gathering my chicks ...

upon hearing my explanation of how i became friends with a couple people, KM commented that i am a "momstitute" ... since i spend much of my life looking for my own momstitute, i didn't connect to the term. so she amended it to say that i am a "mother hen" ... i asked her to explain and she said that i "gather my chicks" ...

google images

i have been thinking about that for a few days. what does it mean to gather my chicks? in how many different ways do i do that? and where does the instinct come from? 

so i googled it ... there are many religious references to a mother hen gathering her chicks, and not many references to actual chickens. 

Jesus Laments over Jerusalem37 “O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the one who kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to her! How often I wanted to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, but you were not willing!

When I approach a sitting hen and her chicks, she often gathers them under her wings. If I get too close she can become quite vocal. I don’t speak “chicken,” but no one will convince me that the mother hen isn’t saying, “Stay back, buddy. You can’t have MY babies!” A mother hen will do everything in her power to protect her biddies. It’s her instinct. Call it chicken love if you will, but the hen is hardwired to protect them. http://www.daveblackonline.com/chicken_love.htm

can i argue that i am hardwired to protect my friends and my family? that my depth of empathy enables (compels) me to gather my chicks under my wings and try my best to prevent pain and suffering?

The Free Dictionary defines a mother hen as:

- a person who fusses over others in an overprotective manner.
- a person who attends to the welfare of others, esp. one who is fussily protective.
- a person who cares for the needs of others (especially in an overprotective or interfering way)

http://www.thefreedictionary.com/mother+hen

now those are things that i can relate to. i don't like to see people left out. i like to gather them into my community. i don't like to see children being hurt, i collect them and bring them into my heart. i become invested in the emotional lives of the people that i care about, and i am "fussily protective" of their feelings and their affairs. and as much as it is empathetic of me to "care for the needs of others" it most certainly plays out in an overprotective and sometimes interfering way. 

i don't think that my mother hen behaviour is all bad. i gather my people to me. i care about my people. i care about their well-being and i don't want to see them hurt. and i get protective when i feel they are being mistreated or misunderstood. 

i also gather the emotions of my people. and at times, i try to interfere and mediate their emotions. and this isn't good for me (the hen) or for my people (the chicks). 

if you are one of my chicks, and you likely know who you are ... i gather you to me with love and protection. and i don't mean to mediate your emotions. and i care about all of you very deeply. 

i am going to continue thinking about gathering chicks and will write a part 2 when i have worked through the metaphor further. 

i will leave you with this confusing image of a fox and a hen ... will the fox eat the hen? can the hen gather the fox under her wing? is the nature of foxes such that the hen will become dinner regardless of the hen's innate instinct to protect?

cocoon part 2 ... aka i am now in a state of goo

i have been taking the cocoon metaphor quite seriously these days. wrapping myself in blankets and avoiding the world as much as possible. i pictured myself in my cocoon, resisting the growing of wings ... but that eventually the wings would sprout and i would fly.

i pictured myself as this whole and intact fat little caterpillar sleeping my change away inside my cocoon. 

well imagine my surprise (enlightenment, awakening, shock, ah ha moment!!!) when i learned something new today:

apparently ... when a caterpillar spins a cocoon ... it turns into goo ... 

yes, you read that right: GOO !!!

i need to re-frame my entire metaphor of being inside my cocoon!

(all quotes in this blog are from Radiolab and can be heard in its entirety if you click here, quotes are from Molly Webster. you can learn more about her by clicking here)

"once the caterpillar gets into its shell ... they sort of just melt" 

it's cellular ... here's a short video ...

WHAT?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?

D sent me this podcast today. and it has left me with all sorts of spinning thoughts (get it? "spinning" thoughts ... ha ha):

http://www.radiolab.org/story/goo-and-you/


according to Webster, in the 1600s, naturalists believed that caterpillars spun the cocoon and died. and then a butterfly was reborn. "a spiritual accent." as if a butterfly was a representation of our souls accent to heaven.

the transformation is both mysterious and miraculous. 

and not at ALL what i have pictured my entire life, nor what i remember being taught in science class!

so basically ... a caterpillar spins a chrysalis and then pretty much melts into a soupy goo with microscopic bits of brain and nerves and stuff. the adult parts (antenna, wings ...) are transparent and they stay in the cocoon but don't get soupy in the goo. 

what is interesting is the idea of who comes out the other side of that goo. is it the same creature? if it pretty much dissolves and the cells restructure themselves into an entirely different creature - one who drinks nectar instead of eating leaves, one who flies - then is it the same creature? does it carry it's knowledge with it?

if i allow myself to have a total and complete melt(down) of all that i know about myself and all that i have the potential to become ... will it still be me who comes out the other side? 

based on an experiment with moths and zapping and a scent ... 

Full story and radio interview here: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=88031220

Prof. WEISS: The question that we asked is can a moth or a butterfly remember something that it learned as a caterpillar?NIELSEN: To find out, Weiss and her colleague Doug Blackiston put a lot of big, green tobacco hornworm caterpillars into the electric boxes and then gave them whiffs of stinky gas. Then Blackiston zapped them.Prof. WEISS: So that the caterpillars would get a little bit of smell, and then they'd get a shock, and you could tell that they noticed the shock. And I think he did it once an hour for eight hours.NIELSEN: Weiss says the caterpillars quickly learned that the stench would be followed by the jolt. As a result, the caterpillars wouldn't go near anything that smelled of ethyl acetate.Next, the researchers let the caterpillars start the process that would turn them into moths. One by one, these caterpillars disappeared into brown, urn-shaped pupal chambers that dissolve their bodies and their brains. Five weeks later, the moths hatched out. At that point, the researchers gave the moth a choice of fresh air or air that stank of ethyl acetate.Prof. WEISS: And wouldn't you know it, the moths that had learned to avoid ethyl acetate as larvae still avoided it as adults.NIELSEN: In other words, somehow, the caterpillar memories had survived the biological meltdown. 

 it was demonstrated through this experiment that "the memory made it through the goo and came out the other side." 

"it's kind of eerie ... it's not just what of me carries forward into the future ... it's like what of my future self is in me right now?"  

what of my future self is in me right now?

and so my re-framing begins ...

... i still feel like a caterpillar who doesn't want to come out of her cocoon. my warm blue duvet makes me feel safe and protected here on my couch. and i try to recreate that feeling when i leave the house. which hasn't been easy. 

and i still resist the changes that are happening. i still resist the inevitable growth of wings. 

and yet, i like the idea that the changes within me are on a cellular level - that it is within my very flesh, and bones, and neurpathways (thanks for that word AG) that change is occurring. 

... in order for real change to take place, as D said to me today, "you gotta to turn into goo" ...

being still ...

“I said to my soul, be still and wait without hope, for hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love, for love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith, but the faith and the love are all in the waiting. Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought: So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.” 

- T.S. Elliot

last night i was chatting with K.M. about being still and listening ...

i am trying to learn to be still. it feels like an insurmountable task. 

to me, T.S. Elliot's definition of being still means turning off my brain, sitting in silence, and waiting for something magical to happen to you ... 

... it feels impossible ... i can't turn off my mind. 

ever.

... i used to believe that stillness meant sitting without movement and thinking about nothing. for 3 years i have lay on Pokey Sue's treatment bed desperately trying to clear my mind, to still my thoughts, to think about nothing ... pokey sue always tells me to be kind to myself while she leaves the room ... and i would lay there beating myself up for not being able to turn off my mind; for not being able to be still ...

Brene Brown wrote: "stillness is not about focusing on nothingness. it's about creating a clearing. it's opening up an emotionally clutter-free space and allowing ourselves to feel and think and dream and question."

... Brown's definition allows for my tumbling mind that is open during those treatments - my mind that feels and thinks and dreams and questions. 

perhaps stillness isn't sitting here trying to make my mind stop. perhaps stillness is letting my mind wander and seeing where my thoughts take me. LISTENING to my thoughts and getting a better understanding of what is going on inside my (jumbled) head. perhaps being still means letting the inner-critic finish her rant, and waiting to see what voice speaks next; listening for that gentle voice, and waiting to hear what she has to say ...

today i invite you to be still. 

i invite you to take time, 5 or 10 minutes out of your busy day, to sit with your thoughts and see where they take you. 

maybe you will discover something new about yourself, or about your path ... you have nothing to lose. 

be gentle with yourself, for as i have learned, stillness doesn't mean silence or a lack of movement. 

it means listening to the thoughts in your head without judgement, and allowing your thoughts to communicate themselves freely.  

xoxo

...

sad poems ...

i have decided to share some of my poems a few at a time. here are 4 poems that i wrote when i was 17. 

gosh i was sad. 

feudalism

i am under you

i owe you something

at least that’s how you treat me

i can’t want to give you anything

you make me pay for my

love for you

*****************************

purple drips

ooze down my chin and into my

mouth

while cascading bits of life

hit me in the face

as i walk unaware of the future behind me

*********************

naked

i am naked before you

i stand shivering

while you judge me

when i speak to you

you nod

you read my poetry you listen to my singing

all the while my naked figure bends where you blow her

and you continue to envelop me

my soul is engulfed by your desire

and i am drowning in your oppression

because with you i am naked

so that you can always see every part of me

**********

sculpture

like a lump of clay

you made me into what you wanted

and then left me to harden and crumble on your sparklingly  clean counter top

i was surprised you left me there

seeing as you’re so anal

i was a mess

but you just left me

why didn’t you clean me up?

how could you leave me in that dry, cracking state?

you insist that you haven’t found a new lump of clay

but the truth is

you’re bored

so i’ll stay here on your counter and continue to crumble

until i am a pile of dust

and then you can sweep me into the garbage

with your apple peels

and forget 

that i was ever 

here

**************

the number yellow ...

sometimes trying to explain what is happening to me these days is like trying to spell the number yellow. 

there isn't really a why. 

there is a just an is. 

why don't i want to go to work? why don't i want to do anything when i am at work? why don't i enjoy singing anymore? why don't i want to get out from under my blanket cocoon? why don't i want to get off the couch? or leave the house? 

there is no one answer for anything of these things. 

nothing "happened" to set this in motion. nothing changed. 

except me. and my willingness to be vulnerable and to "lean into" the darkness. 

i was reading some poetry that i wrote when i was a teenager. in my memory, it was angst. but reading it now, all i can say is ... HOLY CRAP I WAS SAD !!! i was so, so, so sad. my poems are dark, and lonely, and sad, and longing for something. longing to be heard, to feel loved, to feel understood. 

looking back, i can see that i have suffered from depression my entire life. it just wasn't identified as depression. and i found ways to self-medicate and to repress my feelings, and to stuff them down with food. 

there is a light at the end of the tunnel, and not just because butterflies don't get to choose to morph from their caterpillar state and leave their cocoon ... there is a light at the end of the tunnel because i am not going through this alone. i am getting the help and the support that i need. 

finally. 

i am finally DEALING with the things that i have never dealt with. dealing with the things that i just ignored. 

and it's challenging. 

and i am doing it anyway. 

but it will take patience. from myself and from the people around me. people who have gotten used to me picking up my pieces and just dealing. 

right now, i am still trying to find all my pieces. and some of them are lost. and i will find them. and it is going to take time. 

oh, and one more thing that brings the light ... 

there is a way to spell the number yellow. 

it actually CAN be done. 

the number yellow is actually spelled F-I-V-E. i learned my numbers as colours and still think in colours when i add and subtract. 

i guess that means that even the most complicated situation has an explanation, even if it is tricky to understand. and even if it only makes sense in my own head. 

to me, 

5 + 5 = orange. 

and 

brown - red = 6. 

maybe things aren't nearly as complicated as they first appear. maybe i need to be patient with myself, and listen ...

                                                                  cuisenaire rods link

xoxo

...

an open letter to libby oughton

dear libby, 

you probably don't remember me. 

i wouldn't have had the same impact on your life as you had on mine. 

my name is april and i interviewed you through email about 15 years ago for a paper that i was writing for a feminist literature class in university. we stayed in touch a bit after that. and then when i was in grad school, you were in town and we met for coffee at the second cup. 

it was both the most exciting day of my life, as well as the most humiliating. 

the kinder you were to me, the more miserable and negative back to you i was. 

and i have wanted, for the last 13 years, to apologize and to explain. but i never really knew how. 

i was severely depressed when i was living in halifax. i was lonely, and sad, and homesick. i couldn't seem to break my way into any community. i had no sense of belonging. 

i was lost. 

i spent my nights reading in bed and slept as much of the day as possible. reading would transport me into another world where i could escape the reality of my predicament. 

i had been accepted into a master's program in women's studies. i applied with the clearly laid out proposal that my research was in feminist lesbian geography. and i was accepted into the program based on that research. only i moved myself across the country and upon arrival on the very first day of classes i was told that there was no professor that had accepted me into their program who did any type of feminist geography nor lesbian geography, nor lesbian studies. 

which meant i had no adviser, no mentor, and no one to guide me in my research. add to that, a really mean roommate who treated me very badly, the fact that i was really sick, and had no friends .... it made for a lousy year and really lousy timing in meeting you. 

it is no excuse for how negative i was when we met. and yet it is an explanation for the terrible space that i was in. 

and as i navigate my way through the regrets of things that i did, or things that i didn't do, you and that meeting in the second cup are at the top of my list. 

your book made it's way to me because the universe wanted me to have it. it found me at a time in my life when i was discovering who i was (i am still discovering that) and the words spoke to me. the words were alive on the page. i carried that book with me ... ALL THE TIME AND EVERYWHERE. i wrote my own poetry all over the pages. the pages are worn and soft now. and i still read it. your words, meshed with mine. this morning, i sat and read your poetry. and once again i was filled with the joy of words. 

and the universe gave me the opportunity to meet you. to connect with you. to form a friendship forged in our mutual love of words, of feminism, of activism. and i was a sad little brat who spent the entire time complaining instead of learning from you. 

and i regret it every day. 

i hope that you can forgive my youth. i hope you can forgive that wasted opportunity. 

and i hope that this letter finds its way to you and finds you well. and that you will receive this letter with my love and affection. 

if it is meant to be, the universe will get this letter to you. 

with deepest regards, 

xoxo

...

regret and poetry

regret is one of those pointless emotions that slogs you down and keeps you from moving forward. there isn't really anything good that can come from regret other than a life lesson - because you can't go back and change what happened, all you can do is learn from it and try not to repeat the past. 

and as much as i preach the uselessness of regret ... i have regret. 

too much of it. 

and i wanted to share one of my biggest regrets. something that makes me wish i had a time machine so that i could go back and change what happened. 

i don't have a time machine (dammit) but i will take you back in time to when i was 17 ...

... i used to hang out at a used bookstore with my friend. we would find old records and take them home and listen to them while lying on the floor: joni mitchell, joan baez ... and we would search through the bookshelves to find hidden gems. 

one day, i came across an old faded book of poetry by a woman i had never heard of. 

libby oughton. everything about this book felt right to me. it felt like fate. the worn pages, the drawing on the front cover, the fact that she didn't use capital letters (like me) ... and then i turned the book over and in her little bio she mentioned that she was born at the same hospital that i had been born at, and was delivered by the same doctor! and that she lived in pei, which was my dream location. it was fate, or "divine providence, that's what" as rachel lind would have said. 

so i bought the book for $2.75 and i took it home and read it. and then read it again. and again and again and again. i used the pages to write out my own poems. it became an extension of myself. 

i bet you're wondering how this story is related to regret. i have to give you the background so that you can fully understand the regret that i still carry heavily in my heart ...

in my 3rd year of university, i took a feminist literature course. i was introduced to all sorts of incredible authors, and exciting and innovative ideas. i decided to write a paper about libby oughton and her poetry ... the professor read my outline and suggested that it would be a more interesting paper if i could actually interview libby oughton. and i thought to myself, well of course it would, but that will never happen ...

... it turned out that the professor knew someone who knew someone who knew libby oughton. and we were connected together over email by elly danica (WARNING: Elly Danica writes powerful words about childhood sexual abuse and incest and her writing can be triggering ... if you want to read more, click here for her incredible webpage). and i was able to interview libby over email. keep in mind, this was the 90s, and email was still fairly new. being able to connect with my favourite poet who lived in pei was absolutely incredible. 

the interview was great, the paper got an A, and life was good. 

over the next couple of years, libby and i emailed back and forth once in awhile. until i was in grad school and she emailed to tell me that she was going to be in the same city as my university overnight and did i want to meet for coffee ... 

... you can't even begin to imagine my excitement, my joy ... my heart was leaping out of my chest. here was this poet and activist whose words had touched me so deeply for so many years, whose book i carried with me everywhere, whose words i read again and again ... and she wanted to meet ME! my roommate teased me that the 30 year age difference between us was irrelevant and that libby was going to take my back to her hotel room and we would have the most incredible night of passion ... but she didn't understand ... i wasn't in love with libby ... i was in love with her words, and i wanted nothing more than to be taken into her life as a friend, to have her as a mentor, to learn from her. 

i spent hours finding the right outfit for the coffee date. it was going to be one of the most thrilling days of my life. here i was, ready to meet libby. 

sweeping up the mess
it's time damn it
get out the broom
that's me
littering the floor and walls
there are my toes
now where are the nails
left toe    right toe
this little piggy goes
this tendon needs attaching
something to stand on
are these my long leg bones
hips    ribs   backbone
my soft belly    tender lips
breasts and all
the not-so-sturdy stuff
i spend the day sorting and piecing
me back together
shake out the broom
last search for my heart
find magic markers
draw a big brand new one
to pin to my sleeve 

- libby oughton

the time finally came and i took the bus to second cup. and there she was in all her glory. she was beautiful. and kind. and interested. and encouraging. and i spent the entire time talking about how miserable i was. how much i hated the university. how much i hated my masters program. how much i hated the city i was living in. how i had no friends. how lonely i was. and each terrible thing i told her, she gave some piece of advice that i shot down. until she finally said that she had to go. 

... and she walked out that door and i never heard from her again. ever. not a phone call, not an email. ever. 

why? why couldn't i pull it together for one coffee date to say positive things? why couldn't i have just not talked about how miserable i was? why couldn't i have simply asked her questions about her life, her writing, her dogs, her publishing company, her children, her lovers ... why couldn't i have just been positive. 

i wish that i could track her down and apologize. and explain. not that i really understand it myself. i think that i was so miserable and so depressed and so alone that i needed to tell someone. and she was there. and she was kind. and she was listening. 

i have tried to find her in the world. i have tried emailing all sorts of people to try to find her. and no one seems to have any contact information for her. 

dear readers, if you have an idea of how to find her, it is the one thing in my life that i actually could change. i can't go back in time and erase that terrible conversation ... but i could find her now and explain what happened. and i could make up for it. so if you know how to find her, you can use the contact box to the right of this post. 

regret. 

it is something we all have. it is something that can't be changed. we need to let go of these things that hold us down. we need to get out our brooms, and sweep ourselves up, and put ourselves back together. regret is also something that we can learn from. i keep trying to learn that lesson from my coffee date with libby oughton. i keep repeating it. i keep relearning and unlearning. and one day i hope that i will find a way to let it go. 

xoxo


...

Depression is a Black Dog

Watch this brilliant video ...

http://www.upworthy.com/what-is-depression-let-this-animation-with-a-dog-shed-light-on-it?g=2&c=ufb1

Sticks and stones and names all hurt

i was taught to say "sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me." 

i was also taught to say "i'm rubber, you're glue, whatever you say bounces off me and sticks on you." 

what a load of crap. 

i saw this photo on facebook last night. i don't know how to credit it because i don't know where it came from. 

but i saw it and said YES! exactly. 

i have the (un)fortunate ability to remember most things. not facts. i have never been good with statistics or memorizing general knowledge. that's why i failed math and chemistry. formulas go over my head. 

but when it comes to things that happen or things that people say, it's like I have a video camera in my head. 

i don't remember every single thing, obviously, but I remember an awful lot. and i remember a lot that's awful. 

words, sarcasm, comments, snide remarks, things said in frustration or anger ... they stay with me. i remember it all. and i remember how it made me feel. which is worse. 

as a teacher, i work very hard at choosing my words. that's not to say that i'm never sarcastic. because i'm extremely sarcastic. and i tease a bit too. but i work very hard at not saying something that could hurt or that could stay with them throughout their lives. and my students laugh with me.

and if i do unintentionally hurt a student, we talk about it and i apologize and i repair the relationship. 

as I said before, memorizing things has never been my strength. formulas are tricky for me. and patterns. spelling is all patterns and formulas. 

spelling has never been my strength and has been a constant source of embarrassment. 

in grade 7, i had a science test. there was a question that said "what is the difference between weight and mass?" i don't remember my answer, but i remember getting the test back and red writing in the margin ... my teacher wrote:

"the difference between weight and mass is that you know how to spell mass."

i remember my mom laughed. she thought it was funny. i was humiliated. and i've never forgotten it. 

i have the unfortunate ability to remember all the mean things that have ever been said to me. even if those mean things were meant as a joke. 

in middle school, i was bullied. 

i don't mean teased and picked on. i mean bullied. i mean relentlessly teased, taunted, called names, and made to feel like a worthless, unloveable, non-human. 

boys would throw condoms at me in the cafeteria. there's more. but i'm not ready to share that so publicly. 

Yet. 

one afternoon, i went to my locker and someone had written in large red letters "you look like a fucking gorilla" ... my world came crashing down around me. 

i ran all the way to my old school to tell my favourite teacher. i expected hugs, and care, and support. i expected her to call my school and tell them. i expected her to help me. 

but she didn't. 

i was sobbing and told her what they had written on my locker and she laughed. she said "sorry, i'm just trying to picture what gorillas look like when they're fucking." 

i was crushed. it felt like my one hope at help abandoned me. 

so i never turned to an adult for help after that. i let the bullying continue. and although i remember it all, i never told anyone. 

the truth is, sticks and stones may break my bones, but bones will heal ... the names you call me and the things you say will always hurt me. 

xoxo

.....

Cocooned vs. Metamorphosis

today i read on someone's blog, "If nothing changed there'd be no butterflies"

 ... and i want to know ... what's wrong with caterpillars? 

monarch caterpillars have always been my favourite. they're plump and colourful and they have little legs that tickle when they crawl on you. they can easily curl up into a ball. and they eat milkweed which makes them poisonous to birds - their stripes protect them from being eaten. 

they spend their days crawling around the milkweed, eating. 

and eventually spin themselves into a cocoon. 

i've been a caterpillar for so long that i don't want to ever come out of my cocoon. i can't see the future and i don't know what kind of butterfly i'm going to be. 

and it scares me. 

i want to stay safe and wrapped up and protected in my cocoon forever. 

i could hide away from the world, from pain, from hurt, from sadness. 

i could blend into the colours of the trees, the only thing giving me away would be the gold "stitches" along the top of my cocoon ...

                      * * * * * * *

my dad used to let us collect monarch caterpillars at the end of august. 

we would keep them in a terrarium with lots of milkweed. and within a week or so of their captivity, they would spin their bright green cocoons. 

we would watch the chrysalis for days. gold threading along the top, and hanging from the lid of the terrarium. and then one day they would change from green to black and then to clear and then the majestic monarchs would work their way out. 

at first, their wings would be wet. so we would carefully lift them out, letting their legs cling to our fingers.  

we would set them down in the backyard. and they would open their wings to let them dry in the sun. and once the wings were dry, they would flap them and fly away. 

until next august when we would hunt through the milkweed and start the process all over again. 

and as beautiful and incredible as this process is ... the metamorphosis leaves those monarch caterpillars completely vulnerable and helpless. 

when my brother was 3, he had his very own caterpillar in a jar. holes in the lid for air, and lovely milkweed for food. the plump little creature spun a green and gold chrysalis attached to the lid. 

our babysitter's son was at our house and my brother wanted to show him his pet. so the exuberant and over-eager visitor opened the lid, looked into the jar, and slammed the lid down on the table saying "where? i don't see anything!?" 

that morphing creature wasn't the only thing that got squashed that day. my brother crumpled in on himself. i've never seen him cry so much. i've never seen him so hurt. it was as if all of his hopes and dreams were being held in that green cocoon waiting to fly away into the sun and everything got squished and killed by someone else's careless actions. 

i feel like a caterpillar in a chrysalis: not safe and snug, cocooned and protected. i feel vulnerable and unsafe and easily squishable. 

but the thing about change is that it is going to happen whether we want to or not, and whether we like it or not. 

AG said to me today, "i guess the best thing about butterflies is they don't have to choose it. it comes naturally. amazingly enough."

wise words to ponder today, as i am cocooned in my duvet wanting to stay here on the couch forever. 

xoxo

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(images from google images https://www.google.ca/search?q=monarch+butterflies&rlz=1C1SNNT_enCA410CA411&espv=210&es_sm=93&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ei=2bjaUvbbBOGh2gXqtoGwBQ&ved=0CAkQ_AUoAQ&biw=1366&bih=666) 

showing up ...

Vulnerability is about showing up and being seen. It's tough to do that when we're terrified about what people might see or think. - Brene Brown

sometimes showing up is the most i can do. and i find that really hard to accept.

i have been an over-achiever for as long as i can remember. committees, organizations, clubs, volunteer positions, and more than one job at a time is how i have always lived my life. 

high school involved showing up at 7:30 am to program the announcements into the electric sign in the cafeteria followed by an 8:00 am meeting of whatever club was on that day. then classes. then a lunch time rehearsal. then more classes. then an afternoon rehearsal for something else. and i also had regular babysitting gigs, and class performances. 

and every May i would have a freak out melt-down and think that there was no way i could possibly complete everything that needed to be completed, and then i would cry and my teacher, MD, would basically tell me to pull myself together and do it. and i would do it. because it wasn't impossible. at all. i just needed to get the crying freaking out meltdown out of my system. 

in grade 13, after my best friend died, i wasn't thinking clearly. i applied to universities and was accepted. but wasn't planning to go. i was going to take a year off. likely because i was depressed and grieving and feeling alone and lost. when i found out that i was accepted into the university that i had wanted to go to since i was 9 years old and went on a tour there ... i called MD and told her that i got accepted but wasn't going. and i cried. (MD, if you're reading this, you probably don't remember any of this. but you absolutely influenced the course of my life on that day. thank you. thank you beyond words) ... MD said, "of course you want to go and you are going." 

NOTE: MD has become an important person in my life and it feels important for me to say that. she has been influential in many situations. and she matters to me very, very much. thank you for everything. for listening, for being there, for being part of my life for the last 23 years ... can you believe it has been 23 years!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?! much, much love to you.  

it was that simple. 

of course i wanted to go. i had been wanting to go there for 10 years. i had fallen in love with the campus at age 9. i had fallen in love with the women's centre. the idea that there WAS a women's centre. that feminism was part of the campus. it amazed me (at age 9).

so off i went. 

and i immersed myself in busy-ness. i held 3 part-time jobs, i volunteered at 3 different agencies, i took full-time classes, i became part of the women's community in the town. 

i was rarely home. i was always busy being a DO-ER of things. 

and this continued into my adult life until slowly i started to let go of obligations and turn more and more inward and insular. 

my life now consists of waking up (because i have to), going to work, going to choir practice (because i feel obligated most of the time - although singing heals me), spending time with SC (the love of my life), and sleeping. and then i wake up again. because i have to. 

showing up is the most i can do. 

i show up and i do what is minimal and at the moment, that is my best. 

i want to be more and i want to do more. i want to volunteer, and i want to be on committees, and i want to take a course, and i want to write a book, and i want to be in a show, and i want to go to museums, and to art galleries, and to travel, and to go out for dinners at restaurants i have never tried, and to spend time with friends, and to have coffee dates, and to be what someone referred to as "lively" ...

... and right now i can't do anything except show up. and be here. that's the most i can do. 

and if you are doing your best by just showing up, i hear you. i know. i understand. and it is enough. showing up for your life is enough right now. because it wont be this way for ever. even if it feels like it will be forever. it wont. at least, that's what they tell me. 

xoxo


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