The Blessing of Defeat

     

You should never cry in the blistering sun; save that for the cool of the shadows. I saw my daughter welling up with tears and knew it was time to move to the shade. You see, a summer worth of work had ended in a flash of empty handedness and she was crushed. But this isn't really a story about a 10 year old dancer being sad; it is a story about resiliency and determination. It is a story about my Hannah.

We are notoriously late. Friends tease me about it; seems it is my birthright to be fashionably late. This works for casual soirées and coffee dates after work...not so much for church, school or dance competitions. The competition was her goal all summer and now mere days from the start of school it was here, and we were behind schedule. So much so that I agreed to meet my family a short while later to be sure we could get Hannah registered in time for her first dance. In Sean's attempt to help me he grabbed my purse for me and took it with him. In Hannah's attempt to help me she had loaded lots of my usual items in said purse; including my car keys. Sean drove off with kids, and purse, in tow and off went my keys and my only way to get to them. 

Now comes the question, do you turn around for me or head off for Hannah? We chose Hannah. I stand by the decision because it taught her that when push comes to shove in our lives, her needs matter enough to trump someone else's-even mine. That was blessing number one to come from this day filled to the tippy top with frustration.

I found the next blessing in an unexpected place. I found that even now, as a fully grown woman, sometimes the one person who can fix the problem is your mom. Ironic though, considering it was my role as a mom that I was grappling with. My mother came and picked me up after offering to drive me the hour to get to the games. I'm not sure what her plans were for the day as I think I was too wrapped up in my own world to ask, but she silently forfeited them to my need to make good on motherhood.

 

Blessing three happened when I made it to the dance field two brief sets before Hannah's fifth and final dance. I had hated myself for missing the first four with the bright red hate that only a mother who has let her children down can know. As we drove in, knowing I had just barely made it in time for that last dance was like salve on a burn. 

Now for clarity's sake, Hannah was sure all this was her fault, as every 10 year old would be. I had told her otherwise on the phone during a botched encouragement speech, her dad had told her this as well but she would hear none of it. The weight of the day pressed on her and her dances showed it. My skilled dancer turned into a girl with the world on her shoulders, and that weight makes it very difficult to perform the Highland Fling. Competition is tough at Highland Games, and very little communication is offered on where you did well and where to improve. You never know your score, just the placement of the top four dancers-of which Hannah was not a part. This was her crushing blow. Numbers flew through the air as they called girls up for medals; '176'-Hannah's number-was never called.

She took it on the chin and just watched as medals were presented to girl after girl but I saw her shrink; more shrivel, really. It was then we headed for shade so the tears could flow. Hiding behind a judges tent she let herself fall apart. I apologized for the ridiculousness of the start of the day and told her I imagined that is what threw her off her dances, coupled with the nerves of her first ever competition. She agreed. 

While I held her in that shade, blessing four was out of my mouth faster than I had the chance to think about it. I told Hannah I was proud of her, not for medals, but for trying. Proud of her because when the going gets tough so many of us, myself included on many occasions, give up trying. I told her that when you are nearing the end of being in labour with a baby, you want to give up because it is hard...but you must keep on trying. I told her that when you are out of money you can't give up, you have to keep on working to get your needs and the needs of those relying on you met....and I told her that when you feel like a failure as a mother because you missed most of your daughter's dance competition you have to keep on trying to be a good mom-the mom your kids deserve. I also told her when I was her age, I would have quit, and the fact that she didn't told me more about her than a trophy for dancing ever would have. I knew none of this would take the sting of defeat away, but it might ease it for her...and for me. 

The blessings were rolling in hard and fast now; blessing five...Meghan looked up at her and said,' I'm proud of you Hannah...you're the best sister ever and a great dancer. You are a winner to me.' I was speechless. Blessing six, my brave girl got up on the stage for the massed fling and with tear stained cheeks danced her heart out for me, so I would get the chance to see her up there; and she nailed it. Now it was my cheeks that were tear stained.

The last blessing, was watching her eyes light up as her daddy hung a silver Celtic heart around her neck; her medal from him. Not for the best Fling, or Sword or Flora but for being the best Hannah she could be. For just being her and with the silent promise that that was effectively enough to be medal worthy in his eyes. One of the few opportunities in life when we are told we are enough and for that moment we believe it. 

This was not the day I had expected when I woke up, but the important ones seldom are. The blessings cloaked in hurt and frustration had made their way to us all and when it was said and done I was madly in love and bloody well exhausted. Hannah, always try. You will not be successful every time, but you will never win if you never try. And see the blessings in the moments where you miss the mark...they always mean the most and last the longest. 

<3

                                 

 

My Story is on My Skin

I have freckles that appear on my skin when I am out in the sun. This is who I am; because my mother has the same skin, so did my grandmother and I can only image her mother did as well. My story is on my skin. I am a culmination of all these women. I am the result of their years of joy and heartache and I share their story; on my skin.

I have a bumpy pale scar on my left knee and a twist of skin on my right wrist; all war wounds from a youth well played. When I am a shrivelled up old woman I will still have physical proof that I rode my bike down the gargantuan gravel hill and made it...most of the way. I will still have proof that the wind whipped through my hair and sun shone on my back. I will be able to tell a small child that it is, in fact, a bad idea to stand on the back of someone’s skis when they are headed downhill. This was a lesson I learned at Smuggler’s Notch Vermont on a high school ski trip, that my wrist now reminds me daily. I don’t recall it hurting all that much when it happened but the scar remains as my skin tells my story. 

My ring finger on my left hand has a light tan line, regardless of the time of year. We couldn’t afford an engagement ring when we got married so I used my grandmother's and wore a silver band purchased at a Highland Games in Fergus, Ontario. Only 10 years later as we renewed our vows did I get my own wedding set. It never mattered what rings were on my finger, it left the same mark. My heart has known all along that I was his regardless of how much we had and what we could afford; my skin tells that story as well. My whole being is married to him and we share a new story each and every day.

I had smooth skin all over my abdomen 11 years ago; but after that my skin; and my story would be forever changed.  Christmas Eve of 2002 I held my little baby in my arms for the first time and through bleary exhaustion and fading pain I knew I was a new creature. I was a mother. My soul knew it but my skin would tell that story for the rest of my life. My badge of honour for the hours spent labouring a child I would die for to her first breath of life.

My skin story is so much a part of me I couldn’t be without it. I wear it every day and though some days I think I am falling apart; my story keeps me together. There will be many more scars and marks my story will share with my skin before the day I will just be a story. I choose to love each and everyone because they are mine, they are me.

But I Did

I could hear the gravel crunching beneath my feet and the far off whistle of a train charging down the tracks. I could hear the chorus of a million crickets in the grass as a gentle breeze blew. I could hear the mourning dove and the bark of a lonely dog. These were the sounds that filled my ears on a walk I didn't want to take; but I did. 

I didn't want to go to the hall for this reason today today; didn't want to don my fire department uniform or turn my phone off. None of us wanted to; but we did.

I didn't want to make idle chit chat with folks I see only once or twice a year. I didn't want to awkwardly drink sweet juice or eat a brown sugar topped square. I didn't want to sit in a line in a quiet corner and not know what to say. But I did. 

I didn't want to see the puffy eyes of a young lady I have known since before she was in kindergarten. I didn't want to see the stoic face of a brother-less boy from my daughter's class. I didn't want to struggle to know what to say to a mother who has lost her first born or see the oceans of ache in a father's eyes; but I did. 

I didn't want to see my community try to keep it together in the face of something that we never believed would actually happen, but it did. 

I didn't think it would hurt that much when it was so crucial; to see it, to feel it, to be surrounded by it. But it did.

I didn't want my daughter to wonder how a boy she knew could be gone. I didn't want to feel so selfish when I held her tight as she let hot tears roll down her cheeks. But I did. 

Your life was so short but now is the time to rest and be at peace. David, you touched me more than you could know, because I didn't think I could learn how to be faithful, brave and real from a child. But I did. 

Thank you for Being a Friend

Ok, so who among you is now humming the Golden Girls theme song? Just me? Oh well...

I have been blessed to share my life with some amazing people. Family, friends, friends so close they should be family, a few people I couldn't stand but they taught me a lot...either way, each a blessing. Their influence has been far reaching and long lasting. 

Tonight I found out that one of my dearest friends, who like many people that I love sadly I have lost touch with, is going to be available for a visit this month coming up.  I don't really know why Kate and I lost touch, but we did; probably my stubbornness and pride...it is usually the culprit. She stood up for me when I got married, was the first friend I shared the news that I was going to be a mom with, and the first friend I called to tell Hannah had arrived. We met in university and became fast friends. She got me on a level no one else did, and loved me even still. We shared lots of honesty...even the hard kind. She moved to California not long after Meg was born, but held my hand thought the first few tough weeks of being a mom of two. 

I can't say that I held her hand when she needed it most. In fact I think I did the opposite, I was so wrapped up in my own life. My actions, or paralysis of action is on my list of requested do-overs. I wish there was a way to get back the last 7 years of being too ashamed to call or email; but there isn't. There is right now though. Right now I am amazed she still wants to see me. Right now I am so relieved that she has a braver sprit than I do. Right now I am wishing my house was cleaner, my clothing size was smaller and my face was younger but, right now, despite all that, I am burstingly happy because right now I remember what real friendship looks like. Thank you Kate, I can't wait to see you.

Kate isn't the only great friend I went MIA on; there have been others. I think when my insecurities get a hold of me I doubt myself so deeply that I doubt those that love me. It isn't fair and it isn't right but it has been serial behaviour for me. For some reason I can convince myself that I am not worth loving and as such walk away from them before they have a chance to walk away from me. Seems ridiculous right? The preemptive breakup with the quality of friend that wouldn't leave you when you are down. Now that said, had any of them called me and said they needed me, I would have moved heaven and earth to help them. honestly though, I gave them no reason to believe I would come through on the big stuff when I couldn't even return a phone call.

Jennifer and I are 5 days apart. We took great pride in being each others first friends. We both grew up in the same hole-in-the-wall hamlet in southern Ontario and were the kind of young friends that would hide when a parent came to pick us up, like if they couldn't find us we wouldn't have to part. At 8 years old she moved and it was the beginning of the end. We got back in touch in high school, and it was great for a long time, but I always felt like I wasn't in the same league as her. She was a natural at being...everything. She was great at being intensely happy and great at being intensely sad. She loved with a full heart and I knew she loved me. But I could never figure out why and so we had this unwritten competition. Where I would subconsciously try and keep up with her and I often felt she would then push to keep up with me. I didn't go to her wedding, cause I was mad she didn't ask me to be in it, so juvenile, right? Here's the kicker...I hadn't asked her to stand up for me, so what did I expect? I don't really know, but when I didn't get it I bailed on her special day...and lost a dear friend.

I walked away from Kathy back in her first year of college. She and I had been inseparable our whole childhoods. Her parents had been like surrogates to me and I could find my way around her house in the dark like it was my own. She sat beside me while I dealt with my dad's passing. She and I shared every adolescent high and low out there. She was as close to a sister as I have ever or likely will ever know. Now Kathy was athletic, beautiful, funny and far better adjusted than I was, but for some reason she still loved me. In true sister style, I never felt like I measured up. The dumb thing, that would occur to me too late into my disappearing act, was to her I did measure up. To her I was enough. It was all in my head that I faltered. Now I see her on Facebook. Her beautiful family, her life which looks like I would have wished for her. Her smiling kids are like a snapshot of the face I grew up with and I love it. I hope that over time we can find a new ground with a full history. For that I must be the brave one though. For that I can't wait and hope that something else will bring her back to me; I will have to swallow that pride and say what is on my mind....I'm sorry and...

Thank you for being a friend 

Traveled down the road and back again 

Your heart is true, you're a pal and a confidant. 

And if you threw a party 

Invited everyone you knew 

You would see the biggest gift would be from me 

And the card attached would say thank you for being a friend.

There now you're ALL humming the Golden Girls... 😉

A Cacophony of Joy

I sit here drenched in the solid sun of a Prairie afternoon, though the Ontario girl in me chose a home littered with trees. The gloriously tall poplar trees that sound like the rustling of my grandmother's yard, give home to a multitude of birds and kiss the summer goodbye with a golden glow. That is the sound that fills my ears today in this exquisite sun. Perfect right? There is one key element still needed in this mix. One I would have missed even a decade ago. The sound of giggling. Full on, wildly joyous laughter. The sound of silliness. This is the sound of the invention of new worlds and the creation of memories. The sound of kids at work. This is the sound of childhood.

Today I am blessed enough to have that laughter surround me. My three children are playing like mad with some friends of theirs; the children of some of our best friends. It is wonderful to watch them plot and plan the best fort, giggle at each others silly faces and laugh their way through the sunny afternoon. 

This was posted by an old friend on Facebook this week and it got me thinking of how many wonderful memories I have from the children of my childhood. Many were from my neighbourhood, but I also went to school in another community so there were also many from school. I am crummy at staying in touch with people...and I hate that part of me. In fact it was another resolution of this year; to tell people I am thinking of them and how much I love them as I think it...not after it is too late. I miss so many of the unique people I was lucky enough to be surrounded by and the sounds in my yard now remind me of afternoons of my own childhood and the many adventures we enjoyed. We as parents often crave a few moments of silence, but today I am revelling in the boisterously beautiful noise. So with out further ado, here is my list of some wonderful JOY sounds. 

A new baby's cry

Three times in my life I have heard the first utterance of a human being's life. That very first cry out to the world saying 'at long last I am here' is like no other sound and one that has been written on my soul in indelible ink. Many of the cries a baby makes in its early years can be exasperating but that first one...is precious.

A purring cat

I had the best cat ever growing up; her name was Sweet-pea. She was a tiny cat with a big heart and an even bigger purr. Each night she slept with me and the sound of her purring was the most simple and joyful lullaby. Knowing she was as at peace with me as I was with her was purr-fection....

The sound of a child praying 

I have a hard time praying sometimes, because I get caught up in the words. Grownups worry about what words they should say to the Divine, not wanting to say the wrong thing; but not kids. Kids just say whatever is on their hearts and that is the epitome of unabashed praying. That is what God wants and what I let my pride get in the way of. That is real respect for the Divine...that is joyful love.

The sound of the orchestra warming up before a show

I attended a lot of theatre as a child, it was one of my favourite things. Musicals, opera, ballet, performance theatre... I loved it all and it all started with the orchestral warm up. The orchestra pit would come to life and a special electricity would fill the room. I remember saying to my Godmother (one of my favourite people in the world) that I knew the song they were playing; feeling quite pleased with how cultured I was...it was a number of years before I understood why she dissolved in laughter. Of course it was just the warm up but it was a sound I knew and loved...and was totally charged with joy for me.

That perfect song that allows you to time travel

Some songs are veritable DeLoreans. I can be in the parking lot of my high school everytime I hear 'Killing Me Softly' by the Fugees. I can be  back at camp every time I hear 'Father and Son' by Cat Stevens or 'Hello Again' by Neil Diamond. I can be driving with my mom when I hear 'Prisoner of Love' by Perry Como or snuggled on my Uncle Doug's lap every time I hear 'Pussy Willows Cattails' by Gordon Lightfoot; and I love going back to all these places for a re-visit. There are many more songs that allow a trip back, though not every place is a pleasant memory. Either way-even the sad ones are precious to me and I find an odd joy in every last one.

The song from the original Super Mario Bros 

I was never lucky enough to have an NES, but my bestie Kathy had one. We spent hours sitting in her basement playing in the dark with the most comfortable corduroy pillows ever. That sound...come on...you know the song I mean...dum, dum, dum, da, dum, da, dum...da, da, da, dum, da, dum, dum, da, dum, dum....sorry got caught up. Anyhow, that song sounds like time with her. It sounds like a challenge...it sounds like my whole generation. I never did rescue the princess...but it is still a bucket list item.

Thunder

I adore a big thunder storm. I love the flashes of light and the house shaking booms. It is loud as can be and nothing is better as far as sounds to fall asleep to. A good snuggle from my husband during a thunderstorm and truth be told there isn't much more I could ask for in life.

These are just a few things I love to hear...among many. What are your most joyous sounds? What noisy love do you crave in your life? 

❤ Cat

Refining My Brokenness

So one of my resolutions this year was to write more, or at least again. I have always healed, laughed and lived through my writing but for some reason over the last few years I have stopped baring my soul through pen and ink. It is a little like deciding to stop breathing to a writer, but I am deciding to take a deep breath again. I am deciding to write again. so I know who I am. So my kids will know who I was. So I can find out who I am becoming.

I am going to start by trying out Lisa-Jo Baker's Five Minute Friday. The plan is you write for 5 minutes on a particular topic provided by her each Friday, (no editing or re-writes...just unadulterated writing) today's prompt was BROKEN....so here goes...

BROKEN:

I grew up believing I was broken. I was broken cause I didn't have my dad. That if he was here I would experience an insta-fix. i guess that is why I wanted to have someone in my life always...never wanted to be alone. I figured that somehow a man would come into my life and fix me…’cause that is what men do isn’t it? I grew up believing that to be broken because you didn't have a dad or man was something you needed to be ashamed of and hide. You hide you're hurt. I’m not even really sure who taught me that lesson; but I knew it as surely as I knew I was broken.

Now many more moons than I would have liked have passed…and let’s be honest I’m still a little broken. I’m still a little convinced that I should be hiding it. The difference is that now I am sure that I am not the only one experiencing waves of brokenness. I am certain that we are all in our own way and in our own time breaking, repairing… breaking and repairing, refining ourselves like shining silver.

That man I dreamed of did come into my life. I am certain that the most honourable thing that my husband has done for me though is to sit beside me while I cry over my brokenness realizing I am not alone. He has watched me, encouraged me, cheered for me, covered for me and sheltered me while I fixed myself. He has never ‘fixed’ me; he has just loved me through my brokenness… despite my brokenness… sometimes because of my brokenness.

I don’t always love the realization that I am, in fact, broken at times. But I love the strength that comes from the refiner’s fire as the brokenness, my imperfections are burned off.