My father warned me just after Kenzie was born that now that I had a child of my own, time would fly by - and it has.

On Sunday, Mackenzie will turn sixteen.   Even with the warning, the years have flown by faster than I thought possible.

In the past few weeks my heart has been flooded with memories.  In my minds eye I can see a little girl, skin speckled with mosquito bites making mud pies in the backyard.  Kenzie always had dirt under her fingernails, and her had was forever a tangled mass.  I remember brushing hair, the back so curly and fine that it was impossible to get the tangles out without hurting her - and I tried so hard not to hurt her. 

I also remember how cautious she was when she attempted a new skill, like her first time crossing the street by herself.  We had given her instructions to make sure she looked both directions.  Kenzie looked to the left, she looked to the right - no cars, she looked to the left, she looked to the right - no cars she did this over and over until she was confident that it was safe to cross.  And then a car passed by.  So she had to start the process all over again.  The poor thing stood on that corner a long time that day.  But she didn't give up, she didn't ask for help.

Another time Kenzie showed determination was when she taught herself to ride a bike.  At seven, John and I could see that she was no where near ready for the training wheels to come off, she just didn't have the balance.  But when she asked her Dad to take off her training wheels, John decided to give her a chance.  Kenzie tried for weeks to get the hang of it.  Over and over she would peddle a few strokes, then loose her balance and have to steady herself with her feet.  The neighbourhood all watched her try and fail, try and fail.  One neighbour came to me and suggested that we just put the wheels back on.  I didn't want to do that to her.  Because even though it was hard, she wasn't giving up and I wasn't about to give up on her either.  When she eventually did ride, I couldn't have been prouder.  It didn't come easy for her and she didn't give up.

Witnessing my daughter grow up has been one of the great gifts in my life.  Kenzie has a strength that I admire.  Because of her I want to be a better woman myself.   

Sixteen.  It's a big year.  She has been studying her driver's handbook, and has her first job.  At sixteen, she could meet the love of her life (I did) or have her heart broken for the first time.  This week, she brought home paper work for a SHSM (Specialized High School Major) in Health and Wellness.  Kenzie is planning long term goals that aren't so long term anymore.  I feel like she is on the cusp of something great and this will be the year she will soar.

I think that Kenzie believes this herself.  She has choosen One Little Word for 2012 as well.  FORWARD.  Seems appropiate.

Happy Birthday Kiddo, love you. xoxo

One Little Word::Easy

One Little Word is a class I'm taken over at Big Picture Classes taught by Ali Edwards.  The  concept of One Little Word is that you choose a word to embody how wish live your year.

Last year for my one little word, I choose THRIVE.  Thriving taught me lessons and pushed me to grow into parts of myself I didn't know existed.  But after a year of flourishing and developing vigorously, I'm exhausted.

When I began to think about what word I would want for 2012, I joked that I wanted an easy year.  Would easy be such a bad word?  Easy has so many negative associations but the more I thought about it the more EASY started to make sense to me.  From the Gage Canadian Dictionary:

Easy - {ee-zee} adjective
1. requiring little effort.
2. free from pain, discomfort, trouble or worry: an easy life.
3. giving comfort or rest: easy chair.
4. fond of comfort or rest; lazy.
5. not harsh, not severe: easy terms.
6. not hard to influence, ready to agree with or help. Choose whichever one you wish, I'm easy.
7. smooth and pleasant; not awkward: easy manners.
8. not tight loose: an easy fit.
9. not fast, slow: an easy pace.
10. promiscuous
11. of a money market, favorable to borrowers.

I'm sure my husband wouldn't mind easy meaning promiscuous. 
But easy could mean so much more for me.   
Easy means letting go of the struggle.  Easy means that I don't define myself with my struggles.  Easy means acceptance, peace and joy.  Easy means rest and reflection.  Easy means laughter.  Easy means finding answers to problems not dwelling on problems.  Easy means freedom.

I'm ready for easy. 

Happy Birthday Grandma.

 My daughter and I were chatting the other day about how often you should brush your hair. We both agreed that even though it's not recommended brushing 100 strokes a day, it just feels so good.  I was reminded of a time where my hair was brushed over and over again.

I remember sitting on my grandparents front porch.  It was coffee break on the last day of my week long stay with Grandma and Grandpa. I sipped my lemonade from the orange plastic tumbler, while she and Grandpa drank their coffees.  I sat one step down, between my grandmother's legs, while she brushed my hair dry in the summer sun.  I didn't have what you would call pretty hair.  My hair was wavy and coarse, a mousy shade of brown.  To top it off, literally, I had a double crown, so it looked like I had a small squirrel on top of my head.  Anyways, that day sitting in the sun, sipping lemonade, with Grandma, I felt pretty.  I don't know if I have ever felt more loved. 

I think about Grandma a lot but especially at this time of year.  Yesterday would have been her 88th birthday, but that's not why autumn reminds me of her.  Fall was Grandma's favourite season.  Thinking of the fall, without thinking of Grandma would be like fall with out the brilliant colours, or fall without the crisp cool temperatures.

With apologies to all the rock stars in my life - my husband, my parents, my children, my best girl friends, I am going on record as saying my maternal Grandmother is my all time favourite person.  If you met her, you'd know why.

She was born Angelina Tibando.  Being of Italian descent during a war where Italy was your enemy, couldn't have been easy.  Not one to hang her head in shame, Grandma signed up to help the war effort.  It was her army girlfriends who renamed her Cora - but I'm not sure why.  The army was where my grandparents met. Grandma had slipped and fallen into a mud puddle, and Grandpa helped her up.  They were married six weeks later.  

When I think of what love looks like, I think of my grandparents.  They loved each other beyond words.  You could feel their love when you were in the room with them.  When Grandpa died, Grandma slipped their love letters in his front pocket.  "Grandma," I said to her, "Why are you sending them with Grandpa?  Don't you want to read them?"  No, she wanted to send them with Grandpa, that way when she's gone, none of us would be able to snoop. I assumed that the letters were filled with cute little I love yous, but the way Grandma blushed told me I was wrong.

The other thing I remember about Grandpa's funeral, is that Grandma asked us not to wear black.  She herself wore a yellow dress, the exact same shade as a Black Eyed Susan.  Grandma was sad, but strong.  I knew that she would miss my grandfather, but I also knew that she was going to be okay.

Of course she would be okay. She wasn't about to sit around and wait to die.  Seriously, this is what she said to me when I remarked one visit that I thought it was neat that she was trying to root a rose she had been given.

I don't usually remember Grandma with sadness.  I miss her, but I know she would want us to remember her in her yellow dress, laughing, trying new things and exploring her world.  

me and my pet squirrel.

grandma and I at the "falls"

a love beyond words.

Five Years.

I got off my bike and looked out at the vacant picnic area.  

A family should be here, enjoying the last days of summer, laughing, playing, making memories.

Once upon a time it was our family that would have been here. Once upon a time. When we were whole.  This weekend marked the fifth anniversary of my mother in laws passing. 

There could have been 100 families here, it wouldn't have made a difference to how I felt- Empty and hollow, missing her so much.

Because my daughter misses the sound of her slippers scuffing across the floor.  Because amid the clutter on my teenage son's dresser is a picture of his Grandma.  Because a little boy holds on to the memory of a Grandmother who would give him treats in a Ziploc baggie each time he left her house.  Because another little boy doesn't remember her at all.  Because Charlie sleeps with the Bunny she gave him for Easter.  Because her grandchildren have missed out on one of life's great treasures, but holding on to the few memories they have as tight as Charlie hangs on to Mr. Bunny.

Because Because Ray is now a widower.  Trying to fit into a world of couples.  Because he goes to the cemetery on Sunday mornings.  Because he's alone.


Because her kids had to grow up in an instant.  Because living without your mom, your cheerleader, your guide and compass is hard.  Because time makes it easier, and then it hits you just how long it's been since she called your name or you heard the sound of her laughter. 

 Looking at where we once played, I felt so alone, and missed her so much.  

The Runaway Road

In 1980, my mom signed me up for the book of the month club.  I was part of a club - the Book Club.  I felt privileged.  I had bragging rights that a younger sister doesn't often get.  I was a brat.  But could you blame me -I was just so excited to get my books in the mail. The fact that they were hardcovers made them all the more special. 

Sadly, I was never really a book of the month club member.  Mom must have signed me up for the free, no obligation trial offer.  Two books were all I ever got to read. I remember the outrage when a third book came in the mail. 
"I bet they think that the books come and you will feel you have to keep them when your kid sees them.  That's what they are counting on."  Mom said to one of her friends on the phone, "Well, that's too bad, because it's going back!"   I thought she was all talk.  I believed that she would at least let me keep the third book, and cancel after that.  Nope, true to her word the mystery book was returned.  The third book was never taken out of the packaging.   

But it's the second book that I've been thinking about.  The second book I received in the mail was The Runaway Road, by Stan Mack.  The story is about the Puddle Family who are packed up and ready to go on their annual vacation to the mountains.  Just as the Puddles began their journey, the road had other plans.  Instead the road runs away and takes them in a new direction.  The road, who was  sick of the mountains, decides it wants go to the beach.  Metaphorically teaching The Puddles that life doesn't always goes as planned, sometimes even the deepest engraved routines change with life's winding road. 

I can relate to the Puddle family, change is constant.  And I can also relate to the road.

Just like the road in the story, I ran away this weekend.  I made the list, packed the clothes, the toiletries, the first aid kit, the grocerys.  I planned the meals and prepared dinners and salads, then I made a bee line out of town. 

I ran away because in order refuel for life, I needed to separate from it.  I left behind the distractions  - the drama, Gramma's half empty messy apartment, the uncertainty of what September will bring.   I left it all behind and found peace.  When we returned Sunday afternoon I could breathe again.  Ready to handle whatever changes the road may bring.

a letter to my mother

This post is an excerpt from the love letter I gave my mom on her birthday:

Dear Mom, Today as we celebrate you I wanted to let you know how important you are in my life. Happy Birthday. Just like it is hard for me to believe that my kids are growing up, it's hard for me to believe that you have reached this milestone. You have traveled sixty five times around the sun, and with each passing you have learned a little bit more about yourself, with each time around you have grown more beautiful.

There are so many moments in my life where I felt your love and pride. Moments where you made me feel like I was the most important person in the world. And today, I am wondering did I leave you with the same feeling? Do you know how much I love you, how proud I am of you?

I am proud that you let your emotions flow so freely. I am proud that you are the kind of lady who  laughs so hard she pees her pants.  When something sad touches your heart, you cry just as easily.  You live out loud.  Experiencing your life to its fullest.   

I admire how courageously adapted to the stages of your life.  Whether the changes of your life were new and exciting or challenging and difficult, you have met them with an open heart.  Always remaining optimistic about what the future may hold.

I am thirty seven years old.  An adult.  Gone is the mouthy child who thought she knew it all.  In her place stands a woman who still looks to her mother as a compass when making decisions.  A sail when she needs encouragement.  And an anchor when she needs comfort and stability.  Thank-you for these gifts.    I love you so much, xoxo.





Summer's Growth

Summer is the space between springs promise and fall's bounty.  Summer is the season to grow.

 

As a child I often suffered terrible growing pains in my legs, the kind that would wake you up from sleep.  My mother would give me a baby aspirin and tuck me back into bed.  I would whimper in my bed as I waited for the medicine to work.  This would wake my older sister.  She would get up and wrap my legs in the afghan that Aunt Marg knit.  As long as I could remember the people who loved and cared for me always helped me with my growing pains.

I have experienced so much growth this year.  It's not surprising.  My one little word for 2011 was thrive:

(1) to make steady progress; prosper. 

(2) to grow vigorously; flourish

Maybe I didn't think my word all the way through.  Growth often uncomfortable.  And while a baby aspirin and my legs lovingly wrapped in a blanket isn't going to help my growing pains, it is still my family that I am look to for comfort and encouragement.

When I was editing my pictures, putting together the collages for this post, I felt overwhelming feeling of love and pride.  Seeing us camping, at the beach or just hanging out together, I know that John and I have built a strong foundation.  A strong base that will support all of us as we grow and thrive.  

where to go from here

I haven't posted here in a while.  It's not that I don't have the words, God knows that the words have been racing around my head, yelling so loud that I can't make them out.  I have the words, and yet my voice is gone.

To quiet the noise, I've been working my ass off.  Stripping and sanding a deck, planning birthday parties, packing, laundry, cleaning the kids rooms, anything.  Busy work I call it.  Like if I work hard enough, than that will make me enough.

Enough.  I'm so sick and tired of trying to be enough, and the journey to enoughness.  And enough by whose standards?  Mine?  Theirs?  And who the hell are they anyway?  I've read so many stories on the Internet of women who seem to step into their enoughness effortlessly.  Like they wake up one morning and there they are, fully capable and confident in themselves.  Never stepping back into the shadows of self consciousness.  How is it so easy for them?  What is stopping me from this awakening? 

Is it supposed to be an awakening?  A light bulb, aha moment?  Because if it is, I've had a few of those.  The problem is these flashes of light always seem to dim, and I am left questioning myself amid the dark self doubt that lurk in my mind.  

I question the choices I've made, and even worse the choices I didn't make.  I question why I am where I'm at.  I am stay at home mom.  This has been my job for the last seven years.  In my job there are no pay stubs and no T4 slips.  Monetary rewards are something I gave up in return for the opportunity to care for my family.

I know it was a choice that made a difference.  I know it was enough.  I mattered.  I believe this, and yet part of me feels like I let myself down.  That in caring for my family I lost my voice.

In September my job is being downsized.  Charlie is going to be in school full time.  My job, a big part of my identity will be eliminated.  This chapter of my life is coming to a close and I don't know where my story is going.

I'm not sure where to go from here.

And if all this self doubt talk has you wanting to scream, "You stupid, spoiled girl. Get a grip, pull out your big girl panites and get on with life," don't worry you're not alone.  I've said it to myself a thousand times. 

I just need to quiet the noise in my head to clear so I can hear it.

Playing House - the reality.

The ache for home lives in all of us,

the safe place where we can go

as we are and not be questioned.

-Maya Angelou

  

Like many little girls, my favourite game to play was house. Taking care of my family of Cabbage Patch Kids, brought me such joy. I spent many hours imagining what my home would look and feel like. My reality - my grown up home, is so much sweeter than anything I could have dreamt up in my childhood games.   I have been blessed.  Hopefully for many years to come my reality will be better than my dreams, but life moves on.

Yesterday, we moved Gramma into long term care.  My head knows that this is what is best for her, but my heart aches for her.  

My heart is breaking for the little girls inside all of us women who played house and dreamed about our futures. 

This wasn't part of her dream.  It's not part of any of our dreams.   

This is what I've been thinking about as I strip the wallpaper in her apartment.  I am stripping away the layers of her dreams.  Crazy, I know - but still part of me feels guilty.  I don't think that the guilt is a bad thing. I believe that my feelings of guilt are there for a reason.  The guilty feelings sit on my shoulder like a conscience.  Not heavy or too much to bear, but a comfortable weight, just enough to help keep me in check.  The weight reminds me to give the job, Gramma, her apartment and her possessions the respect and consideration that is deserved.   

My hope is that Burloak will soon become more than a residence for Gramma.  A safe community where she has all she needs to thrive.  My hope is that Burloak becomes her home - maybe not one that dreamed for herself, but one better than any of her wildest dreams. 

Our home

Our current home is the  fith place we have lived together.

I wonder where the future will take us?

Perfect

I have a great opportunity.  On Saturday, I will do my first photo shoot with strangers.  Seven cousins, a portrait that will be a father's day gift for grandpa - the only gift he has asked for the only thing he wants.  It scares the crap out of me.

So badly I want things to go perfect.  I want it so bad that I am afraid of failure.  Terrified of not getting the perfect picture, not being the perfect photographer of letting down these strangers, letting down myself and my dream.

Its been a long time since I did a family portrait.  I did a fall family portrait for myself.  It was a huge fail.  I had trouble with lighting, trouble with focus and depth of field.  The whole experience left me feeling like a fake. 

This holiday season, I declined my sister-in-law.  She asked me to do a family portrait for her and I knew that I didn't have it in me. I couldn't bear to fail again, to be less than perfect, so I declined her request for a family portrait. 

I almost declined this request too.  It means a lot to this family of strangers.  Two of the seven cousins are visiting from out west, this photo shoot isn't a once in a lifetime deal, but certainly once in a long time.  

I've worked out the focusing issues.  I've had the camera sensor and lenses cleaned.  I have practiced with bouncing flash.  I've thought about composition and poses. 

Technically, I can do no more.  Emotionally I need some work.

I am risking and I may fail.  The pictures may not be perfect, I may not be perfect.  I need to accept that.  To embrace imperfection.  These were the feelings of self doubt lead me to the book store to buy a copy of Brene Brown's book The Gifts of Imperfection.  

Driving to the store, P!nk was on the radio.  I was singing along to her song, Less Than Perfect.  I had a light bulb aha! moment.


Back in January I emailed P!nk's you tube video to my fifteen year old daughter. I wanted her to know that no matter what she is perfect to me, and she should believe that of herself.  

I'm on my way to buy a book to help me accept and embrace imperfection, and realize the message that I've been giving my daughter is that she is perfect.

Here I am 37 years old, struggling to let go of perfection, telling my daughter she is perfect.  In twenty years will she be on her way to a book store feeling the same way about perfection as I am today? 

Instead of telling her (and myself) that she has to strive for perfection, maybe the message should be that she is enough.  That she will doubt herself.  Sometimes she will be afraid.  She may fail.  She may be disappointed.  She won't always be perfect, or believe she is perfect.  And that is part of her journey. Any vulnerabilities and fears she has  is what makes her human. 

She is enough.  I am enough.

Finding Rhythm

rhythm - (Fine Arts & Visual Arts / Art Terms) (in painting, sculpture, architecture, etc.) a harmonious sequence or pattern of masses alternating with voids, of light alternating with shade, of alternating colours, etc.

The Picture Inspiration prompt this week asked us to explore this definition of rhythm.

Oh dear.  My house, my life and quite frankly my mind has lost its rhythm.  I go through spurts where my mind races, jumping from one idea to the next. The only problem with these moments of inspiration is that they are fleeting.  These ideas come so quickly that I can't seem to grasp them.  Or if I do grasp them I don't hold the attention span to finish them, which only adds to my anxiety.  My house is full of half finished projects and scraps of papers with ideas jotted down.  During these spurts, I go to bed exhausted, only to have my mind race on into the night.  I knew that finding rhythm this week would be a challenge. 

I thought about how I would like to portray rhythm in my capture.  Rhythm, hmm.  I think music and dance. 
I wanted to take a picture of a musical instrument.  A piano would be perfect, with it's alternating dark and light keys, but it was the obvious choice.  I thought how cool would the insides of the piano be?  With the felt hammers hitting the strings.  A sweet mommy friend said I could come take a picture of her piano.  It's one thing to grab a quick shot of piano keys but it's another thing entirely to climb up to take a picture of the insides of her piano (cue anxiety setting in.)  

Instead, I photographed our auto harp. The auto harp is a pretty cool instrument.  Ours has a colourful history behind it.  My father bought the auto harp for his brother Birch.  Birch was an interesting character to say the least.  What I remember about Birch was that he smoked roll his own cigarettes, drank beer and told ghost stories to scare his nieces and nephews.  Uncle Birch was an interesting man, but not musical.  When my father would visit with Birch, he would ask if he had been playing the auto harp.  Birch would reply that it was out of tune.  My dad would spend the time to tune it for Birch.  Only to have the same conversation with him the next time he saw his brother.

auto harp - a harmonious sequence or pattern of masses alternation with voids, light alternating with shade, ect.

I uploaded the auto harp picture to the Big Picture Classes gallery.  But wasn't sure of it.  I went on a mission to find rhythm in my house.  I snapped this of the dinner plates.  A pretty picture, but I just didn't feel it. 

 

dinner plates - a harmonious sequence or pattern of masses alternation with voids, of light alternating with shade, ect.

I tried one last time.  Rhythm.  I thought of cars on a highway, whizzing past much like the thoughts racing through my head.  I set out to get a picture of cars.  What I ended up with was this picture of the hydro field. For some reason, I love this.  I can't say why I love it so much, it just speaks to me in a way that the other images didn't this week. 

pink hydro field - a harmonious sequence or pattern of masses alternating with voids, or light alternating with shade, of alternating colours, ect.