The family thing... the holiday thing...

Must be the holidays...

Because family issues are bubbling to the surface for some folks.

And I'm here to tell you, YOU ARE NOT ALONE.

(At least in the past, you weren't alone. I was right there with ya).

Things have change a whole lot since then. (Thank God). But I can't tell you how many Xmases I wanted to spend either working or with my head in the sand (or my hand around a bottle of Jack Daniels) because stress levels were going to shoot higher than dropping a 25 lb turkey into a vat of gravy.

It was always just a matter of time.

The closer we got to the big day, the greater the barometric pressure rose. It usually resulted in some nasty thing or other happening to me. To make matters worse, Xmas happens to land on my birthday.

Yep. Me and the big JC are like twins.

Double whammy.

But no matter. life is good now. Yet, old habits and old fears can be a bitch to break.

I'll never forget the first 'normal' Xmas we had. Me and the boys were now on our own and had been invited to my son's girlfriend's house for a drink. We sat around, having polite conversation amid decorations and presents and most of all, a civility that was foreign to us coming from an abusive household.

When it was over and we were driving home, son #2 turned to me and said:

"That was really weird."

I said,"It was nice wasn't it?"

He said, "That's what I mean, it was really weird. I can't handle it."

I said, "We're going to have to retrain ourselves on what it feels like to be normal. This was good for us. Yeah, it was weird. But remember, it's not suppose to be. It's just weird to us, because we're used to being terrorized."

He said, "I don't want to do it again".

And the other two boys chimed in: "Same here. I'm not doing that again".

It has taken us almost fourteen years to start feeling the least bit normal. And we still have that initial knee-jerk reaction to Xmas.

And this year, when I caught myself falling into the old pattern based on a past that no longer exists, I decided to put the humbug away and decorate my place with vim and vigor while listening to Xmas tunes non-stop.

And you know what? It worked.

By the end of the day, I was feeling positively stellar.

Because there is no past, except in our memories. All we have is the NOW. It's all we ever have. And it's the only place where we can make a difference regarding what happened to us and change our destiny - the very course and quality of our lives - for BETTER.

We all deserve to be loved, to be safe, to just "be". It's an unconditional benefit, an entitlement to being human.

You don't have to earn it. It's a God-given right.

All you need is a little courage. So choose wisely. And choose now.

This post is for the lovely person who had the courage to send in a comment beneath the post "Dealing with mother issues"...

Have yourself a very Merry Xmas.

And do it your way.:)

Reinventing the Art of Dreaming Big - PART II

To give you a tiny background of the goings on with my literary agent over the last two years, it went something like this:

She was excited to take me on as a client (woohoo)! (3rd week of September)

She was equally excited (aka overwhelmed) because she had been made a junior partner at the agency, was getting married the following weekend, going on a honeymoon and then moving to a new condo with hubby upon her return.

Uh-oh. Someone's got a lot on their plate.

We spoke on the phone exactly twice - the first time, she had many plans for my book - the first of which was to pitch it at a publisher's market in Europe at the end of October.

(woohoo x 2)!

The second time we spoke on the phone, she got me mixed up with someone else and didn't remember my particular project. She also denied ever having discussed the convention in Europe. "How could it possibly be ready"?

I reminded her that I had not simply sent her my non-fiction proposal but had actually finished the entire manuscript before I even approached them for representation.

Which told me that she hadn't even read it.

(Double Uh-oh. Someone doesn't give a shit).

But, she assured me she would polish up my proposal and send it out in November.

(deflated woohoo!)

Fine.

End of November, her email:

"I'm not going to send out your proposal until after Xmas because everyone is starting to go on holidays and besides publishers have already spent their budget for the year. But first thing in January..."

Okay. I'm not happy, but I'm buying the argument. I didn't have the guts to ask her if she even read it yet. The proposal was good enough for her. I guess it's good enough for me.

End of January, her email:

"Okay, I've sent it out! Fingers crossed!"

I'm happy. Hopeful. Patient.

six months later, still nothing. I send a follow-up email. She responded with this:

"One publisher rejected it on the grounds that there wasn't a big enough market for a book on Internet dating... a second publisher rejected it on the grounds that the market was already saturated with too many books on Internet dating, so if you have anything else to send us, feel free!"

(Triple uh-oh. My book is dead in the water).

Now I'm demoralized.

I can't write much of anything for a few months. But I was working full-time and throwing around ideas - maybe I need to do something... different?

Eventually, I start working on another book - a completely different genre for a completely different audience - upper middle school, fiction.

But something didn't feel right.

I can't wrap my head around the fact that I had gotten loads of positive feedback on my first book and that Internet dating is the 3rd largest revenue producer on the Internet.

Not a big enough market? I think not. Saturated? Given my platform, my research, and the numbers, impossible. That's like saying there are enough restaurants in the world so nobody should bother starting a new one.

Food and Love. Both are necessities.

But my self-esteem had taken a huge hit. Not because of the rejections, but because of how it played out. And now I was doubting my writing. Not the process... but my actual ability to write ANYTHING.

After all, if my lit agent couldn't be bothered to read the damn thing, then how interesting could it have been?

A few months later I get an email:

"Good news! I will be going on mat leave in two weeks! So excited to be introducing a new member to our household. The owner of the lit agency will be taking on all my clients so if you have anything new to send him, please do so." Best, A.

Official end of story.

It had been a year and a half since she had first taken me on.

I never got a real report, never got proof that she sent anything anywhere, and she never touched base with me as a human being. Had I not initiated contact sporadically, I would have disappeared in her files.

Which I in effect, did.

So I waited. Again. Maybe the new agent would have something to say. He was after all, the owner.

Silence.

But I was under contract. If by some miracle, I could get this thing off the ground myself, they were entitled to their 15% whether they did anything or not.

The other argument I considered was that it's bloody hard to get an agent.

And I was on the verge of terminating my contract.

I have to be honest here. The thought of giving up something that was hard to retain in the first place was scaring the shit out of me.

On the other hand, what kind of power did they have on me psychologically?

But before I cut the umbilical cord of my literary career, I decided to send the new agent/owner an email asking if he was looking into my file or was planning on doing anything with the book.

When he responded with "Nope. She did her best", I sent an email asking him how I could go about officially getting out of my contract. "Do I send a letter, etc."?

His response was:

"Your email was good enough. Consider yourself out of a contract. Best of luck with your work".

Wow. That was WAY easier than getting them to actually DO anything. And what an awesomely FAST response!

All told, I was 2 months shy of a stagnating two year relationship with this agency.

I never grieved for a moment over the loss of what has grown in reputation as a hot and impossible commodity - the elusive literary agent.

I felt nothing but great and grand relief. And a renewed possibility in this project, and in myself.

I felt my sense of personal power returning. I was now in control of my own destiny again. And if I fell flat on my face, it wasn't going to be because someone else was in charge.

I kinda like being responsible for my own screw-ups. Or my successes.

And in the end, I realized that it wasn't the success or failure of my book that mattered most...

Yes, it's about hard work, perseverance (and to some extent, destiny)...

But mostly, it's about THE FEELING...

Sustaining the right FEELING, paying attention to what you are FEELING, to the messages those FEELINGS are sending you, might be the single most important factor that determines the quality of your life.

But I am starting to get that FEELING back...

And here, is that FEELING in progress...

www.cyberlovemuse.com

Reinventing the Art of Dreaming Big - PART I

It's been a crazy, long time since I've blogged...

And by now I realize that excuses don't mean squat. My good friend and fellow blogger Jim Makichuk started blogging just after I did, but with one big difference - he's as consistent as a healthy egg-laying hen.

Hats off to you Jim.

And it isn't because his life is all peaches n' cream or that he doesn't suffer the ups and downs of his profession. God knows we are all subject to the vicissitudes of life regardless of where we work, what we do, whether we're independently minded, or makes volumes working for a corporation. I'm sure Steve Jobs wasn't perky or motivated every day of his life either.

But consistency is key to success in any endeavor.

I spent half my summer contemplating my existence, asking myself how I was to get out of the doldrums of non-creativity and sink my teeth into something that actually meant enough to me that I would do something about it. And that's when it happened...

I fired my agent.

After nearly two years of essentially non-communication with my literary agent, I did the unthinkable and felt damn good about it.

In the last I would say, 30 years or so, agents have taken on a different slant than ever before. With more people writing books than they can handle, not only do they have their pick of talent, but rather than work from a premise of faith in the author and their product (based of course on the agent's professional opinion), roles have reversed.

You have to prove yourself FIRST before anyone wants to waste their time with your work. Which means you have to be up on tech-friendly self-promotional techniques and hope at some point that you go VIRAL.

I love this term. It has reinvented the Art of Dreaming Big.

Now, once your blog/website/youtube video/podcast gets so many hits, you are considered hot commodity. I think the standard number is 10,000. That when heads slowly start to turn. Before that, you might as well be invisible. 10,000 ebooks, 10,000 blog followers... for youtube videos, I think it's even more...

That doesn't mean everything that goes viral is quality-driven, nor does it mean it will prove itself worthy of a long career (think reality TV stars) but what it does, is get you noticed.

For me, becoming well-acquainted with the bells and whistles of technology poses its challenges, but that's okay.

More and more, I am learning that life is more about keeping the flame alive inside, of remembering what triggers your passions and keeps you on the lighter side of life, than it is about going viral.

More about what I've been up to in the next blog.
Stay with me.
I think I've just found my guts again.

I have to stop eating WHAT? - part 2 - and the decision to Hello Kitty

Since my last post, I've had 3 acupuncture sessions and done my VERY best to stay on the food diet Dr. Pins n' Needles put me on - sadist that she is.

The following is a list of foods I can no longer eat (at least for a while): no red meat, pork, dairy, animal fat, vegetable fat, wheat, chocolate, beer, wine, or alcohol of any kind. And NO SUGAR or foods with artificial flavors or colors.

It's a boring palate. Which explains why I fell from grace (moderately of course): 6 glasses of red wine, 3 margaritas, two beers, champagne, 2 glasses of white, a slice of pizza, feta on everything, a hot dog, fries (and gravy), a lemon cake, a bag of chocolate eggs and crab dipped in enough melted butter to worry all the pastry chefs in the world that there might be a shortage if I keep it up.

Oh dear...

What started as a perfectly acceptable short list (in the interest of denial) turned into an embarassingly detailed confession.

But that was only week 2. I was a saint for the first 10 days, I swear. I'll get back on track. And really, I have loads to celebrate. For one thing, I now own a cat.

Don't ask me why. I don't even know why.

It's possible I'm having a mid-life crisis and I'm replacing any dwindling ambition I might have with something fun and furry that will provide me with the perfect excuse not to burn the candle at both ends, (which I am apt to do) but I don't know for sure.

All I know is I woke up possessed one Sunday morning with the specific goal of coming home with a furry beast and then begged an unsuspecting accomplice to accompany me so I wouldn't change my mind.

Perhaps I simply wanted a non-human to teach me the long lost art of relaxation once and for all. And just for the record, I wasn't going to pick up any old stray. But whatever plans I originally had to drive up and down the streets of a sleepy suburb fell short when I realized catnapping was a federal offense.

No. I had to do this right. I would let the feline pick me.

Whatever stray liked me enough to follow me around and rub himself up against me was going to be swimming in Friskies for the rest of his (or her) life - as long as he wasn't too needy.

I was after all, still a commitaphobe and sharing my space without wanting to banish him to the hall or couch every night was going to take some deep breathing exercises and maybe a few Xanax.

But if no cat chose me, then I had my answer. I wasn't about to pick someone I had to support without some entertainment value or reciprocal cuddleability. I was prepared to stay single.

This had to be a mutual relationship.

And pick me, he did. What's more, he's a 'chill' cat. As a bonus, he's a social cat and likes everybody. And he could care less about toys, which means I don't have to entertain him.

Bonus.

If he wasn't a cat, I might have just described my perfect boyfriend.

His name is Rodin (after the French sculptor) but I call him Pumpkin. Which makes no sense because he's black and looks like a little panther and I don't think anyone who saw a panther in the wild would ever be inclined to call it 'Pumpkin'.

'Killer' maybe, or 'Zorro' but never 'Pumpkin'.

Nevertheless, he's 7. Which in people years, makes us about the same age. It's a match made in heaven. He wants to lay around on me all day long and I like the feeling of a hot water bottle.

What's more, he'd been living in the shelter for 4 years. His owner had to give him up because she was diagnosed with a terminal brain tumor. She was young, and with two small children still at home.

That story pretty much sealed it for me.

Anyway. Whatever possessed me to seek him out follows the same line of reasoning that is also possessing me when it comes to my health.

I think it has to do with being in the feel good stage of life. Whatever short (or long) term plan can improve the quality of my life is going to garner some serious attention whether it's a pet or a diet.

The same goes for choosing friends. Or Work. Even a partner.

Maybe, especially that.

Suffering is out of the question. I've done enough of that.

So for now, acupuncture it is. (And with it, the damn diet that in spite of my complaints, makes me feel ten years younger).

And of course, Hello Kitty.

I have to stop eating WHAT?! Part 1

My body is like a car that hasn't had an oil change in a VERY LONG TIME but runs just fine thank-you-very-much so "put that George Foreman grill back where it belongs pal"!

Yeah, you know what I'm talkin' about. And furthermore, you know who you are.

Most of those who dare to claim oil-change-diligence do so only AFTER they learned it the hard way.

Most people can think of at least one car they royally abused in their wanton youth.

The typical case involves a hormone-blinded pubescent, driven to neglect the maintenance needs of their vehicle (or God forbid, their mom's car) so they can use the cash they saved to buy enough gas, beer, and cigarettes to last the weekend and then drive all over town to pick up enough friends to break a Guiness world record.

Even the Diabetes Association won't pick up your red chevette after that.

ahem

The typical person treats their body the same way...

Except instead of saving money, it's more about being in denial - of your age, your mortality and most of all, the knowledge that you will have to devote some time (and give up some things) to maintain a status quo of general health.

But deny we do...

And just because no little light goes on to warn you it's time for an oil change, doesn't mean you don't need one.

Today, as I sat at my new acupuncturist's office, pen poised, ready to fill out my health complaint form I thought to myself;

You know I don't really need this appointment considering I've been going to the gym, but it did take me three months to get in, so I might as well follow through and write shit down. After all, I've got fifteen minutes to kill and this is going to take me all of FIVE - if I write slowly AND use good penmanship AND pause thoughtfully, AND use complete sentences.

sigh. WHATEVER. Quit your internal whining and just do it.

scribble scribble scribble.....pause....jot jot jot....pause.... jot some more.... feel beads of sweat begin to form... write more frantically..... aw to hell with my penmanship....! weep quietly.... completely and utterly defeated...

Twenty minutes later, I hear my name.

"Ms. Alexander, the doctor will see you now".

I look up at her with the same wild look a raccoon has when it's been caught eating garbage."But I don't have enough time! You people didn't give me ENOUGH TIME"!

She smiled at me sympathetically as if she'd seen all this before, then looked down at the illegible chicken scratch on my page.

What started out as elegant calligraphy turned into what looked like someone's last will and testament written by a gangrine-infested hand using a piece of charcoal while clinging to life on driftwood in the open sea.

"Don't worry, you can explain it all to the doc when you see her."

Or, I thought to myself, I could high tail it out that door right now and no one would be the wiser...

But like someone who knows they've gone too far, there was no turning back now.

Head hung low, I walked the green carpet to her office and sat patiently, reflecting on the bad deeds I had done....

If only I had changed the oil in my car...

The genius of Hugh Macleod

I recently read a quote by Tim Burton in a book by Hugh Macleod called Ignore Everybody - and 39 others keys to creativity. .

Burton said something to the effect of If you have the creative bug, it's never going to go away so you better get use to it and do something about it.

And if you've never read any creative or social truisms by Macleod, I suggest you check out his blog gapingvoid.com or buy one of his books.

Because anyone with a creative inclination is in the same boat. If you've EVER had the tiniest desire to create something, ANYTHING - be it a doodle, a crafty object, novel, painting, or an inventive leftover meal - you soon realize there's something addictive about the need to express yourself.

What's more, that feeling NEVER GOES AWAY no matter how much you ignore it or try and tell yourself that life would be easier if it just didn't matter.

Because the truth is, it does.

And even when you manage to leave it behind for a few days, weeks, months or even years, (like I did for sixteen years while I was in a very difficult marriage) it still finds its way back. Like a recurring zit. Or eczema. Or a recurring dream. Or winter in the 'Peg.

So for the last few days, (okay more like weeks), I've been what I call 'gearing up' for the big push where I get to put all my other obligations aside emotionally and devote my energy solely to my writing.

My golden child. The chalice of truth. My raison d'etre.

So much for balance. And yet, without it, I feel the scales tip towards a life of mediocrity and the stagnation that comes with adhering to the status quo.

But am I to assume that life will suddenly be on hold for me? At least long enough to get that one Jack Kerouac acid-induced spurt where I will spew out the entire contents of one novel in a single sitting? Or maybe I can do it on coke like King. (Except King could do it with or without drugs or alcohol, I'll give him that).

For me? I figure all I need is a little peace and quiet. A break from the guilt of parenting kids I really don't need to parent anymore but use as a crutch to excuse my lack of resolve. (Discipline I have. Habit, I do not).

Or if I just had a break from the emotional drain that comes with teaching (when really I've gotten pretty good at using all of my spare time during the day to hammer most of the work I need to do while I'm in the building).

But I don't want YOU to know that.

Or if I just had a little vacation first - say in BALI - then I could write the damn thing no problem because what I really am is burned out from years of responsibilities.

'Cuz I'm the only one with SO MANY of those.

(And what's more I don't want you to know that a couple of days at home watching the travel channel while doodling and drinking wine works just as well).

ahem

Then again, I might be feeling the fluctuations of motivation and self-pity because I'm hormonal. That's legitimate, but not insurmountable. And it's certainly not because I'm lacking any one thing on Maslow's hierarchy of basic needs (that being the only legitimate excuse to a suffocating creative output).

Nosirree.

It's high time I admit it. Creating comes with doing. And I'm not doing enough of it.

Sometimes there's a bit of foreplay. A precursor to the act. Legitimate planning if you will. Buying paints. Setting up a work station. Thinking about an idea born of inspiration until it becomes clear enough to work with... but none of the aforementioned activities takes very long.

Inspiration comes in an instant.

Certainly not weeks. Or even days.

So what's left?

Taking a good, hard, honest, no-holds-barred look at what I want - if I really want it badly enough that is - maybe every ounce of procrastination is really just a testament to my unconscious desire not to work at it?

Maybe just maybe it overrides my need to produce creatively.

Something. Anything.

But I know that's not true.

The question is, what am I willing to do about it...

It's all about intent...

"Those who can, write... those who can't, blog".

That was essentially the dour note served by my lovely companion (and writer friend) over dinner yesterday.

Okay. Maybe I read between the lines a little.

It was more like, "Well, I suppose if you don't intend on finishing that book you can always blog".

Or something to that effect.

I don't remember exactly as the truth behind his words obliterated the superficial content of his throw-away comment. But I read it right. I must have. It cut like a knife.

In a split second, I read the intent behind the words.

The real meaning.

The hidden message.

Wrapped in certain tone, a tilt of the head, the raising of an eyebrow. A subtle challenge. A taunting, duel-like proposal from a like-minded individual.

Writers.

An ultra-sensitive lot of life-observing sleuths with sharp tongues. We have no problem letting other people know exactly what we think - especially other writers.

I was bang on.

It's the same as a kid in my class using the word 'fudge' today.

In grade 3 somebody is bound to rat you out.

The loyalty of an 8 year old lies strictly in avoiding the principal's office and that usually means shifting the focus elsewhere.

As a result of covering their own butts, I've got a class policing its own behavior.

It's awesome. Nobody gets away with squat.

Anyway... in his defense, the kid says to me:

"What's wrong with fudge"?

"It's not the word" I told him, "It's the intent. You intended to use a bad word but knew you'd never get away with it so you replaced it with another word, but really? WE ALL KNOW what you REALLY wanted to say."

"Yeah" said the mini moral police, "you REALLY wanted to use that OTHER bad word".

The kid didn't have too much to say after that because it was true. But based on his look of shock and confusion for getting into trouble for (technically) NOT SWEARING, I let him off with a warning...

"Remember" I said, "I'll bust your intent every time. So search your mind for the truth and honor behind your words and actions as these are the only things that will keep you safe from my wrath should you falter again Grasshoppa...".

Okay. Maybe I didn't say that either but I wanted to. It came out more like:

"Go home kid. And if you say it again, you're dead meat".

Dead meat. The kid chuckled then nodded. INTENT. They all know I don't mean it so they're never scared. As a matter of fact, they probably spend too much time laughing at me and don't heed my warnings nearly enough.

It's not what you say. It's NEVER what you say. It's the power and energy behind your words that determine how you come off. At least in person.

But not in your writing.

It's trickier there. People can't see your face when you tell the story so they have to trust that you're telling it well enough that they are interpreting the tone the way you intended it.

And then there's the trickiest intent of all - The INTENT TO DO SOMETHING.

An intent to DO something is worth NOTHING unless it's followed through.

The rule that applies to spoken INTENTS possess an additional component because those words require an accompanying action to justify their own validity.

Take for instance the following statement:

"I intend to write my book".

The truth is lots of people do. I'm one of them.

But until I finish this one, the only thing I have to go on is the fact that I managed to write one before. But that's no guarantee that I'll do it again.

And right now frankly, I'd be happy with a bloody outline.

But I think I'm okay with that. For what it's worth, my intention is pure. I know when I say, 'write' I don't mean 'ponder', or 'pretend to write a book' or 'talk about writing a book' or even 'fudge a book'.

I mean, WRITE.

But only time will tell...

Like a bad penny...

...I will always come back...

I don't even know what that means.

How does a bad penny come back? And who would want one to? Who even uses pennies anymore except when they're adding to one of those 'add a penny, leave a penny' dishes at the gas station?

Anyway...

It's been too damn long.

For better or worse I had given up the blog to engage in more fruitful pursuits - namely to focus on my job and to write another book.

Truth be told, I couldn't balance it all; a new teaching assignment, a new writing venue, an always busy family life and as usual, a weird love life.

True, I am a reformed Catholic, but the guilt of being unable to keep up with my blog on a regular basis ate at my soul like that vulture chewing on Prometheus's liver.

Poor bastard.

I admit, I am prone to exaggeration. It's not like I stole fire from Zeus or anything but I did experience something that everyone experiences many times in their lives but I just couldn't take it anymore.

FAILURE

Truth be told, failure is a relative term and can only be gauged by the individual experiencing it (one guy's failure is another's lottery win) but here I was, pulling my hair out because I had done what I thought was everything to make my six month experiment a success and came up painfully short.

I did manage a number of things that have changed positively over the course of the last year and I will get into that next time, but publishing my book wasn't one of them - in spite of having secured an agent within 3 weeks of finishing it.

But I also haven't heard from her in almost a year.

That can't be a good.

So, here I am, in the middle of report cards and less than 7 weeks away from the end of my teaching term at which time I will go back to subbing until the end of the school year. This way, I can come home from work and leave the day behind me instead of feeling like a snail carrying its house everywhere it goes.

Sure, there will always be distractions - things that add to that journey, things that take precedence - like my stepmom's aneurism for example (that's another story) - but all in all, if I really believe that anything is possible - and yes, I still do - then it's time to get my act together and give it another shot.

So, here I go again - time for another six month experiment.

I'll be damned if I don't give 'er until the day I die...

P.S. It's good to be back...

The Art of an Effective Pack

PACK #1 - The 'yes' pack. The yes pack is composed of a group of people who give each other moral support no matter what.

Sounds like a great idea in theory as it's good for the ego, but it's downright ineffective idea as a tool for personal growth. That's the group when even if you're wrong about something you're complaining about, will agree with you because that's how they define loyalty.

Here's an example: If you're venting to your pack about your significant other and you're clearly the one at fault, the pack will still refer to your partner as 'the bastard' in your defense and call it honor.

In other words, you'll always be right when you incite your friends to support you - it's the 'common enemy' factor... and they love being incensed on your behalf whether you deserve it or not.

PACK #2 - The party pack. The party pack is composed of people who are always ready to support you in getting away from your problems.

They're awesome when it comes to good-ol' fashioned escapism. When you call them up to vent, share your pain, or ask for an opinion, they say:

"Dude that sucks. Why don't you come out with us tonite and fuggetaboutit"?

And you know there will always be a pack heading to the bar or someone's house to whoop it up, buy you a beer, lend you their couch when you're too drunk to go home and offer you a tylenol in the morning.

And then there's...

PACK #3 - The 'Tell-it-like-it-is' pack. These guys are the ones who don't let you get away with squat but support what's in your best interest at the time.

The thing is, you might not always like them because their function is to kick your ass when you need it, tell you things you don't want to hear (and sometimes it sucks to find out you're in the wrong).

Generally, when they see something out of whack, they keep at it until you see the way it really is, not the way you'd like it to be. And every tell-it-like-it-is pack has someone in it who, when they see something painfully wrong with you, will call one of the other pack members and say:

"Guys, I think we need an intervention."

This is the tough-love pack.

The ones who will sacrifice their friendship with you if they see you going down the wrong path and you stubbornly refuse to do anything about it.

The ones whose very conduct influences yours for the better and they don't even have to say anything... they're just on the path of bettering their lives and if you're not along for the ride, well...

sooner or later, you'll find yourself without a pack.

Now, the fact that my support systems have a higher standard to which they think I should aspire can be a royal pain in the ass, so it's not always pleasant or easy...

There are days when all I really want to do is throw in the towel, run away to some remote island and fish for my dinner,(all for the wrong reasons) and play solitaire for the rest of my life, but my pack knows it's not in my true nature to be a recluse for long so they don't let me.

Sure, I can have a few days to lick my wounds, sit on the pity pot and whine about how life has handed me the short end of the stick and pretend I'm working so hard so I can get the sympathy vote, but my days are numbered.

And nothing could make me happier than to know I can count on being told like it is, until I finally decide to get my act together and proceed with the business of life the way I am meant to.

So for what it's worth, thanks to my AP, to Jim, to my boys (who still think I should shoot for the stars after all these years) and to everyone else along the way who puts up with my ups and downs....

Thanks to my tell-it-like-it-is pack.

The Art of a Strong Support System - PART III

I feel stuck this morning.

Not in a really bad way. Just in a I-want-to-get-to-my-writing-but-not-motivated kind of way. The discipline is probably there, but the will is lacking.

Thank God for discipline because I'll do it anyway.

And thank God for my support systems because this is a day I will probably call upon them for a little distraction and pick-me-up.

And if they're all busy? I'll rent a movie or two, pull out those books I need to finish, and carry on.

Getting moral support from your friends is never set in stone. Nor is it a black and white proposition. It requires the malleability of understanding and a certain maturity. Just because they can't today, doesn't mean they wont tomorrow. Or the next day.

It also requires a knowing that you can go it alone today if you have to. Life is built on these sorts of waves and they always pass. Besides, it doesn't mean you are being abandoned by your pack.

I think that's a mistake many people make as they feel 'let down' by others for not being there every time they need them. But perhaps their tank was empty too. Or they needed their energy for other matters they didn't particularly wish to share at the time. It's this ability to be understanding and compassionate that makes this very important dynamic work.

I've been reading a book lately called "Younger Next Year - Living fit, Strong and Sexy Until You're 80 and Beyond". It's fabulous, well written and motivating.

The last section is all about the biology of emotion. It very clearly describes the function of our limbic system (before and now) and how being part of a 'pack' is not only natural, but necessary.

We don't have a choice.

Because of the limbic way we're made, we are not emotional islands. Simply put, we complete each other. In both good and bad ways to be sure, but we do complete each other and therefore we cannot make it alone... p 302.

He goes on to explain that our limbic brain is designed to make sense of the visual world by assessing its emotional effect on our lives. More so than it does for say, making standard detailed visual observations (colors, things, spatial placements of objects, etc).

We have these little things called mirror neurons (and there are millions of them) whose only job it is to pick up on emotions (which happens in our limbic brain) and that's the seat of our biological infrastructure for empathy.

So whether we like it or no, we are physically and biologically designed not only to connect with others, but to make millions of micro-assessments of our emotional world every day, all day long.

In other words, even if we don't think it's that important, our bodies seem to think so. It's how we spend most of our subconscious energy.

Hmmm.

It must be pretty damn important.

Now that there's proof that it's vital to your well being, you have to figure out what kind of pack is beneficial to you and what isn't. There's basically three kinds.

PACK #1 - The 'yes' pack. The yes pack is composed of a group of people who give each other moral support no matter what.

PACK #2 - The party pack. The party pack is composed of people who are always ready to support you in getting away from your problems.

PACK #3 - The 'Tell-it-like-it-is' pack. These guys are the ones who don't let you get away with squat but support what's in your best interest at the time.

Next time - The pros and cons of each pack and taking off your rose-colored glasses....

The Art of a Strong Support System - PART II

Person 1 and person 2 are dating... the topic of asking for help comes up...

person 1. You can never rely on anyone but yourself.

person 2. That's not true, I rely on lots of people.

person 1. Well I don't. Everyone I've ever known has let me down. They're never there when you really need them.

person 2. That's not true, the people I know are always there when I need them. I can think of at least 5 people I could call at the drop of a hat if I was in trouble or just needed my closet cleaned out and couldn't bring myself to throw out my last boyfriend's sweatshirt or something.

person 1. (sarcastically) Nice.

person 2. You know what I mean. That doesn't mean I take advantage of it. I don't call on them for the little things I can take care of myself both emotionally or otherwise, but when I need a hand or I'm really choked about something, I know I can pick up the phone.

person 1. Well, you're lucky then.

person 2. I am, but I don't think it's luck so much as learning how to ask for help.

person 1. I'll never do that. And I mean never. I could be dying and I wouldn't ask for help.

person 2. I used to be like you. It's a retarded way to live, going through life alone, playing the martyr... it's so Joan of Arc.

person 1. Thanks.

person 2. You know what I mean. Why do you think we're all here on this planet together? So we can suffer alone? NO! so we can commiserate and ease each other's burden!

person 1. (Getting choked. He fails to see the humor in most anything I say.)

person 2. Okay, so you don't know anyone you can call on for help. Fair enough. Your support systems suck and mine don't. But I'm here. You can always call me up and say, "hey, I've had a crappy day. Can I come over?" or "I really need some help cleaning out the garage".

person 1. I would never do that.

person 2. (in disbelief) Get outta here.

person 1. (silence)

person 2. Seriously?

person 1. Yeah. Seriously.

person 2. (getting pissed off) Then why are you in a relationship?

person 1 (now totally ticked off). Oh, so NOW you're questioning the RELATIONSHIP???

person 2. Oh geez. That's not what I'm saying...

In retrospect, that's probably just what I was saying.

You can see where this is going.

Person 1 was fixated on a false generalization: ALL PEOPLE ARE UNRELIABLE and the only person you can count on is yourself. NO EXCEPTIONS.

Gee thanks.

The entire trust issue was at stake at a fundamental level so deep it wasn't even about the relationship anymore. It was about humanity in general.

As you can probably predict, this relationship fell apart shortly thereafter (and for a myriad of reasons not directly related to this particular conversation), but this conversation was in itself a huge red flag.

Person 1 was convinced that he was a 'giver' in this life. That was his job. He wasn't particularly crazy about it as there was a constant exhaustion in his good deeds to help others but he labelled himself as a giver nevertheless.

Like he had no choice.

If I said to him, "You are such a good father to your kids. They're lucky to have you", the response was, "I don't know any other way to be".

Sniff sniff.

How about because you WANT to be, not because you're stuck in a role you think God meant for you.

(That's not a very nice God if that's the case).

And what about free will? Authenticity? Being true to yourself?

In all fairness, it's easier said than done when you've been 'responsible' all your life and think the obligations that come with that role are set in stone and life has sucked you dry because you "give, give give" and nothing comes back your way.

Or does it not come back your way because you give, give, give and never ASK for it in return?

It's a slippery slope.

And if you attach manifesting principles to this you're treading in dangerous waters.

If you become completely self-reliant (to the point of obsessiveness) do you then get exactly what you project? Nobody to help you because you've given the universe the message that you will NEVER need it?

And then you attract people and experiences that verify your belief system over and over again until you've created the world you believe exists around you?

Shiza!

All I know is in order for energy to flow, it has to go both ways. If it doesn't, it WILL get stuck somewhere along the circuit.

It has to FLOW.

And for it to flow, you need to surround yourself with a few (less than a handful - family, friends, or preferrably both) that you can count on as much as they can count on you.

If you've never asked for help, the hardest part is putting your ego aside to ask for it when you need it and not giving up when one person can't fulfill that need.

You're bound to be disappointed sometimes. It doesn't mean it's OVER. Or we're all self-absorbed and selfish.

Yes, people are busy with their own lives, but one of those handful of people will come to your aid when you really need it.

That's why you need more than one person in your corner.

Don't get me wrong - givers are terrific people with huge hearts. He was one of them. And so was I. I know, I was one of them in every relationship, but too much of anything is never a good thing.

Too much 'giving' builds resentment (sometimes subtly and insidiously so) and is draining.

For life to work, you have to be both a giver and a taker or better yet - to learn how to both give and to receive)....

To lean more heavily on one side or the other spells imbalance and disaster in any aspect of your life.

Next - the necessity of having friends in any relationship

The Art of the getting your funny back and the importance of an ESN - Emotional Support Network (Part I)

Getting your funny back is kinda like getting your body back after you've had one too many Big Macs during those four years you hit fast food joints while going through college 'cause you were too busy to bother with real food.

We all do it. And it's a forgiveable offense.

But at some point you have to break the habit. And for that, sometimes you need a personal trainer.

That also goes for getting your funny back.

Losing your funny is when you've been out of the loop for a while because you've been busy indulging in a new relationship that is about as good for you as 3 supersize meals a day.

It doesn't feel that bad at first, but by the end, a heart doctor comes along and tells you if you don't get out of the cycle, you're going to die. Not good.

(And if you've seen Supersize Me, you know what I'm talking about).

In this case, before you know it, 28 odds pounds of emotional baggage sneaks up on you, weighing you down with more self-doubt than a hooker who joins a nunnery.

Think of a personal trainer - most health books recommend one if you're serious about getting fit and are tired of giving yourself a way out of those 'extra hard' workouts. You know, the ones that actually propel you to a new level.

PT's won't let you get away with stuff that you let yourself get away with all the time. It's not that you don't know better.

You do. I do. We all do.

But nobody wants to feel the pain that goes with producing micro-tears that builds up more of what you need. So we don't do it. But we'll do it for the expert that bosses us around in the gym.

Go figure.

I find it interesting that most of us won't let ourselves feel pain in the gym but we have no trouble being in relationships that cause insidious micro-tears in our soul.

But never mind that.

The bottom line is, everyone needs support systems. I don't care how independent you claim to be or think you are.

No one can live without some type of emotional support network. At least not well.

And getting back to what makes you YOU after a relationship has hit the dirt, requires a good, unconditional support network.

All you have to do, is pick up the phone. Or text. Or facebook. Or tweet.

That's right. It's as easy as calling on the peeps you haven't seen in God-knows-how-long because you've been too busy confusing jabs with teasing, criticisms with friendly advice and control for love.

For some people that's harder than getting tickets for the Superbowl.

All that matters is once you recognize the obvious and give yourself a few V8 slaps in the head, you get back to your old self.

next - what a strong support system looks like

The Art of Knowing When to Refuel - PART IV - Chasing the eagle

So there I was, gingerly grabbing what looked like an old kayak out from under a pine tree, paranoid about accidentally treading on any poison ivy leaves hiding beneath dead brush or hiding amid a kayak full of spider webs and dust.

I hate poison ivy. What's more, it hates me.

When I get even the tiniest patch it spreads like wildfire on my skin, popping up anywhere it senses an achilles heel of weakness on my skin. And I have no self-control when it comes to scratching, scars be damned. I shouldn't complain though. My son gets it worse than I do.

When he was twelve, his teacher got a brainchild to take students outside to pick leaves in the bush behind the school and he got poison ivy so bad, it deformed his skin (temporarily). There was nowhere on his body it didn't spread to - except you know... there.

The only way to describe his condition to others was to refer to him as the Elephant Man after the disease by the same name, made famous by John Merrick and forever represented in a 1980 movie by David Lynch.

It was heartbreaking and lasted three full weeks. Thankfully it didn't leave any scars. At least not visibile ones...

Mine wasn't that bad. Nevertheless, I didn't want those little bastard leaves anywhere near me.

So, it took me the better part of an hour to determine which of the two overturned kayaks on the property held the least likelihood of harboring poison ivy and went after that one.

Once I dragged it to the dock and scared away all the spiders and bugs with a broom, I dropped it in the water, climbed in carefully in and headed out onto the lake without a life jacket.

Not too bright as I hadn't told a soul what I was doing or where I was going but then again, the lake was a manageable size and I figured if I tipped over, I could always kick my way back to shore, dragging the kayak behind me.

Now it was just me, the water, and GOD.

Time for a little spiritual test.

Have you ever wanted a sign that God was listening? That he was watching all of your struggles with interest and concern and that he was waiting until the timing was just right before he intervened with your greatest good in mind?

Okay. Maybe not.

How about that's he just around?

Somewhere.

Anywhere.

Doing... something.

Preferrably something for someone's greater good.

Anybody's.

Yeah, 'cause that's where I was when it came to God. It's not that I didn't think he was around. I just figured I hadn't warranted his attention yet. I simply thought He had better things to attend to besides me.

So I put it to Him...

As I glided along I said, "Okay, if you really are around, in this sacred place - supposedly - (no offence or anything, but you did make us creatures who want proof) - give me a real sign. I know I know. You sent me a hawk in the yard - that was cool, thanks for that - then that hummingbird - which was truly beautiful, then that annoying little butterfly trying to capture my attention by hanging around my nose but you know, God, what I really want is to see an E ----"

and suddenly, there it was...

An American Bald Eagle.

I glided beneath it, staring up at it, stunned at how incredibly majestic it was. To witness its presence in person, in the wild was unspeakably humbling... I blubbered the rest of my sentence ...see an Eagle... cuz then... I'll.... wow.... holy crap...

You're listening.

There he was sitting motionless atop a pine tree that was growing through the cracks of the Canadian Shield.

Holy shit. You're really listening.

For the first time in a long time, there was no doubt in my mind.

I must have circled beneath that eagle for an hour, trying to absorb the significance of my encounter, and the spiritual message it held for me.

I was eagle obsessed.

I only moved on when for a brief moment, it acknowledged my annoying presence by tilting its head down just enough to make eye contact. At that point, I only hoped I didn't look like dinner as I had no intention of getting close and personal with those talons or that beak, no matter how gorgeous he was.

The rest of my day was spent in contemplation of that eagle encounter. Later on in the afternoon, my AP and I each took a kayak and made our way down the lake. My Bald eagle was still there. Motionless.

For now, I felt he was mine in some sort of cosmic way.

Once again, I circled beneath - this time, I waved at him. He looked down at me, adjusted his wing and gave me the illusion that he had just. waved. back.

I KID YOU NOT.

The next day was even more holy.

I never saw my eagle again, but my time at Still Rock can only be described as transformational.

Sometimes, you need a sacred space in which to see the world as it really is, outside of this paradigm we know as our day to day life.

Sometimes, you need friends who are on the path, that can help you transform your world from one of limited possibilities to endless ones.

Sometimes, even just a couple of days - well spent with conscious awareness - can have the most profound effect on someone...if they are open and choose to embrace a new way of being.

I returned home to the chaos that was my life but I felt emotionally strong, capable of handling anything with the grace of someone who has been blessed and touched by spirit and offered a new perspective, even a new beginning...

Life would never be the same...

Tha Art of knowing when to refuel - PART III - chasing the eagle

Manny.

That had become my nickname. "Manny" was short for manic behaviour. I was hyper beyond in an environment that should have turned me into a lazy-boy chair but instead turned me into a human spinning top.

I was the Energizer Bunny times ten.

You see, Still Rock was not just any old cabin in the woods whose grounds were teeming with untold flowers and colorful mulch, swing chairs and hammocks.

Still Rock is a spiritual retreat.

For real.

(Given my energetic reaction, it should have been called "Rolling Stone" but then again, these things affect everyone differently).

And Still Rock carries within its parameters an energy vortex that is conducive to experiencing greater shifts in self-awareness than if you were say, at the corner of Portage and Main in downtown Winnipeg.

Of course, you have to want it too.

But that is, fundamentally, the reason for its existence and the reason I went. This place helps people shift into a newer, better version of themselves on the path to greater meaning and self-awareness in their lives.

And it's perfect.

Not only is it divinely peaceful, but it holds a spiritual energy where people gather to process and transform their lives to the next level on a path of personal and spiritual evolution. With that kind of continual lingering energy, it's impossible not to transform.

Think about it for a minute...

There's a reason we are more comfortable in some environments than others. That's why we gravitate towards some places when we need a 'boost' and stay the hell away from others when we are feeling emotionally drained or weak.

Sometimes it's the energy of the people in that area and sometimes it's the place itself that holds a certain magnetic field, ley line, sacred energy, hallowed ground, or strong vibration that has a certain effect on those who visit.

It's like being in a church.

Even if you aren't religious, a place like Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris can have a profoundly pious effect on even the most sacriligious of characters. Sure, it might be the deliberate architecture designed to draw your eye upward that reminds you how small you really are in the cosmos, but it's more than that.

I think it's also a quality of energy based on the millions of people who have passed through it and silently uttered their heart-felt prayers. In my opinion, that intent lingers and we, who enter its sacred doors, feel the remnants of that powerful collective energy.

But whatever it is, in times of stress we are drawn to certain areas and tend to steer clear of others. Why? Because intuitively we KNOW. In that way we're pretty damn smart as human beings even if we don't admit it most of the time or call it hogwash to our friends (but secretly admit it when we're hovering between theta and delta as we slip into an unconscious sleep).

But we KNOW what's good for us. And WHERE. It's too bad most of us don't do anything about it. Or when we do, it's not frequent enough.

And although some people may argue that any cabin has a positive effect because it's away from the city and surrounded by nature, I beg to differ. I've been to some and thought, "I'd rather be home and back in my own space."

If you still don't get what I'm talking about, just google 'what is an energy vortex' and watch what happens. Probably the most famous area with a plenitude of vorteces would be in Sedona. People come from all over the world to experience its effects.

Sedona's vorteces are simply known as 'The world's most popular invisible tourist attraction'.

So given that I knew what I needed, and heard what Still Rock was all about, I made a decision...

I was going to Still Rock to transform.

What exactly, I didn't know. But I knew something was going to happen.

And what better way to start that journey than glide through still waters on a kayak... chasing eagles....

The Art of knowing when to refuel - PART II - chasing the eagle

Just to recap, a few days before my son moved to Toronto, I buggered off.

It was only for two days. But I had been functioning under pressure for so long that I knew if I didn't slow down I was going to pop a blood vessel somewhere vital to my well-being and the fluid that leaked out might put me to sleep forever.

So I went from survival mode to self-preservation mode.

They might sound the same, but they're radically different. Survival involves other people and a sort of whole group mentality. You learn to amalgamate, function, co-exist, and micro-manage in a utilitarian sort of way, ie; for the good of the whole.

That's one kind. (Sometimes, you learn to survive IN SPITE of the whole. That's not so fun).

Self-preservation on the other hand, is a nice way of saying, 'Screw everyone. The buck stops here. If I don't do what's best for me RIGHT NOW I'll be about as useful as a kitchen sponge that's seen better days.

Sure I appeared calm on the outside - an easy enough state to achieve having existed in survival mode for years - but the truth of the matter was, somewhere in my head there was an 'on' button that for the life of me, I couldn't turn off.

I mean, even when there was no longer any reason to worry or boss everyone around, I was still doing it. It was time to check out of the concrete jungle so I could be reminded there was a world outside of my apartment window and family dynamics.

So I went to a friend's friend's cabin on Grassy Lake. It's a spiritual retreat - only they were on vacation and my AP (accountability partner) was cabin-sitting so I could pretend it was ALL MINE.

That part was easy because relations between my AP and I are so easy that I can do whatever I want - disappear for hours or hang around - and she wouldn't care. Now that's my definition of a good relationship.

No pressure, no guilt, no obligation. Just be yourself.

Unfortunately, the hard part was learning how to 'just be' fast enough to make maximum use of the two days I had to completely unwind.

Just look at that ridiculous sentence. It even sounds like an oxymoron.

But with no neighbors across the lake, no visible neighbors to either side and a landscaped garden filled with an obscene number of flowers, swinging benches, loungers, hammocks and private niches for contemplation, I was good as gold.

I figured it would take me all of five minutes to unwind until I walked in the cabin door and saw the calm glow emanating from my AP and her friend from Florida. They had been there for only two days.

If I didn't know them, I would have thought they were actors being paid to be part of the ambience and my experience that's how beatific they were.

This was better than reality TV.

Between their genuinely warm and charming attitudes and those cotton and silk pyjamas they were both wearing, they were positively angelic.

And there I was, with camouflage shorts, a wife-beater T, and a headband.

"Nicole, this is Marnie"

She embraced me as only an angelic being could and asked me if I would like some fresh fruit salad she was about to make.

"Sure! That would be AWESOME. I'm STARVING!"

"Well let me make you breakfast then too" she said softly, tucking her wings in behind her back, "Do you want one egg or two?"

"Uh, one I guess. Doesn't matter really. Someone else is making me breakfast! And you don't even KNOW me! How cool is that? HOW LUCKY AM I?! So, how long you been out here?"

She smiled kindly and patiently at my manic behaviour and I swear I saw a twinkling light shine off her front teeth as she did.

"Two days".

"Jesus, I hope I look as good as you the day after tomorrow"

She smiled again and went about making ME breakfast.

I went outside to gather in the sights and sounds of paradise and find 'just the right spot' to force myself to enjoy nature and after going around in circles like a chicken with an equilibrium problem, I finally settled on a swinging chair that was in the garden but still had a view of the lake.

As I waited for breakfast to arrive I saw a hawk swoop through the yard just in front of me. It was so close I could feel the draft it left in its wake.

Then I saw a hummingbird hover with inconceivable talent near its flower of choice. It was so close, I could see its irridescent green feathers.

Not bad for the first five minutes of my retreat into the Divine.

That's when my fruit salad arrived, complete with shredded coconut, mango and blueberries.

It was the BEST FRUIT SALAD I HAVE EVER HAD IN MY LIFE.

For that entire day, I left my AP and Marnie to visit with one another elsewhere while I re-acquainted myself with... me.

I chose the book I would read over the next two days, found a hammock overlooking the lake, a few pillows and chilled. As I lay there swinging gently in the perfect breeze with the perfect combination of sunshine and clouds making the leaves in the trees above me dance on the page of my book, a butterfly decided to visit.

She was flapping her little wings and dancing in that erratic way they do as she went around and around my nose as if to say;

Why are you reading when nature is all around you? Can you see me NOW?

And if I didn't get it yet, I was about to.

Cuz it was time to take the kayak out! Oh yeah babi. That's what I'm talking about. Adventure city.

I'd never been on a kayak before. But as I told my AP later:

There's only one paddle, how hard could it be?

-----
Next: Part II of chasing the eagle

The Art of knowing when to refuel - PART I

And I'm not talking about a car.

According to my stepmom, my 85 year old father has taken to pushing those boundaries by driving his car as close to empty as possible before hitting the gas station.

He's missed the mark twice now, but I digress...

I'm talking about what every soul needs to function properly - nature.

Given the events of the last month (son #2's move to Toronto, son #3's move into my apartment - with all his stuff - then out again, and son #1 shooting his first film short), I've been oh... busier than Tim Horton's coffee shop during final exams.

Don't get me wrong. I love being there for them and not because I have to - I don't do guilt - but because I genuinely like them as human beings. They're so worth it.

BUT, even though I knew I was going to miss my kid like crazy when he left, somewhere near the end of his life-in-Winnipeg-as-he-knew-it, I HAD to take a break.

Given we were closing in on the final days however, I was hesitant.

I mean what kind of a mother ditches her kid for two days when he's only got 5 days left and is stressing (and rightly so) over the monumental changes he is about to incur?

Answer: The kind who knows she needs to refuel and if she doesn't, risks doing more harm than good because everyone will be running around like chickens with their heads cut off at which time her maternal cue to perform "damage control" will kick in.

And that had disaster written ALL OVER IT.

So I buggered off.

The way I had it figured, I would come back and the worst would be over, ( worst being a relative term).

That would leave me with 3 glorious days of hanging out with him post-trauma before his one way flight to his new life.

Back in June I had planned a short, 4 day trip to a friend's cabin after my son's projected date of departure. But when that date was pushed back, I was left with a difficult decision:

Do I stay and help him move? Hang around, providing moral support, soup and my incessant motherly advice?

Or do I pretend he's an adult and trust he'll be fine with the support he already has, knowing I'll come back emotionally rejuvenated and thus better prepared to absorb the magnitude of this change in my own existence?

It was a no-brainer.

And whatever minor hesitation I had initially experienced was sated the moment I saw him upon my return:

Him: Be happy you weren't here. It was awful!

Me: I know. Why do you think I left?

Him: You should have seen the sketchy characters from the moving company take our stuff! They even made me sign a waiver that they weren't responsible for any damage, loss, fire, theft or ACT OF GOD that might occur between here and Toronto!

Me: (smiling calmly)

Him: I wouldn't be surprised if our stuff showed up on Ebay.

Me: (smiling calmly)

Him: By the way, you look great... I'm glad you went.

-----
Next: The art of knowing when to refuel PART II - ahhhh, Mother Nature

The Art of working through your s***

My place looks like a half-way house. (According to my daughter-in-law).

And I can't argue her to the contrary because I don't think I've ever been in a half-way house. I think it looks more like a storage facility packed by a dyslexic bunch with no concept of order.

But then again, it's not every day you see a table on its side, blocking two TV's, in front of a coffee table behind 3 couches, a queen size mattress, three desks, multiple plants with no access to sunlight, a hallway blocked by boxes and a few empty bookshelves randomly scattered throughout.

And that's just the living room.

The items of two and a half apartments have been stuffed into one - mine.

Until today.

Son #3 is moving into his new apartment as we speak and son #2 moved to Toronto this morning with his girlfriend.

It's been a helluva couple of months.

I have to admit, just yesterday, I couldn't take the dark curtains drawn anymore (it's been blistering hot) and I ripped everything open, heat be damned!

There was so much 'stuff' I was claustrophobic beyond.

But in a way I can hardly explain, it was loads of fun.

Maybe it's because I've never done the college dorm thing. Or maybe it's because when I was still a single parent I was scrambling to understand who I was and what had happened to me and missed out on 'just watching' the comaraderie between my boys.

Either way, I was privy to observing an unparalleled warmth between people - 3 boys and their 3 girlfriends - amid the mess, and it was a stellar experience.

I'm not saying they never fight. Or never swear for that matter. They can make an angry truck-driver sound like a good mennonite boy.

And trust me, when they're pissed at each other, everybody knows it.

All of a sudden, it's not "my brother this, my brother that", it's "your son is an asshole, you know that don't you?" to which I reply, "you mean your brother?" to which they reply, "not right now he's not!"

But they've learned an invaluable lesson that some people take a lifetime to figure out and others never do.

You can't be mad forever. It's EXHAUSTING.

It used to be when I heard the words, "Your son is a dick, I'm NEVER talking to him again, I MEAN IT!" I used to sweat bullets thinking my boys would split off from each other emotionally and it would leave a big gaping hole in my heart FOREVER.

But it always passes. It took me a long time to realize this because with some people, it never passes. Like my mom. That's what I was used to.

Every fight, every form of resentment was layered. My mom was like the bricklayer of personified hate.

But my kids have had so many fights over the years, and gotten to know each other so well, they just KNOW things always come right again. It's like an unwritten rule or something.

But it also requires work.

You have to want those relationships in your life. So you make it a priority to speak your mind and make it work. No matter what. The boys have learned to talk through all of their issues as they come up so there's very little build up.

So now, when they can have a wicked argument they can say (on the spot):

"I'll talk to you in a few days when I'm over it but right now I think you're a complete dick."

Meanwhile, I still have to work through my fear that they won't speak to each other EVER AGAIN. It's my first reaction. And I have to ask myself: Why?

And then it hit me. I think about my mom and how she handles conflict.

The difference between how she handles conflict (or anger) and how the boys do is like night and day.

They know they'll get over it and that anger is a temporary feeling.

She doesn't.

They know that love is where it's at and nothing in life is worth hating for an extended period of time because it sucks the life out of you. (And the joy out of your existence).

She feeds off it.

They forgive.

That word is not in her vocabulary.

They will take responsibility when they've done something wrong and actually admit it. Ie; each party apologizes for their part in the argument.

I have never heard my mom take responsibility for any of her actions.

Not once.

And she has never apologized. (Unless you count the time she called me from a psych ward in Germany after a ten year absence and in a creepy voice, said; I'm going to hell Nicole... for all the bad things I've done, I'm going to hell...) [her shaky voice trailing off]

And finally, before the boys let anything get out of hand in their minds (or let their imagination run wild), they clear the air.

Sure, some of those arguments aren't pretty, but they never last. It's all out in the open and whoever is wrong will listen to the reasoning of the other and if warranted, is prepared to admit their part in it.

And usually they discover, it takes two.

My mom has never done either; Not clear the air, nor has she ever admitted being wrong.

No sirree. Not her. She stews and sits in it (whatever it is) until it festers like a pussing wound and she's on the verge of exploding green crap or that yellow bile stuff.

And that's usually when she writes... A LETTER.

The last one came a week ago. Just a few weeks after I saw her. She didn't send it to me as she doesn't know where I live. (There's a reason I maintain address anonymity).

Unfortunately she sent it to son #3 to "pass along to your mother".

Fortunately, he had the good sense to read the first paragraph and realize it was another hate mail letter and threw it out without reading further.

And stuffed in the middle of this 'novella' (as my son referred to it) was a card I had sent her, torn in half. I can imagine the frenzied state she was in to do such a thing.

Then again, maybe I don't want to.

Part of me was mildly curious as to the contents of that letter. (I do somewhat possess a morbid curiosity as to why and for what reason she despises me so venomously).

The other part was grateful my son had the good sense to throw it out and by so doing, disengage in the drama.

The only reason he told me about the letter in the first place is because I had expressed to him that in spite of her 'digs' I thought my "visit with Grandma" had gone relatively well and I was contemplating when I should see her again.

He convinced me otherwise.

Smart kid.

So over the last month, when I looked around at the nuclear fallout of clothes and neverending 'stuff' around me, and witnessed 3 young men work through the emotions associated with being split up geographically (amid all the last minute stress) I thought to myself;

It's time I stop worrying about whether they are going to never talk to each other again after a big fight.

It's time I remind myself that my mother's approach to conflict is not theirs and NOT the norm.

It's time to remember that I am not my mother and that my life in no way, shape or form, either reflects her philosophies nor patterns itself on her way of being.

Not anymore...

The Art of Dealing with Mother Issues, Part II: getting over a pundit

It only took a few days to get over my visit with mom.

Not bad considering the collateral damage she tends to inflict in the course of a single conversation (and this was no exception).

She's like a wasp that leaves its stinger inside your skin. You swear you're okay after the attack because you can't find any blood, but it's still releasing poison into your system for days afterwards.

By the time you figure out where that stinger is embedded (and use Gestalt therapy to pull it out), it's already caused nerve damage.

And my nerves were shot.

Early in our conversation, she asked me what I would be teaching in the fall.

I said: Grade 3.

Her reply?

Why so low?

Gee thanks. But I get it.

The woman is a pundit and always has been. I should be used to it.

pundit def: a person who makes comments or judgments, esp. in an authoritative manner; critic or commentator.

Unfortunately, that was just the beginning.

She started asking me questions about my ex because she was "concerned for his well-being".

When I replied that I knew little about his current condition and did not know his whereabouts, she proceeded to berate me for not visiting him (as he is now bed-ridden due to MS). Then she pulled out a book of quotes from Mother Theresa, found a spot that was highlighted and read:

"Of all the illnesses and poverty I've seen, loneliness is still the worst thing of all".

You see, no one visits him anymore. And no one visits her.

Both are mentally twisted, both believe in revenge and holding grudges for all of eternity, both possess a superiority complex that makes the Nazi movement pale in comparison (no pun intended). As a result, both have successfully alienated everyone who loved them over the years with their words and actions.

And I mean everyone.

It's one thing to be mentally ill, but add insidious cruelty and you have a winning combination sure to discourage even the most resilient of visitors.

And both are equally capable of heinous violence. The only difference is that I experienced it first hand with my ex. And most of it was directed towards me. With my mother, it's all in her eyes. They're cold enough to send a shiver up the spine of the Abominable Snowman.

But my mom was adamant about how I should be more understanding. She raised an eyebrow and warned me that "God only accepts the merciful" and sealed my fate with authority as the personal pundit of Yahweh.

I smiled politely and patiently and said (only slightly sardonically I might add):

"I hear ya mom, and you know I don't wish him badly or anything, but I wasn't a big fan of taking those hits, so..."

To which she quickly replied,

"SO WHAT if he hit you?!"

...and proceeded to defend his honor.

That's right. My own biological mother chose my abusive ex over her own daughter.

Now at this point, I must make something clear. Some people have redeeming qualities but not my ex. There was absolutely nothing honorable about him. And to this day, there is nothing about him worth defending. It's that simple. And it's a fact.

He never worked, he never saw a doctor for his psychosis and to this day, he still feels justified and thinks his behaviour was normal, considers himself superior to the plebians in his midst and thinks everyone else missed the mark.

But there is beauty in all of this.

Now I finally understand why I got involved with him in the first place.

He's the male counterpart of my mother.

I could never fix my own mother so she could be a real mom because I was just a kid. But as an 18 year old girl, I figured I could fix someone who showed all the early signs of what she must have been like at his age - energetic, smart, full of big ideas and attractive, but arrogant and lazy.

You know, fixable potential.

There are still things I admire about my mom. The same as there always were. She's sharp (even if illogical), she reads with a vengeance and she's tough as nails. She won't let go of old stuff even if it kills her. Which is really too bad, because if she could she might stop hating everyone so much and that would improve the overall quality of her life.

But then again, it's probably what's kept her alive through three suicide attempts, years of alcohol abuse, pill popping, and that plastic surgery she had at the age of 72.

She's one helluva character.

When I finally looked at her with eyes wide open and realized that she was only defending my ex because she was sticking up for herself, I finally let something go...

I forgave myself for getting involved with a man who was beyond horrible and decided that I didn't need to beat myself up for that choice anymore.

It was over.

Another layer shed. Another shadow faced. Another riddle solved.

So when she kept at it, insisting that she needed his address so she could visit him, I finally said:

"Do you want me to take you to see him? Would that would make you happy?"

And when she nodded yes, I said, "I'll see what I can do" and smiled the genuine smile of someone who was finally released of the heavy burden associated with fixing the impossible.

Then I hugged her, told her I loved her and that it was time for me to go.

She gave me a necklace of black pearls from Tahiti as a parting gift, and walked me out, smugly thinking that she had just convinced me to be a better person and then rewarded me for it.

Little did she know, the gift she gave me was far greater than that...

Thanks mom...

The Art of dealing with Mother Issues - Part I - what's the big deal anyway?

I want to create a lengthy, detailed, no-holds-barred bucket list, spend my life checking off as many items as humanly possible then when I'm 95, turn to my partner (whoever that may be) and say:

"Goddamnit that was fun! Wanna do it again?" with a wink and a wicked smile.

Then I'll keep my fingers crossed at the prospect of another life so I can finish up what I started in this one.

But first, I have to deal with...

mother issues

Ah yes, those lovely, debilitating, mom issues.

Because if I don't remove the old emotional blocks that hamper my progress (in all areas of my life from career to relationships) then I have to factor in the extra time I will require for therapy with friends (over beer n' nachos) when I'd rather be spending that time talking about boys (and ordering good wine and fresh oysters).

It's as simple as that.

Because those darn childhood/parent issues have a habit of impeding the energetic flow you need to make your dreams come true. ie; They get in the way.

I'm not saying you need a cohesive nuclear family to make it work. But it sure makes it a lot easier if your mom (or any primary caregiver) loved and wanted you.

But mothers are people too. And not all of them are white-picket-fence/Martha-Stewart/stay-at-home-moms-or-career-women who fiercely love their children. I for one, have many faults, (not the least of which were my motherhood techniques), but mess with my offspring and I'll kill ya. And my kids know it. (At least they've got that).

Some people just never wanted to be mothers. It's not that they hate you (not really), it's just that without you around, they would have liked their life way better and they don't do much to hide that fact from you.

Sometimes, they even tell you.

Ouch.

So to make up for it you spend your life trying to be worthy enough for someone to love you but there's no end to it because you've only got one mom and if you miss the boat on that one... well... that can get you into a whole whack o' trouble because if you're starting at the bottom (ie; your mom doesn't want you) then you don't exactly have to reach very high to raise the bar now do you?

Get my drift?

But the good news is, there is an end to it.

At some point you have to accept, you have to forgive, and you have to find ways to love yourself the way your mother never could.

And the tricky part is, that validation can't come from anybody else but you. In a way, you have to be your own mother.

You have to do for you, what she couldn't.

It's a good thing I like beer n' nachos...

The Art of the Bucket List

We've been doing the Bucket List project at school this week. 100 things to do before you die.

Nice way to wrap things up. Or so I thought. You know, get my walking hormone pack to think about something besides bikinis, six-packs and beaches.

I thought I was making progress with them until someone asked me if "Sleep with Drake" was an appropriate goal.

I looked up quizically and squinted my eyes at her as if that would improve my hearing or change what she said and finally realized with some dismay that she was dead serious.

"Take a wild guess" I said dryly.

"Uh, no"?

"Good guess".

Wait a minute, I thought, Who's Drake?

So I asked her.

"Who's Drake"?

"A rapper", She replied casually.

That figures, I thought as I shrugged my shoulders and she crossed him off her list.

But apart from those kinds of responses and the predictable "win the lottery", (ie; I'm too lazy to think this through) as time went by, most kids began to take the list more seriously. And watching that happen was very cool.

100 things to do before you die.

It can be pretty daunting.

Once you hit about 30 things, it gets tougher unless your goal is to visit every city in the world and then all you have to do is get an Atlas and you're golden.

But that's cheating. (There's honor in writing the list).

Making a list however, becomes more manageable if you break it up into the seven categories I've mentioned before based on Canfield's Principles of Success;

personal relationships, finances, career, health and fitness, self-improvement, relationships, and contribution to society.

And the idea is not to overwhelm yourself with so many damn goals at once that suddenly you feel like you won't do any of them.

That would be like a writer giving themselves a deadline of 2000 words a day (ahem) knowing the pressure to do so would probably force them to clean their bathroon instead so they could avoid it entirely.

And we've all been there.

A good bucket list takes a long time to make. Not just one afternoon, or even one day. You have to stew on it. It has to simmer in the slow-cooker of your mind until all the flavors come together and the gravy starts to look like gravy instead of a cornucopia of veggies, meat and stock.

And what feels like individual pieces of an incomplete puzzle begins to come together and resemble a docket of your life.

And the things that excite you are the very things that begin to define who you are.

As you write the list, you get to know yourself. That's one of the subtler benefits.

You get to know what your priorities are, whether you're a risk-taker or more conservative, whether you choose security over freedom, whether you embrace a white picket fence or the gypsy within.

You start to feel the extent of your comfort zone or even the self-imposed boundaries of your existence.

And the list becomes an entity that grows into more specifics as your vision expands. And you expand with it because self-understanding is one of the keys to experiencing the richness of life and somewhere along the way, you figure that out.

Somewhere along the way, you become more specific about what you want.

You go from writing "I want to go to Europe" to:

"I want to say 10 'Hail Mary's' while kneeling in the first pew of Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris after first sipping an espresso in a neighborhood cafe".

But these things take time.

That's why these lists must be reviewed periodically. As you change so do the things on your list. Some things are crossed off because either you've done them, or they no longer serve you, or they just don't make sense anymore.

It's all about self-discovery.

But everybody's gotta start somewhere - even if that somewhere is, "Sleep with Drake".

In the words of Margaret Young:

You must first be who you really are, then do what you need to do, in order to have what you want.