have something to laugh about everyday. 

 

If friends taught me anything, it was how to be a good rommate.

 
Just this morning, my newest roommate was rushing to get to the bathroom on time after a bit of a bender with the apple juice (lightweight!). He rounded the corner, almost there, but due to the sugar high, he fumbled with his elastic waist shorts and ended up peeing all over himself and the floor! Hilarious! He tried to help clean up, but with limited hand-eye coordination and urine soaked socks, he was widening the puddle more than soaking it up. 

And my other roommate… We’ve lived together for almost 7 years. We’ve had some good times. I mean, it was hard at first. Really bumpy. A lot of tears and miscommunication, but now we cohabitate quite successfully. Most of the time he just ignores me. Yup, sometimes I say his name four or five times and he doesn’t even move. No outer signal that he’s completely hearing abled. This works out great when I want to have some friends over for a really, loud, off-the-hook book club or a wild, ripper of a candle party. Strangely though, he can always hear me opening a bag of potato chips or unwrapping an ice cream sandwich.

My third roommate and I have known each other forever. I don’t know – sometimes I think we take each other for granted. It’s hard to remember what life was like before we lived together. What’s it been??? Twelve or thirteen years? We’ve had a lot of fun together. I mean, he helped me find my two other roomates, so you know he’s a good guy. But a bit of a slob. He boasts that he can go almost a month without doing any of his laundry and I often have to write him lists in order for him to remember to take out the laundry or vacuum the stairs. And we clearly operate with different internal clocks, because I do things as quickly as possible and he likes to meditate on the task for a good, long time before completing it. Still, he’s not bad to look at, gives a good hug when I’m sad and had a dozen, pink roses waiting for me when we last celebrated the anniversary of our official move-in day.

It’s not all roses and sunshine though. Living with three dudes can be tough. I am forever falling into a toilet bowl in the middle of the night because someone left the lid up. I am constantly filling the cupboards because these three eat all day long and no one volunteers to do the shopping. Going it alone as the only girl in the house is lonely at times.

So I try to practice being grateful for having roommates. Thankful for dirt, grime, clutter, stubble in the sink and dinky cars strewn around like landmines. Appreciative for joyful conversations with mouths full of food. For quiet nights at home together making pizza and watching movies (although sometimes their tastes in film are exhausting…I mean the Lego Movie was good but 17 times?!?!?). Thankful for underwear on the counter (that was during the early days with my first roommate). Contented that I have been blessed to share my life with these three dudes… even as I sit with my butt dangling in the toilet bowl.

Self-image as we age July 12, 2015

Swing

Slinking across a dark room,

golden glints in amber hair.

Intense concentration

upon the swing of her hips,

the smooth way her legs move.

Carefree laughter,

wrapping herself around him,

who wants to kiss

that silky, freckled face.

Button nose.

Sensual, soft lips.

So alluring

I wrote that poem when I was in Grade 11. It was more of a wish than a reality. At 17, I wanted to feel sexy and beautiful, and more than anything, I wanted to be loved.

That was 20 years ago. And I still want those things. The difference is, that now I realize that feeling sexy and beautiful is up to me. And I am very lucky to be greatly loved by my husband of 11 years.

We have two young children and so feeling sexy is more of a challenge than ever. I am more often up to my elbows in dirty laundry than dirty negligees. Even beauty is hard to find when plucking your eyebrows needs to be scheduled. 

But as I age, I understand more clearly what makes someone sexy. It can be their body, definitely. But a hot bod without thoughtfulness and kindness isn’t attractive. Sculpted abs don’t make someone a good partner. A certain BMI doesn’t ensure that someone is happy and confident and fun.

Sexy and beautiful comes from how you feel about yourself and your purpose. I feel I am worth being loved. I feel I deserve happiness and joy, and I want to bring those things into the lives of others. I know I am a great mom, a good teacher and a loving wife (although I could more patient in all these roles). 

And so the extra weight that came with 2 babies, hypothyroidism and a love of all things sweet… it melts away when I remember who I am. That 17-year old girl had it right… so alluring.

Running with women June 12, 2015

As I understand it, a good runner trains herself by running against another who is faster and stronger, someone who is better. It might be easier, and perhaps good for the ego, to run against someone who is equal to you or not as fast, but simply put, it does not maximize growth or encourage self-improvement.

Now, I am no runner, but this concept makes sense to me and I apply it in many areas of my life. One of the defining areas of growth is my thirties has been my ability to accept my imperfections and locate and learn from other strong women and men who are more skilled in these areas. Admittedly, I align myself with more women than men, but as I see it, they are running the same race as I am, albeit with different running shoes and maps.

In matters of parenting, I often seek out the advice and experience of my own Mom. She is always willing to share her thoughts and never seems to expect that I apply them as directed, but gives me time to interpret her suggestions and convert them into my own parenting strategies. When it comes to all things professional, I look to two trusted colleagues and dear friends: 1) Monty has a passion for teaching and learning that is contagious and she understands the inner workings of the school board in an awe inspiring way. 2) Carrie is a master at developing sincere relationships within her classroom and knows how to balance happy teaching and a fulfilled life. From time to time, I need help understanding my husband, so I look to my cousin, Bean. Although 3 years younger than me, she always knows what to say and how to talk me down. And then there are the brilliant and talented health professionals who keep me in touch with my body and grounded in healthy choices, my chiropractor Dr. Kara and my massage therapist, Jamie. Talking to another person about your body’s physical journey through pregnancy, hypothyroidism, the approach of middle age (yikes!) and stress creates a special bond and although these two women are not exactly my friends, I secretly feel we could be. We would be a killer threesome of fun if combined with a glass of wine, a Saturday evening and a 90s Songza playlist! Lastly, I am so blessed to have Pastor Ina in my life. I have known this woman since I was 20 and she has never shown me anything but love, admiration and acceptance. When my grandmother died last year, it was Ina’s kindness and ability to “show up” that gave me a spiritaul foundation to push on.

These are the women that I run against, except it’s not a competition. And I always end up winning because these women help me run faster, farther, longer, stronger and better.

(*Names have been changed but if I wrote about you or someone you know, you should be able to crack the code. Wink wink.) 

Not an expert June 2, 2015

I feel it is only fair to let you in on a little secret. I am not an expert. Not an expert blogger. Not an expert teacher. Definitely not an expert parent or wife. Not an expert at all. 

To me, an expert is someone who understands the ins and outs of every possible situation or idea connected with a subject or skill. And there are too many blind spots in my experience for me to be an expert. 

When I was working on my Masters thesis, I would often get asked to attend various sessions where students shared, talked about and presented their research. I avoided these events at all costs, thinking “If I join in, everyone is going to know that I have no idea what I am doing.” I often felt like a fraud as a thesis student. Even though I was running a theatre-based research project, was on-line in the “stacks” doing the research about arts-based, feminist forms of research and power relations within them, even though I was attending courses and writing my thesis… I felt like at any moment someone important in the university would figure out that I was just making it up as I went along. I felt like a fraud. That is, until the day I confessed this idea at a writing seminar for thesis students. Coincidentally, we were all women. Everyone nodded their heads in agreement and suddenly, I felt less alone. These were brilliant, accomplished, professional women, teachers, writers, mothers and grandmothers, some were wives or partners. And I realized, we all feel like a fraud at times. We all have moments where we feel like someone might discover we are not an expert.

That moment has comforted me many times in the years since. As a new parent with my first son, I often felt very lost and unsure of myself. In my classroom or the staff room, I have accepted that it doesn’t make you a lesser professional to say “I don’t know”. Not being a “know-it-all” definitely makes things easier when it comes to my husband and my mother!

Perhaps being an expert is over-rated anyhow. I think I’d rather be respected for my opinions and experience, than seen as the seat of all knowledge on a topic. I’d rather be the person someone seeks out for comfort, not facts. Someone who is recognized as thoughtful and supportive, kind but honest, approachable… because let’s face it, I am not an expert. I’m just stumbling through, making it up as I go along. Aren’t we all?