tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51335861529257234872024-03-18T10:45:13.143-07:00Letters to the WorldRebecca S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16409572371302109142noreply@blogger.comBlogger309125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5133586152925723487.post-45541434771427438522024-02-04T11:28:00.000-08:002024-02-04T11:28:15.279-08:00Musings on Modern Mid-Life Friendship<p>I have someone I call 'friend' with whom the entire dialogue between us consists of sending each other memes, funny or sweeet videos, and the occasional tidbit of personal information. We have seen each other briefly, and only once, since high school when she turned up at my workplace with her kids. I didn't even know her that well in high school, but she found me on Instagram a few years ago and we struck up a friendship of sorts, mainly based on making each other laugh. She's very smart (science and math smart, unlike me), adventurous (I'm not really), and very glamorous (don't laugh). I have let her lead our relationship and so far it has been a fun nearly daily check-in that makes me smile in surprise and delight. I mean, if you'd known the two of us in high school you might say, "Who knew?"</p><p>My relationship with my internet friend is contrasted with the ones I have with my childhood friends. I have known Toni and Rachel since we were six. Our relationship consists of talking on the phone about once every six months, yearly visits if we're lucky, but we always sink into our usual conversation and laughter like its a comfortable old sofa. I love them very much and they remind me of who I used to be. Maybe I remind them, too. We had a larger circle in school, and I still consider those others women friends, but we only seem to communicate through commenting on each others posts on Facebook. I have a feeling if we saw each other again, we would still find something to talk about. They are all such smart, accomplished women, but none of us live near each other anymore. Some relationships persist into adulthood and middle age, and some fade a bit from sheer geography. </p><p>Then, there are the friends I made in adulthood, mainly through college and university, motherhood, working, and volunteering situations. Not all of those friendships remained as steady. I am always happy to see any of these friends, but perhaps there isn't enough in common anymore to sustain an active friendship. That's how it goes, doesn't it? There's nothing wrong with that, really. Sometimes friendships make the most sense during a specific phase of life - perhaps our children played together when they were little, and drifted apart as teens. We did move a few times as well. I am so grateful for the women in the above category with whom I have maintained active friendships. We were/are present for each other when our kids were growing up, when we lost parents, and when we have dealt with health issues. I am grateful for Facebook, which allows me to keep up with the lives of other friends I would otherwise have mainly lost touch with. </p><p>There was a time fairly recently when I thought I would never make another friend, that I had gathered to my heart all the people I ever would. Part of the reason for such a sad feeling was due to my major burnout of five or so years ago, and my turning into something of a hermit. I honestly felt awkward around new people, which was a new and odd sensation for me. Slowly, however, little fledgling friendships began to form with people in my current city as I got our more. While not fully flown yet, these friendships are worth encouraging, so I try to put in the work. Making new friends in middle age is not the easiest. People are often set in their routines, are busy with family, aging parents, and work. But, it is possible if you are open to it and not too demanding of others' time, I find.</p><p>The last category of friendship I am blessed to write about is the kind I have with my siblings. We understand each other deeply, because we grew up together in the same house with the same parents. We went through stuff we don't talk about with anyone else. Most of us (and that includes our various partners) have only grown closer over the years as we plow into middle age and beyond. I am the youngest, so I have the most to be grateful for when it comes to love and support from my older siblings. They paved the way, and I benefitted so much from their work. I treasure them more every year.</p><p>A huge thank you to my kaleidoscope of friends, no matter what our individual relationships consist of. If you send me a meme now and then, thank you! You thought of me. If you call, thank you! I have missed our conversations. If you visit, thank you! I love talking, laughing, and walking with you. I strive to be a good friend, too.</p><p>Until next time, </p><p>Rebecca</p><p>P.S. And to my husband: I hope it goes without saying that you are my best friend. I love laughing and solving the world's problems with you. </p>Rebecca S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16409572371302109142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5133586152925723487.post-41239352619176609822024-01-03T11:54:00.000-08:002024-01-03T11:54:56.516-08:00The Case of the Missing Sunglasses<p>Since we are still within the Twelve Days of Christmas I feel like it's okay to tell a funny little Christmas story. </p><p>A couple of weeks before Christmas I misplaced my magnetic clip-on sunglasses. I say 'misplaced' rather than 'lost' because the times I thought I lost them I have always found them, usually in an odd place. My clip-ons aren't the kind you buy at Walmart or Shoppers Drug Mart. They are specifically made for my glasses' frames and are one of the reasons I choose the brand of glasses I do. They are the only sunglasses I wear, and I especially need them up at the resort on bluebird days when the snow is blindingly white. I looked everywhere for my sunglasses but had no luck. My husband told me to order another pair from the eye doctor's; even if the originals turned up he thought a second pair would be useful to have. I didn't like spending the seventy dollars, but I didn't have much of a choice at that point. I suppose I could have walked around with my ski goggles on if worse came to worst.</p><p>I was already at the resort where my family was to spend Christmas when the eye doctor place called me to say my order was in. I told them I would pick it up the next week and hoped for cloudy-ish skies. I lucked out. The weather was perfect - just enough cloud to keep the sun from blinding me, but still lovely and conducive to many winter rambles in the woods. </p><p>My kids arrived and our five day party started. Morning visits over coffee and lingering breakfasts, lunch with their dad on his break, then afternoons spent doing our own thing, either in pairs, or alone. We fueled our activities with the cookies I had made and soon started in on the pan of my husband's homemade and very delicious Nanaimo bars. Christmas morning arrived. My husband had to make his rounds first thing, so the rest of us opened our stockings and started making brunch. We would open our gifts after my husband returned and we had all eaten. </p><p>Our bacon and eggs, mimosas, and panettone enjoyed, we gathered near the Christmas tree to open our gifts. We took turns passing out our gifts and watched each other open them. When it was my turn I handed my husband a box which contained a new pair of slippers. He's been having some trouble with his right heel and I thought some slippers with cushy memory foam would be a welcome replacement for his old ones. My husband tore the wrapping paper off and un-taped the old shoe box I had used. He lifted out the slippers and made an appropriately appreciative noise. I remember my eyes were cast down when he said, "Um, Rebecca?" I looked up. He was holding my sunglasses. In the whirlwind of acquiring, organizing, and wrapping gifts I must have dropped them into the slippers. I laughed. We all laughed. "It's a Christmas miracle!" I said. </p><p>You see? I had only misplaced my sunglasses, and true to form, they showed up in the oddest of places. </p><p>Happy New Year!</p><p>'til next time, </p><p>Rebecca </p>Rebecca S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16409572371302109142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5133586152925723487.post-49409694490723354862023-10-24T10:33:00.001-07:002023-10-24T10:33:37.755-07:00Moms: Grief and Gratitude<p>Last week was a tough week. Nothing outwardly calamitous happened to me, it was just a week of reminders and anniversaries of not so great things. </p><p>My mom died on October 20, 2021. I had been thinking about her, and our relationship, as I do when something like her birthday or Mothers Day comes around. About ten years before she died I felt her pushing me away a bit. She didn't want to answer tough questions or talk about difficult subjects anymore. I resorted to simple, low stakes conversations about my kids, my work, her retirement activities, etc. in order to connect with her. When she developed full blown dementia, four years before she died, I couldn't help feeling ripped off. I still had so many questions to ask her, so many things I would have liked answered. Now, when I look back on my perception of her pushing me away, I recognize it, along with some other indicators, as the beginnings of the slow cloud of dementia starting to cover her thought processes. She simply lacked the capacity to 'go deep' with me any longer. </p><p>I loved my mom. She was a good mom for the most part, and I miss her. I wish she had been tougher on me, and fought for me a little harder. I gave up on things too easily, was too flighty. Maybe she had her reasons, but I could have done with a bit more coaching. I took that into my own practice of motherhood, and perhaps I overdid it a little with my own kids. (Violin practice was almost the death of my son and me a few times.) I was a fairly typical GenX hippie kid, left to my own devices and allowed to honour my whims for the most part. My family went through some really tough times during my upbringing, and I think I paid a bit of the price for that. My mom was a hard worker, an intellectual, a philosophical person and somewhat of a local celebrity. She was a lot to live up to, and thinking about her often leads me to facing stuff about myself and becoming conflicted. Still, we were close, and she was great in so many ways that I forgive her for any and all shortcomings she may have demonstrated in mothering me. On our last visit together, when she was able to walk downtown with me, I took her to a lovely craft store full of handmade, artistic creations. We walked around the store hand in hand, looking at pottery, jewelry, woodwork, ironwork, and fiber arts. She couldn't say much, but I could tell she was enjoying looking with me, and holding my hand. We held hands a lot on that visit, and I hold on to that memory when I am missing her most. </p><p>There are other ways the week was a tough one, but I won't go into that now. When some personal hard things are in progress, we prefer to talk about them only once they are resolved.</p><p>Saturday night my husband and I had tickets to a band we have seen several times, The Paperboys. After a hard and emotional week, I was ready to let my hair down and have a good time. Our son had given us a gift certificate to the local Greek restaurant months before, so we decided to go all out and go out for supper as well. Mojitos go well with Greek food, I found out. After supper we quickly took the leftovers of our generous 'Greek Platter for Two' home and put them in the fridge. We drove to the hall where the concert was to take place and quickly found a table at the back. We were soon invited to sit with some friends who were seated closer to the stage, which would be less of a trek to and from the dance floor. After a couple of songs, my husband and I, and one of our good friends, got up to dance. The Paperboys' music is an enticing blend of Celtic-inspired Folk, Rock, Jazz, with Latin roots - very danceable. We only sat down for the ballads to catch our breath and quench our thirst. At one point, Tom Landa, the band's leader for all of their thirty years as a group, introduced his mother. He said she had been coming to their gigs and supporting them unequivocally for all of those thirty years. "If you want to know what support looks like, she is it," he said to an appreciative crowd. Tom's mom looked about eighty, but she danced all night. After the encore, because of course there was an encore, we were all cheering our hearts out. Tom's mom was right next to me. She caught me up in a surprise hug, and I was so honoured. I suppose she could see how much we were enjoying the band, and her son, and wanted to share the moment with us? I'm not sure, but it felt great. We chatted for a minute or so, and I thought how lucky she was to have a son like Tom, but also how lucky he was to have a mom like her. I remembered how my mom and I used to go dancing to my brother's band back in the late 1980's.</p><p>Motherhood is a journey, that's for sure. Most of us do our best and we still screw it up sometimes. We can also be hard on our moms, but, I think as we get older and have our own kids and our own trials as moms, we understand our own mothers just a little bit better. We may even feel a kind of solidarity with them. I heard it said in a movie once: "Even people who hate their mothers love their mothers". I certainly didn't hate mine, and I am eternally grateful for all the support she gave me over the years. </p><p>Until next time, </p><p>Rebecca</p><p><br /></p>Rebecca S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16409572371302109142noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5133586152925723487.post-48966967208489690842023-09-11T14:08:00.000-07:002023-09-11T14:08:21.097-07:00Will Elvis Leave the Building for Good?<p>When the current elderly generation expires, will Elvis Impersonators be out of a job? </p><p>The above question occurred to a friendly acquaintance and me, pretty much at the same moment the other evening, at a 50th wedding anniversary party we attended with our respective husbands. </p><p>I was so tired. I had been away working all week and driven home in the dark the night before - an hour plus of scanning the road for wildlife with exhausted eyes and a throbbing head. When I got home my husband reminded me about the party, which was on our schedules for the next evening. "Noooo!" or maybe some curse words escaped my mouth. I can't remember. Cancelling was not really an option for this particular event, though. I decided not to think about the party, brushed my teeth, and fell into bed, sleeping hard all night.</p><p>The next morning I woke up, still tired. I managed a half-hearted shuffle around the lake, had lunch and then, a nap. The party was back down in the valley, and was to go from 4:30 to 9:00 pm. At least it won't be a late night, I told myself. The theme for the party was the 1970's, in honour of the decade our hosts were married in, and also, we found out later, the decade in which they saw Elvis live in Las Vegas for ten bucks a ticket (and that included two drinks! said our host, enthusiastically).We had been invited to wear costumes. </p><p>We arrived at the venue and changed into our costumes in the truck. I went for a 'Rhoda from Mary Tyler Moore' look, while my husband wore fake leather pants and a polyester satin shirt for a 'disco sleezeball' look. We had found our costumes at Value Village a couple of weeks prior. While we began to get into the spirit of the event I knew we both needed a drink. We opted for rum and cokes. We both needed the caffeine boost. </p><p>The majority of the crowd were elderly peers of our hosts, but a small group of 50-somethings and assorted younger relatives rounded out the group. After drinks and mingling to the best of our ability (I admit to sitting down and posting photos on my phone after an hour of standing around making small talk), dinner was served. Our small table of four shared a bottle of wine and waited our turn at the buffet.</p><p>The evening's entertainment began after dinner. A local Elvis impersonator in a gold jacket entered the room and began his performance. While our table had misgivings about what to expect, none of us being Elvis fans, we soon had to admit our entertainer was a pro. He soon had the room singing along with the golden oldies, and a few couples, including the anniversary couple, got up to dance in the old way. 'Elvis' sang well and interspersed his Elvis material with some Neil Diamond. Roy Orbison, and Louis Armstrong, but it was his rendition of CCR's 'Proud Mary' that got us 50-something women on the dance floor. The alcohol and food had worked its magic and energized me briefly. A couple of spry older women were inspired to join us. The elderly folks unable to dance themselves, enjoyed watching us. We became part of the entertainment. </p><p>After the cake, made to replicate the original two-tiered wedding cake, was served, my husband and I said our goodbyes. As we made our way through the crowd after stopping at the head table, an elderly woman grabbed my hand. "You all looked great!" she said, smiling widely. I covered her hand with both of mine, holding them for a moment, and said thank you. It made me glad to know she'd enjoyed herself so much.</p><p>The party, although I had approached it that night with a 'grin and bear it' kind of attitude, ended up being fun. I observed and appreciated how the Elvis impersonator had figured out his evolving audience needed more than the dated Elvis material (sorry, fans) to be entertained. In fact, he didn't really sound much like the original Elvis to me, just did his hair like him, danced a bit like him, and drove a pink 1970's Cadillac. He told us he was going to be performing at a big classic car show the next day. </p><p>I also concluded I am very much in favour of parties starting early and ending at 9 pm, especially when the drive home is over an hour on a dark, curvy mountain highway. </p><p><br /></p>Rebecca S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16409572371302109142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5133586152925723487.post-3581105001467319342023-07-21T14:07:00.001-07:002023-07-21T16:13:12.296-07:00An Ode to my Eldest Sister, on her Birthday<p>Happy birthday to my bookend sister, Monica</p><p>Whose very existence for me is a tonic - ahhhh</p><p>I am the youngest, she is the oldest</p><p>I am the most hesitant, while she is the boldest</p><p><br /></p><p>She's a good listener and also a talker</p><p>With friends and dogs she's a very fast walker</p><p>She makes a great meal, really loves to share it</p><p>She buys a nice wine with which to pair it</p><p><br /></p><p>She has six children, all grown, most flown</p><p>A generous mom who would give her last bone</p><p>Three girls, three boys, a dog and a cat</p><p>A home always welcoming, no doubt about that</p><p><br /></p><p>A grandma to two girls, she loves them to pieces</p><p>I love them, too though they're only my nieces</p><p>She calls her long hair colour 'Arctic Fox'</p><p>Her energy belies her age, she <i>totally rocks!</i></p><p><br /></p><p>When I was a kid and nine years her junior</p><p>She was the planet, I semi-lunar</p><p>She paid me five dollars to tidy her sock drawer</p><p>Always nice to me, never giving me what-for</p><p><br /></p><p>As we grew older we became such good friends</p><p>She talked me through motherhood, the job never ends</p><p>Our husbands are friends, too, talking shop for, like, hours</p><p>While Monica and I sip coffee among their flowers</p><p><br /></p><p>A journalist by trade she writes for the papers</p><p>An editor, too, now, no time for 'the vapors'</p><p>Her writing strives to always uphold the truth</p><p>She'll research and write 'til she's long in the tooth</p><p>(I believe she also has a colleague named Ruth?)</p><p><br /></p><p>Mon's a great mother, sister and friend</p><p>To help you with issues over backwards she'll bend</p><p>She's super good fun and tells a great story</p><p>And if she goes before me, I'll be ever so sorry</p><p><br /></p><p>Happy birthday, big sis! I love you so much.</p>Rebecca S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16409572371302109142noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5133586152925723487.post-59106665391019820652023-06-25T08:34:00.000-07:002023-06-25T08:34:26.834-07:00Generation Cell Phone<p>I've been thinking about how each generation of children we raise lives in a different world than the one before it, and how that affects parenting those kids. I have three kids who would be considered young Millenials and one that would be considered GenZ. I know various factors contributed to their style of upbringing, but with the rate of change being as drastic as it is in this age of rapidly advancing technologies, even in the five year gap between my third and fourth children (both being girls) I noticed a difference. This main difference was the hand held pocket personal computer and communication device known more commonly in this country as the cell phone. And, I'm not just talking about my youngest's possession of one and how that affected her life, but of my own. </p><p>I put off having cell phones in our home as long as I possibly could. My husband was issued a flip phone for work, but the rest of us did without phones, and no one thought to ask for one because they were yet to become commonplace among their peers. We did have the family computer in the living room, and we all took our turns to do schoolwork or writing projects, play games from DVDs like <i>Magic School Bus</i> and<i> I Spy</i>, <i>Lego Harry Potter</i> and<i> LOTR,</i> watch YouTube videos, download music, and play <i>Club Penguin</i> when those online activities came along. Often there would be more than one kid sitting at the computer at a time, sharing their experience together. One of my kids was loaned a Game Boy in Grade Five from a friend, and when I saw how addicted he became I asked him to give it back and never borrow it again. My older daughter somehow talked us into letting her get a Nintendo DS with the digital pen thingy when she was a pre-teen, but she never seemed to become as addicted as her brother had to the Game Boy. My goal was always for my children to develop their 'real world' interests first and use the digital gadgets as a tool for relaxation and entertainment on a limited basis.</p><p>I remember waiting in the elementary school yard for my youngest. A woman asked me if I was on Facebook. I told her, ugh no, that if I wanted to communicate with people from high school I would do it the old fashioned way - I wouldn't. A couple of years later my eldest who was in high school asked if he could get a Facebook account. I told him yes, but I would get one, too, and then he would have to be my 'friend' on the site. Facebook was this scary unknown to me then, and I feared losing awareness of what my son was up to. Little did I know the only thing he would use it for was posting music videos and messaging friends about social gatherings. He was the first to leave the site a few years later, too. To him, Facebook was lame already. Not so for me, I found. To my surprise, it was actually really fun to reconnect with old school-mates, my large, scattered family, and acquaintances in this limited way. For many of us it became a way to cheer each other on from afar, and to make each other laugh. People were sharing their travels, their kids' achievements, their health struggles, and their hilarious daily foibles. I soon became rather addicted to all the daily updates, and anyone who is 'friends' with me on Facebook knows I am a regular contributor. I do know my life would be lonelier without it, especially during Covid when digital connection became so vital to many of us. I know it seems I digress. We were talking about cell phones, but social media is a huge part of their use. </p><p>I remember the day I told my husband I couldn't put off having a cell phone any longer. My job was requiring my use of one. We went to the Koodo kiosk at the mall and signed me up. By that time, flip phones were not the norm any longer. The phone I chose had a touch screen and so, in addition to being connected to the cellular network, it hooked up to our home WiFi. My carrier was Shaw, so free WiFi was available in lots of places. Unlike with the computer, I could lie down on the couch and read articles, scroll Facebook, and message people. I'm not going to lie, that was a revelation. One by one, my three older kids got phones as well, although they were well into their late teens. When all three of my older children had moved away to attend college or university, my youngest and I thought, with her busy schedule, that she should get a basic phone, too, so we could communicate on pick-up times from her theatre rehearsals in the next town. If I remember correctly, she was thirteen when I got a new phone and she inherited my old one. Fortunately, my youngest was too busy at the time to become completely addicted to her screen, and she was very handy as a tech assistant when her dad or I couldn't figure something out on our phones. </p><p>The other day I was remembering my youngest and I sitting in our living room when she still lived at home, both looking at our phones. I compared it to the days when she or I, or other members of our family, would sit at the computer in the living room, whatever we were doing open and available to the rest of the family, opposed to both of us isolated with our little screens in our own little worlds. Most of the time she was chatting with her friends and theatre colleagues, while I scrolled social media or read articles, or chatted with family and friends of my own, losing track of time. I wondered how this change had affected our lives in a deeper sense. I know teenagers deserve to have privacy at times, but to be honest, I think personal phones have given them too much privacy and too much information available 24/7 to absorb - a lot of it sad and/or alarming. Of course, the difference from my own girlhood is huge. I couldn't even have a private telephone conversation in our house, the corded phone being on the wall in the very center of a small house full of up to nine people at any given time. And, TV news was limited to an hour or so a night. I also wondered how my time spent isolating myself with my phone made a difference to her life, or was it just normal to her - part of the culture of the late 2000's that she took for granted? I know there are scholars out there studying the effect of technology on our brains and we are still learning. I know I have made changes in my own consumption. I turned off the Facebook and Instagram notifications on my phone, and I have learned to recognize in myself when I have become over-saturated with information and screen time. Fortunately, I feel like I have struck a balance with the devices in my life, but it took a long time. That we expect our kids to figure this out on their own is a big ask in my opinion.</p><p>I can't help but wonder how the younger moms and dads raising Generation Alpha are doing dealing with all that the world is throwing at their families. Probably their best, as most of us have done before them, learning, failing and winning as we go. </p><p>Until next time, </p><p>Rebecca</p><p><br /></p>Rebecca S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16409572371302109142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5133586152925723487.post-64911512084916617982023-06-09T15:41:00.000-07:002023-06-09T15:41:20.222-07:00Ode to the Eastern Fraser Valley: Marking Twenty Years <p>We arrived in early spring, the slurry it stank</p><p>The farmers said it put money in the bank</p><p>We found the people down to earth</p><p>Of new friends there was to be no dearth</p><p><br /></p><p>No one asked "Are these ALL your kids, Maam?</p><p>When many families filled a fifteen passenger van</p><p>The Bible Belt, ever so many churches</p><p>Chilliwack has over 50, according to Google searches</p><p><br /></p><p>Artists, too, but harder to find</p><p>Find them I did, and they were most kind</p><p>A fab little folk fest where I found work</p><p>For ten days I would dance, my responsibilities shirk</p><p><br /></p><p>Fields of green and lakes of blue</p><p>Ribbons of silver rivers, too</p><p>Mountains in a ring all around</p><p>Rising like castles from the ground</p><p><br /></p><p>Flood plain living comes with warnings</p><p>We check the weather forecast in the mornings </p><p>People shocked by how much I walk</p><p>But they almost always stop for a talk (often about the weather)</p><p><br /></p><p>The wind can be fierce, the ice storms the worst</p><p>The swampy hot summer will give you a thirst</p><p>The autumn is nice, discuss it we must, but</p><p>With all the rain the leaves don't change, they rust</p><p><br /></p><p>Agassiz, Chilliwack, Mission, Harrison, Hope</p><p>Agassiz' the hub, the rest make the spokes</p><p>We love to drive between all these places</p><p>The beauty that surrounds us puts smiles on our faces</p><p><br /></p><p>We're lucky to live here, we remind each other</p><p>Our girls have left and so have their brothers</p><p>But, we have stayed for twenty years</p><p>If we ever leave, it will be with tears</p><p><br /></p><p>Fraser Valley, yes, you have been good to us</p><p>Formed our family, gained our trust</p><p>Life here has been rich and abundant</p><p>I'll stop now, before this ode is redundant</p><p><br /></p><p>Until next time, </p><p>Rebecca</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Rebecca S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16409572371302109142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5133586152925723487.post-41637510138576634732023-05-29T15:09:00.003-07:002023-05-29T19:26:56.300-07:00Material Girl<p>Until my eldest sister moved out I shared a room with my brother. We were kids number five (him) and six (me) in the family. As we lay in our bunk beds we would play a little game. We called it, "What would you rather have?" The game went something like this: </p><p>"What would you rather have? A million dollars or all the cars you wanted for the rest of your life?" My brother was really into cars.</p><p>or: </p><p>"What would you rather have? A big house or a lifetime supply of chips and dip?" Or toys, or banana splits, or whatever highly desired, yet rarely enjoyed, item we could dream up.</p><p>We would then discuss our options and give reasons for both choices. I can't remember what conclusions either of us made, but I remember how seriously we took the game. I remember my brother saying his dream was to have a nice big house when he grew up, with a rec room with a big TV where all his friends and his kids' friends could gather, and he would supply them with all the chips and dip they desired. I was only ten and my dreams for the future were hazy, and not quite so specific. I just knew I wanted more than we had. We went to an independent Catholic school, the only 'private' school in our town, and many of our schoolmates came from middle to upper class families who wanted their children in a private school, Catholic or not. So, most of my classmates had much more in the way of material goods than I had. I remember getting into some light trouble lying in Show and Tell. I told the class my mom had brought me a rabbit from California. My mom found out about the lie when my Grade Two teacher phoned her and asked if I could bring the rabbit to school. "Why did you tell them that?" my mom asked. I told her I was sick of everyone else having fancy and exciting things to bring to Show and Tell. My mom had not yet been to California, let alone gifted me a rabbit. </p><p>Even if ours was not a rich, or even middle class family, we were a creative and lively one, and we all had dreams. My dream when I was a kid was to, one Christmas, be given an Easy-Bake Oven. I thought anything I saw in Saturday morning cartoon ads as otherworldly, highly desirable, and mostly unattainable, but I pined for an Easy-Bake Oven against all odds for at least two years. I don't remember making Christmas lists, I just hoped if I wished hard enough, and circled it in the Sears Christmas Wish catalogue, I would get one. I never did get one, but my closest friend got one. When I finally got to play with it with her, we baked a cake from a mix that came with it, and I suppose that was kind of exciting. That was probably also when my dream for an Easy-Bake Oven ended. Life is like that sometimes. </p><p>From Easy-Bake Ovens I moved on to dreaming about clothes and fancy bedroom sets. I remember a black velvet outfit in the Sears catalogue that I would quite literally dream about. I didn't get that either, but my mom was very understanding about clothes and took me shopping at the start of each school year, so I could have at least one outfit that was not a hand-me-down. I dreamed of a canopy bed - the Holly Hobby one - also in the Sears catalogue. One day when I was invited to another school friend's house her grandad said he had a surprise. He had bought her a complete white bedroom set from Sears, with matching linens, just like in the catalogue. I think I was too gobsmacked to be envious. I did, however, come home from her house once and began to list in great detail, all the Barbies and Barbie stuff she had. After about ten minutes of this, my mother rolled her eyes and asked me to please stop. </p><p>When my granny died we inherited a lot of lovely stuff that she had owned. I remember well the day when the truck arrived. I came directly home from school to help my mom unpack the many boxes of crystal glasses, dishes, and furnishings. Needless to say, I was enthralled. What extra money my parents had they spent on paintings by local artists, books, and records, not pretty dishes and rose coloured sofas. I had been once to my Granny's home in Delta. It was very elegant, very colour-coordinated. I was proud that my family now had lots of pretty things in our old house.</p><p>In the Eighties, at the height of Yuppie-dom, I began to dream of a lifestyle such as I saw on TV and in the movies I went to. The clothes! The houses and apartments! The art and decor! The antiques! Let's face it, I loved stuff. I didn't exactly have the income of a Yuppie, but I was good at faking my appearance as one from my years of haunting thrift shops for vintage clothing. I was developing a great interest and passion for art and pledged to buy one piece of art per year. As a teen making my own money, I also spent it on clothes and makeup. The wall by my bed was a collage of fashion photos cut out of magazines. After I moved away from home to go to university, I had a lot less disposable income, but I continued to hunt for designer clothes in the many consignment stores in Vancouver. After I got married and had small children, I had even less money to spend on myself, so my collecting was streamlined to whatever vintage dishes and objects I could find at garage sales and thrift stores. I would give myself a strict budget and only buy what I really liked. My desire to be a Yuppie was outstripped by real life.</p><p>Now that I am an empty nester, I have more disposable income than I have ever had, and can pretty much buy what I like, within reason. The thing is, I no longer want to accumulate stuff. I still buy a piece of art now and then, and I love to buy gifts for other people, but my desire for stuff seems to have mostly run its course. I want different things from life now, and they aren't material things. My dreams now run to seeing my children happy and having good relationships with them, and to being able to travel to visit family and friends. I care a great deal about my health and my husband's health, and our quality of life. I like to explore new places, even ones that are near home. I do buy books, yes, that is an indulgence that seems necessary to my happiness. And just a few weeks ago I bought a pretty vintage china teapot at the closing out sale of an antique store. I just could not resist. Old habits die hard, I guess.</p><p>Did my brother get his big house and his endless chips and dip? He got a sweet, mid-century house of modest proportions in Calgary. He has three great, grown-up kids and hosts many dinner parties. I don't know about the chips and dip, but last I looked in his fridge he had five kinds of fancy cheese. That must be the adult equivalent. </p><p>Until next time, </p><p>Rebecca</p>Rebecca S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16409572371302109142noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5133586152925723487.post-28358694202511107682023-04-21T14:46:00.002-07:002023-04-21T19:34:19.016-07:00Where does Individuality End and Community Begin?<p> As I get older and join the melting pot of somewhat invisible middle aged women, I think a lot about the concept of individuality. When I was younger I strived to stand out in the crowd. I dressed differently than most of my peers (I favoured a button down shirt and slim leather neck tie for example), and I listened to the alternative music of my generation. I didn't want anyone to put me in a box with a label. That would have been the <i>end of the world</i> in my view back then. Being the youngest of six may have had something to do with that. I was greeted at the beginning of the school year by teachers who said things like: "Not another Lamb kid", or "are you as good at math as your brother, Stephen?" Ha. No. But pretty good at English Literature, for which I received an award in Grade 12. I had a great group of friends and got along with most people in my school, probably also a result of being the youngest of six widely varying personalities. </p><p>My mother used to say, "Sometimes you just have to join the Human Race." I think she meant that sometimes we had to do things in a normal, accepted way. I struggled with that over the years. While considering myself somewhat of a rebel, I also wanted elderly ladies to like me, and I had a secret passion for ballet and all things Victorian/Edwardian. I was also desperate for my family to be proud of me. As the youngest I had received the teasing label by my siblings as 'spoiled baby' and I wanted to live that down. I worked hard in college and was accepted to all three of the big universities in British Columbia, my home province. I ended up going to the University of British Columbia, mainly because my parents had gone there and spoke so fondly of their time there, but also due to the fact that my sister and her husband lived in Vancouver and I could board with them. First Year mandatory housing at university was not a thing in the late 1980's and it was hard to get a place in the dorms. UBC was an eye-opening experience for me. My first day on campus I looked out on a sea of black leather jackets. The alternative uniform was Roots sweatpants, chunky wool sweaters, and wool socks with Birkenstock sandals. Both looks said 'money', and coming from a large, poor family, I fit neither. For the first time in my life I felt awkward in my individuality. A couple of professors complimented me on my look, but that was hardly satisfying to me. Clothing was not the only way I felt like a fish out of water at UBC. I was a small town girl, used to knowing everyone and feeling free to go everywhere. I felt lost. I did find a home in the arts lounge and began to make friends there through conversation with people with whom I shared classes, but I didn't socialize with them much outside of school. I was afraid to take the bus from my home in East Vancouver to meet them anywhere at night. Small town girl problems.</p><p>After I was done with post-secondary education, I got married. I soon joined the ranks of wife and mother and dressed a lot like other wives and moms: comfortably. Energy and money spent on expressions of individuality took a back seat to the daily grind of parenting, and I loved it. I felt free from trying to find my 'self'. I had a built-in purpose each and every day. Raising kids and being a team with my husband was the best part of my life so far. I made friends with other moms and felt a real sense of belonging. As my kids grew older I was able to work and volunteer, and there also, I found my purpose as an individual outside my family. To my surprise, my purpose seemed to be about being part of, and giving my time and my heart to, a community, whether that be the local arts council or festival society, other families through providing day care at my home, or helping out at my church. Life was so, so busy, but it was <i>good</i>.</p><p>After twenty-eight years of raising children, suddenly, they were gone finding their own lives outside our family. Like so many other mothers I really struggled with finding my purpose beyond those twenty-eight years. My kids are, by and large, very independent people, so I suppose we did our job well enough. After all those years of living in the ultimate community (my family) I found myself having to, well, find my 'self'' once again. Over the past couple of years I have spent much time alone, most of it recovering from a head injury. While I enjoy my own company in general, I don't believe the solitary life is the life for me. Ironically, while spending so much of my youth trying to be an individual, what I really desire is community. Back then, I realize now, I was secure in my quest for individuality <i>because</i> I had a community. </p><p>I think, as a human race, we all crave a sense of belonging, no matter how much we want to be known for our uniqueness. Finding community can be hard work and involve much trial and error, and there have been a few dead ends on my journey. I also spend my time going back and forth between the mountain resort where my husband works and lives most of the time, and our home (and my seasonal work) in a medium sized city an hour and a half's drive away, so committing to a community is a challenge. I am fortunate to have little pockets of community in my extended family, the friendships I have made in the various places I have lived over the years, and within the work environments I have been a part of. That being said, I am still looking for something bigger, wider, and more encompassing. Will I ever get it? That remains to be seen. In the meantime, I will continue to put my heart and time into my little pockets of community in hopes that one of them grows into something more full. </p><p>Until next time, </p><p>Rebecca</p>Rebecca S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16409572371302109142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5133586152925723487.post-74197333065598386702023-03-15T10:58:00.004-07:002023-03-15T11:14:21.951-07:00When People Don't Like You<p>I try to get along with most people. I'm not an 'in your face' kind of person. I tend to hang back and feel my way into an acquaintance, to see if what I have to offer as a person will be accepted before I try to deepen any relationship. There was a time when I made friends quickly and easily. Those days seem to be over. In fact, over time I have begun to protect my energy more and more, and maybe other people around my age do the same. The relationships I have fostered over the years matter a great deal to me. I treasure the friends I have because I feel safe and welcome with them, and I hope they feel the same about me. </p><p>A few times I have encountered people who simply do not like me. I accept that, but it is always interesting, not to mention humbling, to ponder why people may not like me. There have been people who have crossed my path whose energy seems to clash with mine, even though, like I said, I try to get along with most people. Years ago I was in a choir. I love to sing, and I enjoy the choral format. I get a thrill out of being part of a wall of voices creating a living work of art to present to an audience. When I was invited to join the choir by some friendly people of my acquaintance, I readily accepted. I attended the first few rehearsals and people around me seemed to be fairly friendly, the musical selections a good challenge for me, and I thought, 'this will be fun'. Despite my positive attitude toward the experience, almost immediately I felt a strange negativity directed towards me from the director. I am not even sure he realized what was happening. I've always been a sensitive being, and I know that what I am feeling with another person may not be felt (or acknowledged) by them, but I could not ignore the rays of hostile energy coming my way from the director. I felt completely unwelcome. Still, I persevered and spent a couple of seasons with the choir, even though I sometimes came home in tears. </p><p>During my time working as a cook in a café a regular customer gave me a similar reaction as the choir director. For some reason, I just brought out something a bit nasty in her. She used to narrow her eyes when she saw me, although she would plaster a smile on her face when I served her food. I have no idea what I did to provoke her dislike, but again, our energies seemed to clash like Luke and Darth's lightsabers. One day I made a decision on how to handle this customer. I would be super duper extra nice to her. Amazingly, my strategy seemed to work. We carried on to have decent, if somewhat fake, exchanges. She was in the café daily, so I had to come up with something so I wouldn't dread her appearance. Recently, I ran into her at a garden center. She recognized me, but could not place me right away, and when I said I used to work at the café in question she nodded and then we talked about the beautiful white poinsettias she was buying. "It was good to see you" we both said as she left the garden center. </p><p>My most recent mysterious, negative experience with a person was just a few weeks ago. A school that comes every year to the resort I live at was finally able to return now that Covid is more manageable. I had met this person, a man who works for the school and heads up the out-trips, and we seemed to have an amicable relationship. I was happy to see him again as he has always been really friendly towards my husband and we had even visited the school before Covid and been given a tour by him. This time, however, his reception of me was frosty. When I mentioned it to my husband he said, 'Nah, he's just got a lot on his mind'. I accepted that. The next time I saw the man in question I was cheering for him as he was about the cross the finish line in an annual cross-country ski race. Afterwards, he was again frosty and dismissive and only spoke to my husband. The last night the school was here, my husband asked me to come to the pub for the final gathering, which I did with a woman friend who works here. When the man in question came into the pub he greeted my husband and my friend and completely ignored me. This time, my husband noticed and felt as confused as I did. I concentrated on talking to another person near me, and then went home, relieved I no longer had to pretend everything was fine. </p><p>A good friend of mine quit a co-ed sport she loved because she felt completely unwelcome by the male participants. At that time I was also in the choir so we could commiserate. Sexism may have played a role in both of these situations. My friend and I are not ones to shrink our personalities around men. </p><p>When I was younger these unfortunate clashes with other humans would have eaten me up inside, but as I have grown and matured I realize they are simply a part of being in the world. While I am bothered whenever I have seemed to upset someone, I realize I cannot take full responsibility for their dislike of me if I have examined my behaviour and simply could not come up with any reason for their dislike. If their reason is simply because I am a (mostly) self-assured woman with a somewhat feminist bent, all the more reason to discount their attitude towards me. 'Ain't nobody got time for that!'</p><p>Until next time, </p><p>Rebecca</p>Rebecca S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16409572371302109142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5133586152925723487.post-80736644858060675342023-02-25T13:24:00.002-08:002023-03-15T11:08:31.188-07:00Swimming Lessons<p>My mother was a strong swimmer. She had been a lifeguard
when she was a teenager and insisted all her children take swimming lessons, especially
since we lived in a town with a lake at its center.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I was the youngest of her children and a disappointment when
it came to swimming lessons. I never passed a single session because I could
neither float nor swim on my back. But, I could swim well enough to enjoy the
refreshing water in our local outdoor pools and lakes in summer, and not drown.
The swimming instructors kept putting me in the next levels simply because I
was too old to swim with the little kids. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When I was in Grade Five, our town built an indoor swimming
pool with a gym, sauna, and hot tub. The Nelson and District Aquatic Center
soon became a major hang out spot for my friends and I. Two of my friends even
went on to win gold in the Provincial Synchronized Swimming championships. Alas,
not I. My skills never extended past the basics, but I did learn to love
swimming for swimming’s sake. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Grade Seven was an awkward and trying year for me. I retreated
to the aquatic center regularly for some ‘swim therapy’. I had at last learnt by
then to swim on my back and I backstroked my way up and down the swimming
lanes, counting ceiling tiles as I went. I knew how many tiles meant it was time
to turn over and watch for the edge of the pool. I would swim, forty, fifty lengths
on a Saturday afternoon, alternating between the breaststroke and backstroke,
not fast, just smoothly, achieving a zen-like headspace that made my twelve-year-old
troubles melt like lifesavers on the tongue. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I still enjoy a dip in the lake or pool these days, but I
achieve my zen-like desired state through running. Again, not fast, but
smoothly gaining ground with my rhythmic plodding. I often look back on my lane
swimming days with fondness and empathy for my twelve year old self. I didn’t
recognize those days as therapy at the time, but I now know how to name and
describe the mental and physical health benefits of exercise.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As the little fish Dory
from the Disney film, <i>Finding Nemo</i> says, “Just keep swimming!” whether
you take that literally or metaphorically.</p><p class="MsoNormal">'til next time, </p><p class="MsoNormal">Rebecca</p>Rebecca S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16409572371302109142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5133586152925723487.post-78297349627791119472023-02-03T11:40:00.000-08:002023-02-03T11:40:42.135-08:00Some Thoughts on Beauty <p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJQWiGc20bAwmzTNm6yjLNFCmkjM1MocG2gBYpwAhS29wZVHVdoqff_Hpu90Vr4nJAlDP9UttlPmfpCnna7nw0C9IT2rISx9TXkrl0aXUvI-uOGRMlL1p3GcuXqyPwEoOLvBKTU_bh9KadvG1aKkUc1WCFK8PJ7hvWLXolU5zCTQaiVVHhTv-bDnMR/s3000/Princess%20Kate.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1979" data-original-width="3000" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJQWiGc20bAwmzTNm6yjLNFCmkjM1MocG2gBYpwAhS29wZVHVdoqff_Hpu90Vr4nJAlDP9UttlPmfpCnna7nw0C9IT2rISx9TXkrl0aXUvI-uOGRMlL1p3GcuXqyPwEoOLvBKTU_bh9KadvG1aKkUc1WCFK8PJ7hvWLXolU5zCTQaiVVHhTv-bDnMR/s320/Princess%20Kate.webp" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>I recently saw a video on Instagram of a young, posh-sounding British woman voicing her opinion on how Kate, Princess of Wales manages to look so good in all her photos and videos. The young woman explained that Kate keeps her chin level at all times and does not look up or down. "So that's the secret, girls. Let me know how you get on." she said, and then the video was over. I have been thinking a lot about our fixation with how people look for a while now, but this video kind of gelled my thinking about it. First of all, I thought, who needs to look as good as Kate does in the public eye? Very few people. Second, why can't she be depicted as a normal human with a variety of normal facial expressions and angles like the rest of us? Why is that not allowed? Thirdly, why does appearance matter so very much when there is so much more to a person? </p><p>Princess Kate is a natural beauty. She will look good in photos, no matter what she does, but that is also her job, if you can call it that. She represents British fashion and Western ideals and she does the job impeccably. They don't call her 'Porcelain Kate' for nothing. It would be fun to see photos of her chewing her food or picking her nose on occasion, but that is not going to happen. She is too well trained, and photographers probably have a deal with the Crown not to publish any unflattering photos of her. I want to say to all the young women out there, trying to emulate Kate and other public figures because they believe somehow if they look like these people, they will become these people, you don't have to! As my dear friend says, 'Make your own fairy tale' - by living your precious life as it was meant to be. That is when the authentic beauty of <i>you</i> shines through. I know what I am talking about. I spent my teen years obsessed with fashion and my looks. My bedroom wall was a collage of Vogue magazine photos. I had a secret hankering to marry into royalty or fame. Supise, suprise, I married a normal guy and have a fairly normal life, and I am loved and happy. Who knew?</p><p>Most of us live very average lives without cameras pointed at us (unless we are obsessed with documenting ourselves constantly). We get up in the morning, go to work or school, raise children and look after pets if we have them, drive here and there, cook dinner, get some exercise, go to bed. Unless we are paid models, we don't need to look gorgeous living our lives. We already are gorgeous for contributing what we are to the world and looking after things in our little corner. No one pays me to look great while I peel a butternut squash or sit typing at my laptop, so why would I worry about how I look all day, ever day? But that is what media tells us to worry about. We're flogged with anti-aging serums, diet hacks, wardrobe dos and don'ts. In response I want to shout, 'I'm not an actress! Looking perfect for a role is not in my job description!" I am not saying we should not look presentable. I personally draw the line at wearing pajamas in public and I wash my hair every day. If work requires a uniform or a dress code, we abide by it. Looking presentable and looking runway or film-ready are two very different things in my view. I do enjoy dressing up on occasion, putting on a little makeup and jewelry, taking some extra care with my hair, but those times are rare these days. A sweater and jeans is my standard winter outfit. When I do dress up, my husband usually says, "Oh! You look nice." I like maintaining a level of surprise in our marriage. </p><p>The hilarious British actress, Miriam Margoyles, is not a standard Western beauty. I saw a program where she went to the U.S. and underwent a makeover. When the makeup artists and hairstylists showed Miriam her new look in the mirror she balked. "That's not ME! she cried. I liked myself before. You Americans focus way too much on appearances." I don't think Americans are the only ones, but Miriam has a point. Our society does focus and fixate on appearances far too much. I know many women and men who are not catalogue versions of beauty, but they are such wonderful, talented, intelligent, curious, and funny people that their own brand of beauty knocks my socks off. Miriam is one of those gems. I don't know her personally, of course, but I, and millions of others, admire her all the same. Would she have made it in Hollywood, though, where the standard for female beauty is more prescribed? I really do not know. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQvYC7-tOaPMOdvCUyDJ2dRQTaBtnr_g8P0OomqFxS0qJ3mcNq8s_dJ4X2JBaU1Pe-TepHAdslduaAhRhXuxfYJQiG8D9QKWCn9SufQ-rQ3r8DVprZ2PErABpUpUI0YAsr8L8c4QwRzJmggGVdQa0BCoETXpslaTPBCZNxTsw613rXipYJAzN0NyL5/s1280/miram%20margoyles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQvYC7-tOaPMOdvCUyDJ2dRQTaBtnr_g8P0OomqFxS0qJ3mcNq8s_dJ4X2JBaU1Pe-TepHAdslduaAhRhXuxfYJQiG8D9QKWCn9SufQ-rQ3r8DVprZ2PErABpUpUI0YAsr8L8c4QwRzJmggGVdQa0BCoETXpslaTPBCZNxTsw613rXipYJAzN0NyL5/s320/miram%20margoyles.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Miriam captured eating ice cream. Relatable.</td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p><p>In an age when social media filters edit our 'imperfections' I see many young people calling foul. I find that so refreshing. I would like to see more young people rise up and debunk the myths around beauty. More people of my age and generation, too, because we're worth it! (See what I did there?)</p>Rebecca S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16409572371302109142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5133586152925723487.post-77459194899391872592023-01-10T11:32:00.000-08:002023-01-10T11:32:27.820-08:00Kick at the Darkness 'til it Bleeds Daylight*<p>The other day I received a text from a good friend. She moved away last year and I miss her. In her text she told me that I have endured more than my share of adversity, and feeling the way I did that day, I shed a tear and agreed with her. On December 21st, near the end of a long cold snap, a pipe burst in the roof of our condominium building and caused the flooding of the four suites below, including ours. The flood is just the latest in a string of disasters affecting my husband's work life and our private life over the past few years. I'm not sure these calamities constitute more than my(our) fair share of problems, I know everyone has problems. We're all still dealing with the fallout from this Covid19 pandemic for starters, Ukraine and Russia are at war, my home province is still repairing the catastrophic damage from the atmospheric rivers in November, 2021 (I see you, Northern California!), Etc., etc., etc.</p><p>Last evening, as I was walking my usual route around the staff housing portion of the resort where I am living with my husband while our apartment gets restored, it occurred to me that I was currently in a state of high alert waiting for the next bad thing to happen. My husband had driven to Vancouver early yesterday and was expected home around 8 pm - I realized I was bracing myself in case he got in an accident. I've been half expecting our resort accommodation to burn down because that would be just our luck, wouldn't it? I was nervous on our first day of skiing that I would fall and break something. None of these things have happened, but I am wondering when I will stop expecting them to. I'm usually a fairly positive person, but I am beginning to understand how a person becomes negative. I really, really don't want to become a negative, pessimistic person who worries all the time, so I have developed some coping mechanisms to get me through this seemingly endless period of adversity. Here they are:</p><p>1) I firmly believe that every tough experience we have is leading us to something better. Sometimes this 'something' is not evident for a long time, but more often than not, when I look back on an event or a trying time in my life, I see how, in the long run it was a good thing, even if it was really hard at the time. A 'When one door closes another opens' sort of thing. All my experiences, especially the bad ones, teach me something, even when I completely resent the teacher at the time.</p><p>2) I look for all the little graces in the middle of the chaos; i.e., my husband and son were with me when the condo flooded. I didn't have to deal with it on my own. When I had my head injury two and a half years ago, I had people to take care of me and a deck to sit out on and watch the season turn ever more golden in the yard. While three of my children did not make it here for Christmas, one did and we had a great time being sick together, haha. (No, seriously, it was lovely, and we had great video visits with the others. Thank you, technology.)</p><p>3) I find ways to get outside and feel small in nature. I have never known a day that was not made better by a walk in the woods or to a body of water. Sometimes a little perspective and exercise is all I need to get myself through the day. </p><p>4) Hugs, and lots of them. And books. And murder mysteries on TV. And chocolate.</p><p>The other night, when I was walking in the dark, I came upon one of the street lights that are scattered around staff housing. Lacey snowflakes were falling ever so gently in the light cast from the lamp. I stopped to watch and remember, in the grand scheme of things, how lucky I really am. </p><p>*'<i>Kick at the darkness 'til it bleeds daylight' is a line from Bruce Cockburn's song, Lovers in a Dangerous Time</i></p>Rebecca S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16409572371302109142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5133586152925723487.post-46910568849929407462022-10-24T14:59:00.002-07:002022-10-24T14:59:23.043-07:00Let's Talk about TV<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicKEhu5unpr2xF7SRxwww7bKHCg5dpC7cYwWLoMiexPngb6c5Z1MZLIPySCmIklYJ4idZ_EEPZSgHH8Ur_dObx2IvwWZ4AGdoisw8IG9GtBvVT7RPFEYd5vgYh53xMy7Gcu_J5O-Qf2ipBdF4VH8rcBfFivb-bSXJmgYAXnhwMmRNwh15TRg8ey9Te/s780/mr-dressup.webp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="439" data-original-width="780" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicKEhu5unpr2xF7SRxwww7bKHCg5dpC7cYwWLoMiexPngb6c5Z1MZLIPySCmIklYJ4idZ_EEPZSgHH8Ur_dObx2IvwWZ4AGdoisw8IG9GtBvVT7RPFEYd5vgYh53xMy7Gcu_J5O-Qf2ipBdF4VH8rcBfFivb-bSXJmgYAXnhwMmRNwh15TRg8ey9Te/w461-h260/mr-dressup.webp" width="461" /></a></div><br /><p style="text-align: center;"><br /></p><p>I am the youngest of six children. My mother was, no doubt, a little weary by the time I came along. I remember that even though our family's TV received only two channels, CBC and CTV, I watched quite a bit of both channels. When I was small, nearly every morning I was not in school I spent on the living room sofa being gently entertained by<i> Mr. Dressup, The Friendly Giant</i>, and <i>Sesame Street</i>. Halfway through <i>Sesame Street</i>, one of our metal TV trays would be set up and my mother would deliver me lunch, usually a grilled cheese sandwich with a side of ketchup. Sometimes a bowl of soup, too. Lunch would be followed by quiet time on my bed with a book. I presume I was sent outside to play after that, because I remember being outside a lot, too. On school days I would often watch <i>Happy Days</i> with my elder siblings. Sunday evenings we all watched <i>The Magical World of Disney</i> and <i>The Beachcombers</i>. <i>The Irish Rovers</i> also, but I can't remember which night they were on.</p><p> In the days before home video a movie might be shown on TV about three years after its release, and always with commercials. On the commercial breaks my mom would call out, "Okay, go get your pyjamas on!" and we would race to be back before the movie or TV show resumed. On the next break she would say, "Go brush your teeth and wash your face!" In summer, she would add "Go wash your feet!". The stakes were high during Primetime, especially with only one bathroom in the house. Every show not a rerun was like a live performance. None of your 'pauses' and 'plays' of today's streaming services and PVRs. My parents were big fans of <i>The Smothers Brothers </i>and <i>Wayne and Shuster</i>, but the humour often flew over my head. I tried so hard to get the jokes, and laughed along as if I did. We weren't allowed to watch soap operas in our house, but when I was sick and nothing was on, I was allowed to watch <i>Coronation Street</i>. It bored me to tears. I'm sure my mom knew it would, and that I would eventually turn it off and read. I remember her often reading while we watched TV, but like most moms she could keep an eye on everything even when she was reading. She was super critical of advertising and marketing. She would argue out loud against the claims of toothpaste and cigarette commercials, trying to detox our sponge-like little minds from the poisons of capitalism. I can still hear her voice even now when I encounter a commercial which makes elaborate claims over a product's efficacy or promotes the 'luxury lifestyle'.</p><p>I slept over at my friend Antonia's house nearly every Friday night when we were preteens. Her family had cable and thus Saturday morning cartoons. <i>Wonderfriends</i> and <i>Scooby-Doo</i> were my favourites. As I transitioned into the teenage years and started babysitting I took advantage of the bounty of Cable TV. Once the kids were in bed and my homework done, I sat glued to <i>Knight Rider</i>, <i>Magnum PI</i>, <i>Rockford Files</i>, and the 'must see TV' of NBC: <i>The Cosby Show </i>(I know, I know)<i>, Family Ties, </i>and <i>Fresh Prince of Belair </i>were among my favourites. Some time when I was in high school reruns of those three sitcoms made their way over to CTV. When I didn't have extra-curricular activities after school, or planned hangouts with my friends, I would come home, make a big bowl of popcorn and unwind in front of our little black and white portable.</p><p>As VHS's became common my friends and I discovered <i>Monty Python</i> and movie nights which involved a trip to the video store and the choosing of one to three films to rent for the evening (but this is a post about television, not movies, so I will stick to that topic). My newly acquired brother-in-law introduced my family to some great British comedy shows on video, too, like <i>Blackadder </i>and <i>Mr. Bean</i>. As I developed academically I became interested in news stories. I followed Terry Fox and Rick Hansen, Election nights, and the Calgary Olympics, feeling a part of something great in my own country. Growing up in a small town nowhere near a big city, TV for me was a link to the big possibilities of life. I became a devotee of music shows like <i>VideoHits </i>and <i>Good Rockin' Tonight '</i>with Terry David Mulligan'<i> </i>(That rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?), and the National Ballet's performances filmed for CBC.</p><p>When I was in college and still living at home, CBC borrowed a mystery series from the BBC called <i>Inspector Morse. </i>My parents soon became hooked on it. Up until that point my experience with murder mysteries was limited to plays like Agatha Christie's <i>The Mousetrap, </i>which I absolutely loved, and some exposure to Sherlock Holmes stories. <i>Inspector Morse</i> was something new and different, each episode one and a half hours of puzzle solving poised against a backdrop of beautiful English countryside and the hallowed halls of Oxford University, accompanied by a gorgeous classical music soundtrack. Needless to say, I joined my parents for most episodes of the show and I have been a fan of the murder mystery genre ever since, although, in my opinion, <i>Inspector Morse </i>has not really stood the test of time. </p><p>When I moved out, got married and had children of my own, watching TV was the main activity my brain-dead self engaged in once the kids were in bed. I loved shows chock-a-block with quirky characters and clever, snappy dialogue like <i>Northern Exposure </i>and <i>Gilmore Girls. </i>Period Dramas such as Jane Austen adaptations were also high on my list. As the kids got older we watched TV as a family, but please don't ask me for a detailed list of what we watched. That part of my life is a blur. <i>America's Funniest Home Videos</i> and <i>Saturday Night Live </i>were in there somewhere. My eldest horse-crazy daughter and I watched <i>Heartland </i>for a couple of seasons. We also rented a lot of movies and borrowed videos from our local library.</p><p>In the modern world of streaming services we have way too much choice of shows to watch on our televisions. My household has basic cable, Netflix, and Amazon Prime with Acorn added on. I could spend twenty-four hours per day watching TV and still not even put a tiny dent in all that is on offer - a far cry from my two-channel childhood. I probably still watch a bit too much TV, but honestly, I find it as I have always found it: relaxing and often transporting. When my husband is home he enjoys watching sports and 'surviving in the wilderness' shows like <i>Mountain Men </i>and <i>Alone, </i>which is generally when I read a book. He also likes mysteries a lot, so we watch those together when we can. Our neutral ground on days when we are tired, or when the weather is bad, is HGTV and the like. Boring, yet satisfying, predictable yet somehow addictive, renovation and house-hunting shows are the ultimate 'Veg TV'. (So are Hallmark movies, but that's a topic for another day.) </p><p>I have always read a lot - my mother was a champion of reading - but I was, and always will be, like many of my Generation X, a TV kid, even if I never once set eyes on <i>Captain Kangaroo</i>.</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Rebecca S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16409572371302109142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5133586152925723487.post-12792860787564045022022-10-02T09:34:00.000-07:002022-10-02T09:34:14.942-07:00Soup and Soft Landings<p>Earlier this never ending summer, when out for a walk, I received a text from a lovely friend. She asked me about the current forest fire raging in the provincial park where my husband works, and how he was dealing with the stress. I replied that my husband was pretty stressed and very, very busy. She asked if I have trouble keeping up to him, and I replied "I don't try. I provide soup and a soft landing." She replied, "We're good at that!!" She was nursing an injured husband at the moment. As I continued with my walk, I smiled at the phrase that had popped into my head, "soup and a soft landing" and thought it would make a good title for a book. I don't have a book in me, so a blog post will have to suffice. </p><p>Sometimes, when I am questioning my post-active-years-of-motherhood purpose here on earth, something happens to remind me of the benefit of simply being here for the people I love. Or even just for people in general. In August I worked at the local sunflower festival. I worked in the farm store, mainly just taking people's money and answering questions. Our visitors were from all over the world. I met folks from the Philippines, India, Ireland, France, Texas, Denmark, Germany, Spain, Ecuador, and beyond. Flower festivals seem to bring out 'the happy' in people, and many lovely little conversations and exchanges were enjoyed. I had a mask on (having had Covid in July, I was not eager to contract it or pass it on again), but I made sure to smile big with my eyes and my greetings. People really do respond when you take an interest in them as individuals and not just customers exchanging money for goods. Their faces tend to light up and they respond with a little joke or a kind word. Sometimes the reverse would happen. I would be focusing on tallying up their purchases and they would say something positive about the festival and tell me to have a great day. I distinctly remember one man about my age, maybe a bit older, who had brought his two kids to the festival from Vancouver. While his teenage daughter said she would take the little brother back out to the fields after they finished their ice cream, the man said he would seek refuge in the shaded seating area outside of the store. He then told me he was two years into cancer treatment and had learned the hard way about the effect of sun on the skin. The skin cancer had gone into his lymph nodes and into his brain, but he was fighting it successfully so far. I told him my brother-in-law had the same cancer over twenty-five years ago, and I had reason to believe the treatments were more effective now. I truly wished him well, and his eyes told the story of the pain and anguish he was enduring. "I have to carry on for the kids," he said. The love expressed between him and his children was beautiful and I wished him well from the bottom of my heart once again. I hope he went home with some beautiful images of flowers in his head and some comfort and hope from our exchange.</p><p>I've noticed as I get older that life becomes more and more about essentials: communications between people, intention, a really good meal enjoyed with a loved one, a perfect piece of fruit, trees, flowers, gratitude for what this body can still do despite injuries, a sense of more to life than meets the eye. I've realized that despite my hermit tendencies of the last few years (post burnout recovery to be honest) I really do love people, and I love to be there for people. Not all the time. Sometimes people really frustrate me. I found myself reacting a few times, just last week, to just such persons testing my patience (I'm talking to you, speeding Toyota truck driver). Overall, though, I hope to provide 'soup and a soft landing' to the people in my life and appreciate when they do the same for me. </p><p>Although last night I made chili. Close enough. </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Rebecca S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16409572371302109142noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5133586152925723487.post-12668374428253473272022-08-01T15:08:00.005-07:002022-08-01T15:11:59.481-07:00Embracing Life in the Slower Lane<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRlyN-QuZqiXBEyveOMnDiMs-zFLO6mll0SIPkNO92w3_NuCq7okQU9SKMnfv7j81kqRpIkVj-Qgz6lz3v07nrDHUu8nYJmGjs0qYjMgwpY8n3vicZWfeW7Q5nfpBHcRhr7S6PLcW5wdBGWSo_1rDxpgoCv4mvefd24kAmHspc5SMPBOxq8Pm-oLs_/s640/Heather%20trail%202022.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="640" data-original-width="512" height="412" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRlyN-QuZqiXBEyveOMnDiMs-zFLO6mll0SIPkNO92w3_NuCq7okQU9SKMnfv7j81kqRpIkVj-Qgz6lz3v07nrDHUu8nYJmGjs0qYjMgwpY8n3vicZWfeW7Q5nfpBHcRhr7S6PLcW5wdBGWSo_1rDxpgoCv4mvefd24kAmHspc5SMPBOxq8Pm-oLs_/w329-h412/Heather%20trail%202022.jpg" width="329" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>As readers of this blog are well aware I grew up in a mountain town, a sporty town, an artsy town, a hippie town. While I related well to my hometown's mountain, artsy, and hippie aspects, I found the sporty one eluded me. Not that I wasn't fit, I really was. With the lifestyle my active family promoted I had no chance not to be fit. We were a hiking, huckleberry-picking-in-the-hot-sun, everyone-takes-swimming-lessons, walk everywhere family. My mother despised camping, preferring to spend a day out of doors then return to her own bathtub and bed. Thanks to my friend's mom who organized a week long camp through their church, I was able to attend summer camp two years in a row. We learned how to paddle a canoe, did nature themed art projects, played orienteering games with a map and compass, and sang riotous songs around the campfire each night, and I absolutely thrived. None of the activities intimidated me as school sports tended to. Oh, I could run and still do, but team sports? Anything requiring skilled eye/ball coordination and strategy? Nope. I was trained by the 1970's and 80's school system to revere sports and the people who were talented at them, always making me feel less than. I believed you were either good at sports or you weren't, and was confused that I could learn to steer a canoe but fail at volleyball. PE class, while not entirely humiliating - I could fake it 'till I sort of made it - felt like a waste of time. </p><p>As I got older I began to align myself with the outdoorsy community. I spent a winter gaining my ski legs. I climbed some serious peaks in my area. I attended the Banff Film Festival and worked at a local outdoor sports store selling backpacks and canoes, offered the job by the owner because I was 'active'. I dated a ski instructor/mountain biker from a nearby mountain town. I read Outside Magazine when the store was quiet, reading about major feats in the outdoors by women much stronger than I. I found that my troubled back was not happy carrying heavy packs. I skied beyond my ability and ended up injuring my neck. I tried tree-planting and left after one day - it killed my achilles tendons. I felt unsatisfied by my outdoor athleticism. If I couldn't be like those women I read about or sold equipment to, what was the point of taking part in that world? I suffered from 'all or nothing' thinking. </p><p>When I started falling in love with a super-jock I was unimpressed. Would I spend my life feeling inadequate because I couldn't do things at his level? He windsurfed and played beach volleyball and tennis, and was quite competitive. In winter he skied and played indoor volleyball in a Vancouver league. When he talked to me about all the wonderful, outdoorsy, sporty things we could do together, I looked him straight in the eye and said "What if I don't want to do all of those things? What will happen to us?" He paused and said, "but you love nature, don't you?" I replied, "yes, I really do, but I am not into conquering it, so if you want this to work you are going to have to lay off pushing me to do things I am uncomfortable doing." He still wanted to be with me (it must have been my sparkling personality and clever wit). He did not give up trying to get me to expand out of my comfort zone, though. I had to learn to trust him and we have had a rather wonderful life so far, filled with adventures that made me love the outdoors even more. My years of pushing myself to learn to ski, both cross-country and downhill, all the hiking I did as a child and teenager, and the canoeing at summer camp, prepared me for a life where I could, if not excel at any of those things, own enough skill to have fun doing them and become better at them as we exposed our children to the wonders of spending time in nature in all seasons. </p><p>Today, our kids are grown and independent. I spend much time at the resort my husband manages. It comprises a ski hill, several beautiful lakes, and a vast network of cross-country ski and hiking trails. I walk, cross-country and downhill ski in winter. In summer I thoroughly enjoy a five kilometer run or hike around the main lake often followed by a swim. I sit on our deck and enjoy the wildlife that visits our yard: deer, ground squirrels, grey jays, snowshoe hares, and the very occasional bear or lynx. On rare occasions my husband and I take a canoe out in the evening. Mostly we just go for evening walks or short hikes in the wildflower meadows when he is finished his work day. Nothing I do up here is major or epic. I simply enjoy the exercise in such a beautiful setting, and I am now at peace with that. Meanwhile, my husband is training to run a 60 km trail race. I will be proudly cheering him on from the sidelines. </p>Rebecca S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16409572371302109142noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5133586152925723487.post-58124482828148740702022-07-05T09:43:00.001-07:002022-07-05T09:44:56.835-07:0030 Love Summer<p>One day last week I had to stay in all day to be around for the tradespeople working at my home. After an early start to the day, and a 7 a.m. power walk to beat what was to be 35 degree heat later on, I turned on the TV to see if any of the Wimbledon matches were being shown that morning. I lucked in to a great match between Jannick Sinner and Stan Wawrinka, and caught up on the other highlights. I've never been a Djokovic fan, although my husband is. He's moved on to the next round, surprise surprise, (Djokovic, not my husband). Our Canadians made a strong showing, but none made it past the second round this year.</p><p>Wimbledon always takes me back to the first months of my marriage when we watched a lot of the tournament. V and I were married in May and moved to Panorama Resort to work for the summer. V worked as a river rafting guide and I worked evenings as a seating host in the Lodge restaurant. I still laugh about the fact that we, a brand new married couple, shared a staff housing unit with two other male raft guides. Their names were Finn and Derek. The four of us shared a townhouse with three bedrooms and an open plan kitchen/living space. The townhouse was quite basic and extremely beige, but perfectly comfortable. Finn, who was an Aussie, was the eldest and a good cook, although something of an alcoholic. Derek was the more social of our two roommates, and we all managed to live together without too much strife. </p><p>Panorama Resort is a ski resort but has many summer amenities to attract visitors, including an outdoor cold pool and tennis courts. My husband was an avid tennis player and batted the ball around with me a fair bit that summer, although I was pretty terrible. He is also a tennis fan, so when the time came around for the annual June event in London, he wanted to watch as much as he could. Naturally, I watched, too, fascinated by the grass courts and the regulation white tennis wardrobe. Wimbledon seemed to have a sort of upper class Oxbridge tone to it, and seemed quite romantic to me, not unlike the Merchant Ivory films so popular at the time (I was a shameless Anglophile). Romance aside, I got into the sport as a spectator. I can't remember who I cheered for in 1992, probably Steffi Graf and Andre Agassi who both won that year, but I do remember enjoying watching the matches with my husband and roommates, learning the scoring system and listening to the commentators who were past tennis greats themselves. </p><p>I had a fun summer overall at Panorama. I spent many afternoons by the pool with a good book and enjoyed socializing with all the other evening workers. On our days off V and I explored the back roads of the East Kootenays in our Toyota 4x4 wagon (that car was a beast) and made trips into the beautiful town of Invermere for groceries and a treat at the Blue Dog Cafe. We relished these times alone and away from the resort. (Ethan Hawke was making a film in the area that summer, too, and one day when I was hanging out of our bedroom window he walked down the street. He looked up at me and smiled and waved. I smiled and waved back. The resort housekeepers had told me his room was a pigsty, but that didn't change the fact that he was special to me simply for the fact that he had starred in <i>Dead Poets Society.</i>)</p><p>Fast forward thirty years: V manages a ski/summer resort in the Cascade mountains. He lives his work week in staff accommodation but with no roommates this time, except me when I feel like joining him and my schedule permits. This resort has tennis courts, too, although they are a bit more rustic in appearance than Panorama's. This morning, when I got out of bed and went into the open plan kitchen/living room of V's trailer, the TV was on, the satellite dish now working properly after yesterday's rainstorm. Two tennis players were battling it out for a place in the fourth round of Wimbledon. V went to work and I kept watching. The rallies were long and well fought, and the person I thought would lose, won. A terrific match. I missed the French Open this year, but when Wimbledon is over we will watch the U.S. Open, then the Rogers Cup I presume. To enjoy tennis you have to understand the scoring system, which makes it a wonderfully interesting and fair sport. It's also a simple game to watch, just two (and in doubles, four) players on opposite sides of a net hitting a ball back and forth. Whereas Football bores me completely with its crowded field and constant stopping at whistles, tennis seems to grab my attention and hold it. I'm not a superfan or anything. I simply enjoy the sport when I get a chance to watch it, especially with my husband, and especially if we are cheering for opposite sides. (You're going down, Djokovic. Go Sinner!) </p><p>Until next time, </p><p>Rebecca</p><p><br /></p>Rebecca S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16409572371302109142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5133586152925723487.post-36771414471578185282022-06-14T11:04:00.008-07:002022-06-14T11:08:21.808-07:00Sleep Thoughts<p>I believe the cruelest and yet, kindest aspect of being human is the unavoidable need for sleep. We have to sleep a certain amount to survive and stay healthy mentally and physically. It's also good to be able to pull the blinds down on a day and start fresh in the morning, but I wish, sometimes, we didn't have to. There is so much pressure to get a good night's sleep.</p><p>I once read that Martha Stewart thrives on four hours of sleep per night. There was someone else - a news anchor, I believe - who also made that claim. I honestly do not know how they survive, let alone thrive. My own mother did not sleep a great deal if I remember correctly. She was one to read late into the night and pull all-nighters writing grant applications for the museum she directed. Even at my most intensely busy times as a student, I would go to bed by 11:00 the night before an exam, preferring to rise at 5:30 in the morning to cram. Sleep, to me, was as important as breathing. Sure, in my youth I could stay up really late on a Friday night, but I could catch up in the morning by sleeping until noon. Having children put an abrupt stop to that, and it is much harder to be a good parent when you're so sleep-deprived you can't see straight. I learned to go to bed an hour or two after the kids - boring but effective.</p><p>One would think that when the kids grow up the parents would finally get to have those long, luxurious sleeps without interruption. Ha! Our own minds wake us up in the night. Even if we have pretty much stopped drinking caffeinated beverages, get plenty of exercise, refrain from eating more than a small snack in the evenings, practice a calming pre-bedtime routine involving lavender and low lighting, and a calming/breathing/praying routine when we wake in the night, we still struggle, especially when we hit middle age. Menopause can be a sleep-wrecker for women, but men often have problems with sleep, too. My husband is often up at 4 or 5 a.m. making notes for work - not by choice I might add. I wonder, as we age, if we merely need less sleep, but the idea of getting up at 3:30 in the morning, which is when I often wake up, is not all that attractive to me. And is five hours of sleep really enough? Maybe that is why I see so many seniors up and about outside my windows when I am just opening the curtains on the day.</p><p>Most people seem to need at least six hours to function properly. Most professionals say eight is better. Ads for sleep medication and sleep enhancing products point to our society's struggle to get enough sleep. I have read about the effects of taking regular sleep meds and they aren't great. Apparently, long term use of prescription sleep medication can contribute to Alzheimer's and dementia later in life, but then, so can not getting enough sleep. Although I did have to take sleep meds after my head injury I have trained myself to do without them most of the time. Different people rave about the efficacy of CBD oil and melatonin, but neither work for me. Obsessing about getting enough sleep doesn't work either. Trust me on that one. I merely try to tick all the boxes each and every day to allow me the decent night's sleep I need to get me through the next day: enough exercise, a healthy diet, a good bedtime routine, etc., etc.. See what I mean about pressure? </p><p>Maybe I should become a dairy farmer or work the early shift at Starbucks. At least there would be a reason to get up at 3:30 in the morning. </p>Rebecca S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16409572371302109142noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5133586152925723487.post-76612532062831089842022-05-20T10:40:00.005-07:002022-05-20T11:03:13.133-07:00Engines and Fuel<p>I just finished reading the short novel <i>What Strange Paradise </i>by Canadian journalist and author Omar El Akkad. In Chapter 20 the smuggler's apprentice Mohamed says something simply awful and cynical to the passengers on the ancient run-down fishing boat that carries them across the Mediterranean to a shore they hope will provide a better life than the war-torn places they left behind:</p><p> "<i>You sad, stupid people," he said. "Look what you've done to yourselves. The West you talk about doesn't exist. It's a fairy tale, a fantasy you sell yourself because the alternative is to admit that you're the least important character in your own story. You invent an entire world because your conscience demands it, you invent good people and bad people and you draw a neat line between them because your simplistic morality demands it. But the two kinds of people in this world aren't good and bad -- they're engines and fuel. Go ahead, change your country, change your name, change your accent, pull the skin right off your bones, but in their eyes they will always be engines and you will always, always be fuel."</i><br /></p><p>The irony of the smuggler's apprentice spewing the above as he is facilitating the migrants' journey to the West, making money off it, no less, seems lost on him. I definitely do not pretend to know much about the Middle East's history of troubles, but the fact that the leaders of much of those lands promote a deep mistrust of the West is well-known (and in some cases well founded). Still, people flock by the thousands in leaky boats and rafts in uncertain waters, wearing poor quality pdf's, risking life and life-savings in search of what the West seems to stand for. </p><p>I have always been interested in origin stories. I enjoy learning how people got to where they are now. If I meet someone from a foreign country I often ask what brought them to Canada. I remember one woman who is now a friend answered that question with "Amnesty International and the Catholic Church. My dad was a wanted man for speaking out against the dictator of our country". Having lived a comparatively sheltered and privileged life, I acknowledge how out of touch I can be with the true, lived struggles of people who leave everything behind, often including the graves of many loved ones killed in armed conflicts or raids, to come to a country like Canada. I have to read books like <i>What Strange Paradise </i>to try and internalize some of what these immigrants experience. Or, I ask my hairstylist who was a Vietnamese boat person. He, too, got on a boat with his brother and father not knowing if they would live or die on the crossing to a new land. He is proud of the life he and his family have built here, and he and his wife, like many immigrants, work very hard. He has told me more than once that Canadians don't know how good we've got it. </p><p>When I was working at my friend's tulip festival this past April I was reminded of how much it resembles an international airport during holiday times, or perhaps the UN. Every possible skin colour, ethnicity, and accent is represented (okay, a slight exaggeration, but you get the picture) Languages flow around me like bubbling streams. I love it. This year I worked in the farm shop where we sell potted and cut flowers, souvenirs, treats and drinks. As I greeted each customer I took the opportunity to be as welcoming as possible. I made short conversation with each of them and found my smiles returned. Each customer has an origin story. Each customer has as much right to be on this earth as I do, no matter where they were born. Many of them have earned that right much more than I have by the risks they have taken and the sacrifices they have made to leave all that is familiar. I am grateful not to think like the smuggler's apprentice, dividing humans into engines and fuel, and I need to continue to work in my small way to make Canada a place that gives equal opportunity to all. </p><p>We can all be engines and fuel for each other. </p><p>Until next time, </p><p>Rebecca</p>Rebecca S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16409572371302109142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5133586152925723487.post-37997597554237875352022-05-06T10:45:00.004-07:002022-05-06T10:48:26.389-07:00What Next? A Mother's Day Post<p>This morning, poet Mary Oliver's wonderful, yet challenging question came into my mind: </p><p>"Tell me what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?" I'm not sure I have answered the challenge so far, but I do know the 28 years I spent bringing up children were propelled by a deep love for them, so that's got to count for something. Not that I didn't make mistakes. I made plenty.</p><p>When our kids were growing up my husband went to work every day and I stayed home and looked after the kids. Over the years, to supplement our income I undertook various forms of paid work like daycare and event planning, as well as a great deal of volunteering, that allowed me the flexibility we needed me to have, as well as supplying me with the sense that I wasn't 'just a mother'. My husband's work demanded long hours and I needed to be the one who kept everything running for our family. In all honesty, those crazy busy years were the best of my life so far. I felt needed, fulfilled, and appreciated...and as time went on, exhausted. I miss those days a lot, but I am adjusting to a slower, less demanding pace of life fairly well..</p><p>I have been fortunate in that, until this week, my four grown-up kids have all stayed on the West Coast, allowing us frequent meet-ups in the city and visits here. This week, my two middle children made big changes in their lives, taking them further away from their dad and me. During Covid19's worst two years I spent a lot of time with these two thanks to them both taking jobs at the resort their dad manages, and I am grateful. I am incredibly proud of them for taking these next steps in their lives, but I'll admit some ugly crying on my part happened last weekend, the end result being that I realized I need to figure out who I am without my children. Perhaps other people also identify me with my children because the first thing most people ask when they see me is, "how are the kids?" "Do you have twenty minutes?" is how I last responded before launching into a comprehensive answer involving a power point presentation with full orchestra.</p><p>One of my chief regrets in life was I never trained as anything in particular. My father was determined that I would write the Great Canadian Novel and I half believed him. My mother encouraged me to be a teacher, but when it came down to it, I lacked the confidence and the calling. Ironically, when I was thinking of going into teaching later on, my mom talked me out of it. The published novel never materialized either, not for lack of trying. I have never felt a call to any particular career in my life, and I found in motherhood my main purpose on earth. That was all very well until I suddenly found myself an empty-nester and in need of redefinition. Not for anyone else - I don't care about other people's opinions enough anymore - but for my own sense of self. The last two years have been all about working toward a goal of regaining my health after a debilitating injury, not to mention surviving mentally and physically through a global pandemic, and now that that's basically achieved (with some limitations) I am waiting for inspiration to strike. In the meantime, I have rejoined the strata council of our condo building and even did some paid work during April. Baby steps, I guess. </p><p>My husband still works long hours and will continue to do so until his retirement - whenever that is going to be. I have to find a new purpose to fill the void left by my kids' absence, but my husband insists that whatever I fill the void with must be what I really want to be doing, not what I think I <i>should</i> do. He has always just wanted me to be happy, bless his heart. One thing I detest is a sense that I have wasted time - 'this one wild and precious life' deserves more, doesn't it? I don't want to get old having more regrets, but I have yet to experience any of Oprah's 'aha' moments when it comes to my future.. In the meantime I am trying to be propelled by love in all the little things I fill my days with, in my encounters with my family, friends and neighbours, in my communications with my grown up kids, in my volunteer and paid work, and in my very nearly 30 year marriage with my husband. I suppose that will have to be enough for now. </p><p>I wish all the mothers out there who are at the stage of life where they are also asking 'what's next in this wild and precious life?' a Happy Mother's Day. </p><p>Until next time,</p><p>Rebecca</p><p><br /></p><p> </p>Rebecca S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16409572371302109142noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5133586152925723487.post-45905350533323874392022-04-01T17:08:00.000-07:002022-04-01T17:08:15.005-07:00Recommended Reading<p>For the last couple of months I've been immersed in my own personal version of the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation's annual Can-lit contest <b>Canada Reads. </b>One of my goals for the New Year was to read more books from diverse cultural perspectives. I could read British murder mysteries by the likes of Ann Cleeves and P.D. James until the cows come home, and in fact I have. The cows are in the building as we speak, and it is time to let them rest awhile before putting them back out to pasture once again while I indulge my penchant for dead bodies found by hyper-intuitive sleuths (who have issues of their own to solve or merely live with) in ancient castles or on dreary, windswept Atlantic beaches. Additionally, mystery novels are glorified puzzles that are solved at the end. Very tidy. Not terribly realistic, but great and satisfying reading.</p><p>The last time I read a culturally diverse book, and that was just before the pandemic, was when I gasped my way through <i>Life of Pi. </i>I was traumatized by it, just as I was traumatized by Rohinton Mistry's <i>A Fine Balance </i>years ago. Both books were beautifully written and valuable to literature in general, but I had a hard time getting over them. I am the sort of person who travels alongside the characters in a book I am reading. The things that happen to the characters affect me in a way that is hard to describe. When I read an engaging book I also enter it for the duration. I witness the good, the bad, and the ugly and carry it around with me. When I was a teenager a book could affect my entire mood. I am better at separating real life and fiction now - perhaps my skull is just thicker, but my heart is still quite sensitive. If I have a deeply sad or disturbing book on the go I read it during the day, and read another, lighter book before I go to sleep at night, so with this strategy in mind I decided I needed to open myself up to some more challenging, educational reading once again. If I want to be a good citizen of the world, my country, and my community, I need to learn from the writers who wish to teach us how to be that through their stories.</p><p>So, what is on my cuturally diverse list this season, you ask? The first book I read this year was <i>Washington Black</i> by Esi Edugyan. <i>Wahington Black </i>is a sweeping, transatlantic epic of a novel about a young Caribbean slave boy with a very special talent. The story is full of eccentric characters and the barbarism of slavery, and it was defended in this year's <b>Canada Reads</b>, so at least I had read one of the books on their list. The second book on my personal list was <i>All the Quiet Places</i> by Brian Thomas Isaac. Now, this book entered my soul and gave me heavy dreams. If you want to learn about the lasting impact of colonialism on Indigenous peoples and their communities on a personal level, I highly recommend<i> All the Quiet Places</i>. The author is so good at describing and setting a scene I felt I was right there with the characters, not viewing them from a platform far away. The third book I read was <i>Diamond Grill</i> by Fred Wah. <i>Diamond Grill</i> was published in the mid-nineties, but appeared on my radar a few months ago. The poetic prose of this book perfectly captures the nuances and complexities of growing up bi-racial in mid-century small-town Canada. Yet again, I was transported, this time to the Chinese-Canadian restaurant that closed in my hometown when I was seven years old. The fourth book on my list is<i> Three Day Road </i>by Joseph Boyden. I was hooked by this book immediately. Boyden is a legendary author. <i>Three Day Road </i>is expertly written from the perspective of two people, an elderly aunt recounting her past as a 'bush Indian' in northern Ontario and her nephew who has returned, haunted and maimed, from the battlefront of the First World War. As the elderly aunt paddles her nephew back home she tells him stories from her life, and he silently re-lives his horrifying experiences as a talented sniper in the trenches and bombed out landscape of France. I learned so much from this book and look forward to reading his other novels, when I recover from <i>Three Day Road</i>, that is. </p><p>I have more books on my list, including a few currently on hold at my local public library. I am so grateful to the many authors who tell stories from their own unique perspective. My life is richer because of them, and I hope I can translate what I learn from these stories into action as a more sensitive and aware citizen and friend. </p>Rebecca S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16409572371302109142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5133586152925723487.post-58113339946045547332022-03-09T08:37:00.001-08:002022-03-09T08:37:58.255-08:00Where Have all the Bungalows Gone?<p>For the past year I have been watching an Australian cop show. I discovered it while looking up an actor from another favourite Aussie show, and gave it a try. I was hooked from the start. It is one of those shows that takes me to another place, another time, and gives me a needed escape from the current reality of pandemics, wars and invasions, and the general uncertainty of our times. The fact that this show gives me forty-five minutes of entertainment nearly every day, and that justice is almost always served with a side of humour, is not the reason I bring up the show. I'm not telling anyone they should watch it. In fact, I am sure many of my friends would find it far too quaint. I bring it up for a different reason: its architecture and set design. </p><p>The cop show which ran from 1994 to 2006, and is comprised of a whopping five-hundred and ten episodes, is called <i>Blue Heelers</i>. In watching the show, which takes place in a fictional small town called Mt. Thomas situated a couple of hours from Melbourne, I noticed how modest the houses were. Most of the characters live in older, one-storey ranch style homes often with peeling paint, rusty door hinges, and the very basics in modern conveniences and decoration. Sure, there are fancier homes featured now and again in the show, but those are rare and provide contrast to help illustrate a character. Everything in the show is much more aesthetically humble than what we have become accustomed to nowadays, both in mainstream film and television and in real life, and I find that thought-provoking. </p><p><i>Blue Heelers</i> reminds me of what my hometown was like in the 1970's and 80's before people came from the cities and restored it to the mini San Francisco it was originally built to be before time, weather, changing fashions (imagine beautifully carved stone buildings modernized with a face of tin siding) and economic ups and downs had their way. The characters in the show are wary of 'yuppies from Melbourne' buying up small farms and changing the vibe, and the property values, of their community, so perhaps Mt. Thomas has since gone the way of many other charming small towns and become a haven for city folks looking for that<i> je ne sais quoi</i>. I don't know yet - I am only on season four of twelve. Anyway, my point is, in this age of Instagram and renovation shows we in North America have come to expect a rather heightened standard of what our houses and communities should look like, (and I believe this standard is, in some small part, to blame for the ridiculous property values in British Columbia, but that is a topic for another time). </p><p>Don't get me wrong. I am as guilty of aesthetic snobbery as the next person, and sometimes renovations and rebuilds are necessary, but to be completely honest, I like a little dingy alleyway, slanting shed or crooked fence mixed in with all this perfection. I like a hole-in-the-wall second hand bookshop that smells of old books, the occasional grandma's house that hasn't been updated in thirty-five years, or a bar that serves good beer but mediocre food on scratched tables perched on faded carpet. There can be an undeniable honesty to places that have not yet been smoothed over and made presentable with the latest in decorative touches and architectural features. I believe it's called character, and my favourite cop show has it in spades.</p><p>Perhaps I am merely a sad romantic, but I don't care about that. I care that we are slowly but surely gentrifying the heck out of our communities and that our kids may never know the fun of dancing to a great live band in a dive bar, of drying their underwear on an old radiator in their first apartment above a pizza place, or the struggle of saving for a first home that is somehow attainable for them even without Mom and Dad giving them a 300,000 dollar down payment (true story). Humble beginnings can be good beginnings and lead to true appreciation of all we have through life.</p><p>Until next time, </p><p>Rebecca</p>Rebecca S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16409572371302109142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5133586152925723487.post-54089116136752388582022-01-23T10:35:00.000-08:002022-01-23T10:35:07.460-08:00Breaking Up is Hard to Do<p>Everyone who knows me well knows I have had, until fairly recently in my fifty-plus years, a serious coffee habit. Not a morning would go by without a huge pottery mug of freshly ground, French pressed, strongly brewed, organic, fair trade java to get me going. I likened the effect on my brain to the THX sound effect on a movie screen. Once the caffeine kicked in every cell in my body would fill with sweet, electric energy that I would then use (mainly) for good. I felt like I had a superpower, and that superpower was coffee. I would have another cup, usually an Americano, mid-morning, which would get me through the work day at my former job as a baker. Did I mention that I was also a certified coffee snob? </p><p>Twenty months ago, almost to the day, I suffered both a brain injury and a neck injury. The first made me desire sleep more than anything, and the second gave me such bad headaches that sleep came but rarely. As with most times when I have been unwell, I stopped drinking caffeine in hopes that I would sleep better. Within a few months, thanks to medication and physiotherapy, I did begin to sleep better, but I still abstained from coffee in an effort to maintain what I had gained, sleep wise. After several months I allowed myself the occasional decaf espresso, and that is still basically where I am at today with my coffee consumption. Even I thought I would have jumped back on the coffee express a.s.a.p. The truth is I had begun to realize I was, at this point in my life anyway, better off without it. </p><p>No morning coffee meant no coffee crash a few hours later and also less pandemic anxiety. I began to enjoy the steady level of energy throughout the day and the better sleeps at night. I had, for years, awoken in the wee hours of the morning and fought hard to get back to sleep before my alarm went off. Rarely would I sleep through the night like the proverbial baby (which babies are these?) or log, or what-have-you. These days I get up and turn on the kettle, usually favouring peppermint tea or a coffee substitute like Caf-Lib - I can imagine the eye rolls this post is getting right now - I sit in my armchair with my mug of watery substitute, grateful that it is at least hot, and read a bit, then check my phone. I wash my hair, do some yoga and then start the activities I have to do for the day. The former THX sound effect has been replaced by something sounding more like a distant wave reaching longingly for the shore. </p><p>Do I miss coffee? Yes. I miss the deeply flavoured elixer that was worth getting up at 5:20 on workdays for. I miss going to bed looking forward to coffee. I miss that first sip feeling. I miss ordering coffee at the coffee shop. These days I usually order herbal tea or hot chocolate, if I go at all. I haven't worked since my injuries, so my days can start gently; I have that privilege. Once I come out of this temporary retirement, sick leave, wellness sabbatical, whatever it begs to be called, and start working again, I know coffee will creep back into my life. I already enjoyed a little with Irish Cream liqueur over Christmas when the days were filled with the buzz of activity and socializing with my visiting children. For now, though, I will keep my fuel the decaf kind and hope that when I do re-introduce coffee back into my life, it won't be so much of an addiction but rather, a pleasurable addition I can take or leave. Well, I can try, right?</p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Rebecca S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16409572371302109142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5133586152925723487.post-50306635110287128562021-11-23T13:58:00.000-08:002021-11-23T13:58:44.667-08:00The Jimmy Type<p>When I was eight years old I had a great friend named Jimmy. Jimmy lived around the corner and his grandparents lived across the alley from me. Jimmy's grandparents had a swimming pool in their backyard and I was sometimes invited to swim in it with Jimmy and any of his cousins who happened to be around. One hot summer day, Jimmy and I were playing beside the pool. His four year old cousin was with us, but she was in the pool. Suddenly, she started flailing her arms and couldn't get her head above the water. She must have moved to the deeper part of the pool which was four feet deep. I stood rooted to the ground, like a deer in the headlights. I could see Jimmy's cousin was drowning, but I couldn't seem to act. Jimmy jumped into the water straight away and saved her. I have never forgotten how impressed I was with Jimmy. I also could not understand my own behavior.</p><p>The fact is, the world is full of people like Jimmy who jump in with both feet during a crisis, and thank God they do. This week in British Columbia, during historic rainfall and the subsequent flooding of countless farms and homes, landslides, and washouts of important transportation corridors, we have so many examples of people acting immediately in response to the catastrophe around them: first responders, pilots, health care professionals, police officers, truck drivers, and members of the general public who have the 'right stuff' and know innately how to make themselves useful right off the bat. My hat goes off to all of them. They are worth their weight in gold in a crisis.</p><p>Of course, when I had children my reactive reflexes developed and I saved my own kids from some near misses and trucked them off to the emergency room when needed. Something primal takes over one's natural tendencies when one is responsible for tiny humans. Still, in the face of large scale disasters I am still somewhat slow to fully respond. My mind seems to employ a slow processor when it comes to this type of crisis. If someone else (like my husband, a Jimmy type) directs me I can act - sometimes I'm even effectual - but left to my own devices, I'm afraid I lack the necessary DNA to take charge. I was once the passenger in a terrifying car accident from which I walked away miraculously unharmed. My response to the shock? I went home and fell asleep on the couch. I'm much better at crises for which concentrated thought processes are involved, like if one of my children is going through a hard time and needs advice, or a friend needs a listening ear and a measured response. That sort of thing.</p><p>We all have different gifts, although we can be pretty hard on ourselves when we find our particular gifts not terribly useful at a given time, myself included. I want to be helpful to my flood-damaged neighbours. It just might take me some time to figure out what that help will look like. (I've also been trapped between mudslides for a week and a half, and my role during this stage has been one of keeping myself calm and lending moral support to those around me.) </p><p>In the meantime, my appreciation for all you Jimmy types out there is currently at an all-time high. Keep on jumping in with both feet. You are so needed. </p>Rebecca S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16409572371302109142noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5133586152925723487.post-10133053260177295092021-11-04T17:21:00.000-07:002021-11-04T17:21:46.943-07:00Saying Goodbye to Mom<p>When I was a young child my biggest fear was that my mother would die. I had an overly active imagination and sometimes thoughts of the possibility that she would leave me forever would make me cry. I remember at least one occasion in which my mom came to my bedside to calm my fears and let me know how silly I was for entertaining such thoughts. In my defense, I didn't invite this particular fear to take up residence, it simply came unbidden. </p><p>On October 20th, my mother did die. I was 52 and she was 83. Her dying had become less of a fear and more of a sad inevitability. She had lived with vascular dementia for four years, and had grown increasingly fragile over the past year. Early in October she had taken a fall and broken her hip. She underwent surgery, which was successful, but after a couple of weeks of being in hospital, a blood clot developed in her lung. A day later her caregiver sent word that Mom was dying. My husband and I rushed to be with my sister at Mom's bedside. My eldest sister came the next day. Mom was never left alone those last three days of her life. We sang to her, her grandsons called and sang to her over the phone, and in Mom's last moments, we sang the hymn of St. Francis, 'Make me a Channel of your Peace' with our brother leading over the phone from Calgary. I sang with tears streaming down my face and snot dripping from my nose as I held her face in my hands. And then she was gone. I cannot describe it aptly. She was just...gone. </p><p>My mother was the sunshine in our family home. She radiated kindness and calm and burned brightly with intelligence. There was nothing saccharine about her. She loved a good story and a groan-worthy pun. She loved her six children to the best of her ability and as equally as she could, even though I tease my brother Steve that he was her favourite. She loved having company and made everyone feel welcome in our home. We often had extra people at the table for Christmas dinner. She loved Clint Eastwood. We even had a poster of The Outlaw Josey Wales hanging on the door of our bathroom. She stayed up very, very late reading. She read War and Peace every year (I haven't read it once). Mom loved to go out for cheesecake, but the rule was we had to hike up and down the steep hills of town for an hour and a half to earn a slice.</p><p>Mom was also the sunshine for a lot of people in the community we lived in. At the funeral reception many people said to me: "If it weren't for your mother I never would have..." My hometown newspaper printed a cover story about her contributions as an historian and supporter of artists. She would have been honoured. Her work was incredibly important to her. I felt so proud to be her daughter. </p><p>This morning, a week after we returned home, I was hit with a wave of grief. I recalled how, during an hour on Mom's last day when we were alone together in her palliative care room, I had talked to her about the walks we used to take together. I thanked her for teaching me to love art and literature. I sang her 'You are My Sunshine'. </p><p>Mom, you have left me, but that's okay. Your sunshine will always be with me. I know that now.</p>Rebecca S.http://www.blogger.com/profile/16409572371302109142noreply@blogger.com14