One woman wolf pack and the art of finding and fostering

There are times when I feel like I have some sort of insignia on my forehead that I am not aware of.  Happily I go about my day blissfully unaware of any threat to my frivolity.   This ghostly illusion taped above my eyes produces a similar response I liken to a magnet.  I am the positive side and it seems that in these moments for whatever reason almost everything else positive is repelled away?  Why is that?    What is it about this day and age that makes me feel like a lone ranger on a deserted island, or a one woman wolf pack?   I simply seek consistency.  Wholeheartedly, that is what I want.   I seek not the bells and whistles and wish not for the frills and follies that seem to follow certain friendships. I want to be a person that invests profoundly in people, without feeling the need to consider risk.  It is a sad realization however, that not every relationship will be prosperous. 

Maybe our ideas of relationships are being skewed by propaganda around us. What is deep and meaningful in a life filled and filtered with “the next best thing,” upgrades and trade-ins?  Accompanied by the false proclamations that everything should come easy and be good through and through?   I want to defy even my own limitations in this and stretch out past the circle of comfort that has become my horizon, and resist the temptation to give into that mentality

What does it take to establish this type of depth in a culture thick with a current of complacency?   Where does someone  go to seek out similar souls?   These are questions I ask without the expectancy of an answer.   It seems satisfying enough to project them out into the universe.  Like a silent plea scribbled on parchment and placed in a bottle to then be sent a drift on the sea, these thoughts simply are let go - "out there."   

home

I have beside my bedside a greyish- purple metal clock.  The circularly square clock has a round clock face with numbers that perhaps were once considered a modern script.  It doesn’t tick, and it doesn’t tock and yet it always tells me the time of 12:24. Silently it stands in a place fitting for its purpose, but the purple clock, once a member of my great grand-fathers clock collection, is quiet.  This timepiece has all the mechanisms in it to click time away.  A simple twist of the screw with the instruction “wind” underneath it and the thaw of time would rapidly commence.  But I’m ok with it being still.  

Beside our green couch stands, almost defiantly, an obnoxious lamp.    This was my first real purchase with my first real pay check.    For whatever reason this lamp caught my eye, perhaps it was the abundance of colors that vertical create a rainbow-like effect around the shade or maybe it was simply because it was on sale.    Regardless that lamp has become invaluable to me because of its origin.  Like the clock that doesn’t tick this lamp doesn’t turn off.   At one time it had a chain that could instantly create or vanquish light.  Sometime ago now, it was pulled in just the right way to release that chain from its duties indefinitely.  Now to turn the lovely lamp on or off, one must get down on all fours and plug it into the wall.   

I have carefully hung pictures with those sticky-wall-mounting-things that don’t require a hole. They dot my bedroom walls.   These pictures, displayed in Walmart’s five dollar frames somehow satisfy my thirst for art.   This collection acquired over the years is complete with samples of my own attempts at photography, autographs, pictures from a magazine and a black and white photo of my favorite classic Hollywood comedian sporting country wear.   These images are each special in their own and reflect a unique story that is an anecdote to mine.  


I have things like these scattered throughout my little white house that offer the white walls color and character, at least to my eyes.   These things that have been collected over my vast 25 years can be categorized into pieces that tell a story and trinkets that I’ve carried with me just to remind me of home and important people. 

Winter wear where?

I haven't posted anything fashion related in a while because apparently life has taken some interesting turns lately and spun me into reflective mode. So to compensate for all the other stuff that has been blogged about lately this post will be about the one resource I really wish was "out there."  I'd love to discover a look-book for really cold weather.  If you search on Pinterest "cold weather fashion", humorously all that comes up are women in boots and sweaters outside surrounded by a mere dusting of snow.   When I see those photos, all I can think is, "I am pretty sure that's spring!?"

I am ALWAYS cold.   I get strange looks from people when I throw a jacket under my goose parka.  But in my defense I am a cool person.  (pun intended ;) jk) 

So over the last month and a bit, I have been trying to catalogue what I wear oot-n-aboot and realised that there is little hope for someone who loves fashion and is living on a miniscule budget in Winnipeg.   So I do what I can.     

There is really only so much that you can do when dressing for fiercely cold weather, so to let you in on a little secret...please note that pretty much at all times I have on 2 pairs of socks, long johns under the pants, sometimes on really cold days tights under the long-johns under the pants covered with high wool socks then shielded with a pair of winter proof Sorells. Then I wear a sweater followed by a down vest followed by my parka.   :)  Layers... they are your best friend.   

A lady at the gym a while back claimed that dressing was the best work out  - if that is true, Winnipeger's are the most fit people in the World. 

 

The key is layers- under everything /\

Double socks /\

Jacket under your jacket - all the "cool" kids do it.  /\

(thermals UNDER the tights.)

Its hard to wear your sassy pants in Winnipeg let me tell you.  But on days when it's only -12 they sometimes come out. 

 

old thoughts

These I wrote AGES ago, when Britney Spears was still on the radio and when Hannah Montana was still a thing.  


with each inhale i feel my soul shift.
the capacity for change in life has created a stranger out of my own likeness. almost unrecognisable this makeshift body is fixed with flaws. Irreversible, news of my weakness reverberates in my ears. i once was strong, with willpower that made mountains mould into valleys, and towering troubles fall. this insignia on my heart is from my selfish release that detached willpower from me. how can i betray my own disposition with such flawed design and execution. I can feel myself cracking with each breath I take.  like lightning cursing the ground the cracks are forming deeper damage.

When this is all over, lets get up and leave. I'll wait right here. You'll take me with these badges of dishonour and my face of shame, take my hand and lead me. It wont matter to you where I've been, but that I found my way to you. When life make sense again I hope you'll find me.





Time...your pace and rhythm are gaining speed,
Take a rest and hold a note where in eternity days and minutes holds no meaning.
I’m fearful of passing time yet fearless of the future
I can walk courageously towards uncertainty
with few exception passed
I look only to my God for my chosen path
a flicker of doubt often arises
but let me be fearless and courageous
where are the kindred spirits
have they all already coupled
leaving me in my life to live in a constant change...

Aurora Borealis

The sky was alive.  Pale and green it swirled and danced before a velvet curtain dotted with stars.  There was something magical and fearful about this being above me.   All was quiet and yet a festival of lights projected on the clear winter expanse in a way so supremely powerful that it commanded the sky and the attention of all below.  This moment wasn’t planned, it wasn’t intended and yet it will be fixed forever in my memory.   The cold air cocooned around me as my chin tilted up.  I was awe of what was above me and couldn’t catch my breath, it seemed as though the northern lights had taken it hostage.    A victim to its beauty, I didn’t know if I wanted to laugh or cry.  Perhaps someone unknown to the majesty of the Rocky Mountains, or the immensity of the ocean would have the same visceral first reaction.   I have been searching for the prairie counterpart to the ocean and mountains, and I believe I found it last night.    

It is interesting how beauty often is close behind the disasters in life, big or small.  If you look hard enough there is beauty in all situations life demands us to walk through.    The most epic mistakes or challenges humble us.  With a new perspective from our knees we know we can’t fall any further and are forced to look up.  Maybe that beauty is a gentle nudge and a reminder that our mishaps and frustrations can be made beautiful.

looking at it all the wrong way

I am guilty of looking at life the wrong way.   I see this chapter in the book of time almost like a holding tank while I am preparing for "real life"  but that is scary mentality to have.  We are constantly hoping and striving for more, for better.... for the next best thing.   Contentment is a dying art.   If it isn't appreciating the Iphone 4 that's in your hand because there exists a better, faster, shinier model, or the ability to take a breath and enjoying this moment however uncomfortable or stressful it is because of the anticipation for the next thing, we will live our lives without ever appreciating what we actually have.   All we have is this moment right now. I am guilty of always wondering if there will be something better around the corner...  that curiosity however, seems to only extend as far as what I "can control." I don't want to always be searching.  It is exhausting to turn over every rock, and to look into every cranny.  So despite the unknowns, despite the worries, and fears or curiosity of something more... I want to choose to appreciate right now. 

The day that is tomorrow

 

 

With the morning off from my opera theatre duties, I decided to reflect on the upcoming Hallmark holiday event - Valentines day.  The day tends to either nauseate, by reducing people into chocolate commas, or create crazy people that can't comprehend not celebrating the famed holiday in style. As a kid, the effect of valentines day were engrained in us throughout elementary school.  With our pick of the Little Mermaid,  Lizzie Maguire, Ninja Turtles, or Power Rangers, our moms would buy us our social stability with the coolest cards.  Somehow we would sit still long enough to carefully write out the names of all our friends, and if we were really nice, or if mom ended up writing them, the entire class list would receive one of our totally cute V-day cards.  Valentine's day was always an excuse for me to dress up, and dress up I would, in my favorite pink dress. I'd throw a scrunchy in my hair and hope for a hoard of handwritten cards delivered to my handcrafted, craft paper mail box.  It wouldn't matter on that day, if everyone had received a card from my crush, that valentine signed with his initials would be pressed to my heart and my world would be showered with cupid's arrows. 

High school revealed a new level of expectation to surrounded the eventful day.   With roses, or chocolates that would be hand delivered to your class... there was an insurmountable amount of hope that lingered, that love would find me in the form of a fragrant flower from my favorite crush. Valentines day since, has morphed from an excuse to get dressed up and hopeful for true love to a sad realization that it is just another day, gift wrapped in hallmark trim and predetermined presumptions about what it should be.  The last few years, I have veered away from celebrating the blessed saint, and instead I observe S.A.D, Singles Awareness Day.   It just seems to be a more fair title for the majority, and the day.  Oh dear, that does sound sad... well, regardless of the title, the day seems to be built on the idea of living up to a standard set by society.    It seems to not only highlight couples in love, but also the individual who isn't.  For the un-inlove person, they can feel left out from the festivities.   So to salute the singles ladies and gentlemen, here are some funny valentine cards just for you:

Happy Valentines Day/ Singles Awareness Day!  

Oceans, Mountains, and Stars

I think that I crave the endlessness of the ocean, and the majesty of mountains, or the expanse of the stars when life becomes a series of pressure points and stresses.   There is something about feeling small in the midst of nature's grandeur that reminds us that our problems, often in the grand scheme of things, are small too.    I ache right now for the serenity that I know the rocky jagged peaks of mountains can offer, to rediscover the tranquility of the sea lapping on the sandy shore, or to feel fresh air rush past my body and fill my empty lungs. There is something simple and uncomplicated in being under a canvas of stars, even though their twinkling constellations ignite finite questions. 

I wonder if these experiences draw us back to our childhood.  
I remember spending hours among my mountains friends, hiking and climbing with boundless energy often too excited to reach our destination to pay close attention to the upward trek. But the view from the top made the endless "5 minutes" worth every effort. 

Days by the sea shore were dreams for a girl like me whose Disney princess equivalent was Ariel. Even after hours of turning over rocks, and collecting sea creatures in a bucket the task never became dull.  Happy to simply be in the presence of the salty air, and the rushing waves, the ocean has always been a source of pleasure for me.  I miss the mysteries of the sea and the feeling of contentment just being by it.   

Late at night my dad, telescope in hand would walk his three kids out into an empty field to simply look up.   Armed with my dad's infinite knowledge of the star and skies- at least from my childhood perspective, the stars became a playground of imagination.   We would discover Cassiopeia, or Orien... and suddenly the stars danced before their dark curtain of sky. 


This BC girl is missing the comforts of home...and trying to find contentment in the flat winter world of Winnipeg.  

the weight of glory

C.S. Lewis wrote in The Weight of Glory:

                “We want something else which can hardly be put into words – to be united with the beauty we see, to pass into it, to receive it into ourselves, to bathe in it, to become a part of it… We discern the freshness and purity of morning, but they do not make us fresh and pure…”

Mount Baker is THE mountain to visit in the lower mainland, as it proudly towers above the little towns that color the flat land below with grids of pavements.  The upward climb to the mountain top commences with a seemingly circling road, and a sense of the mountain’s greatness lingers in the crisp air no matter what the season.  I remember making this journey with dear friends in September as the leaves on the trees at the base of the mountain were beginning to change.  We were as sojourners seeking to find our freedom on the rocky cathedral; the mountain became a viaduct to a serenity, sadly forgotten or unknown to most. 
Arriving at our first destination, we escaped the confines of the car and beheld our playground.  We climbed for hours as mist swirled around, momentarily making mountain peaks disappear.  The clean air filled my lungs rapidly while I climbed up, passing crystal lakes, and rugged terrain covered by cloudy skies.   A portion of our pilgrimage led us through fields that appeared to be on fire with red heather.   They seemingly glowed against the grey and green terrain, and the pale white sky.  My dear friend reflected on C.S. Lewis as we slowly walked, and quoted from The Weight of Glory, discussing the visceral longing to hold onto this beauty.  Becoming still, we stood silently in awe of what we overlooked.  The glacial lake seemed to be made of crystal as the majesty of the mountains that neighbored and the blue skies above were reflected flawlessly. This image was engrained in my memory that day.  For this experience was the most recent in which I felt a desire so strongly to be connected somehow to what I saw and felt around me.  The day was a humble hike that drew my heart closer to the creator.

“…when human souls have become as perfect in voluntary obedience, then they will put on its glory or rather that greater glory of which nature is the first sketch.” –C.S. Lewis The Weight of Glory

Days like that

My favorite moment over the weekend was the realization that it was warm enough for a walk OUTSIDE.   I opted out of sweating-it-out in the “Gritty Grotto,” the university gym which could easily double as the set from the “Beat It” music video. Instead I explored Winterpeg’s outdoors for the first time in forever.  The sun shone brightly and happily, as if it missed me and (very) gently kissed my face. My pace quickened when wide open spaces were insight.  A chill swept through the trees and made the air refreshing as I drew it deep into my lungs. 
Nineties pop soothed my soul while I suppressed the urge to sing.  When I walk and listen to music (which is often), I have to consciously resist the urge to dance, or loudly sing along.  In an ideal world dancing down the street would be an appreciated and accepted mode of transportation!
My heart felt confidently content in the moment, as if my soul was finally, again satisfied.  Reconnected to the nature around me, I took in the moments wishing I had a camera in hand. Constantly I compose photos in my mind and on this glorious day I analyzed the shapes and dark patterns around me.   Naked branches twisting and turning cast a shadow on the white snow, while sunlight made its way through the evergreen to triumphantly peak out from the branches.  I was warm in my parka and I felt my heart agree that this walk was a good decision.  The snow crunched happily under my tread, leaving a trail behind me as I found new frosty land to explore.   It was an afternoon I wished I could prolong.  

They came down

They came down.
With a single word,
Debris filled the air with chalky smoke
and rocks tumbled and fell,
as if their foundation was pulled from under them.  
A thunderous roar,
like that of a once sleeping giant,
echoed in my minds ear,
as each fragment collided with the earth,
beating rocks into the ground,
The hours, the care, the precision,
They all fell in a moment.

The repercussion of this weakness,
This error in judgment,
revealed the cavernous cracks,

that formed in my foundation.
  
These walls crumbled down.

What took years to build,
was brought to its knees 
In a second of surprise,
fate snickering that it was too late. 
fissures in the foundation discouraged
the advancement of new pillars
for the moment. 
I might have to start from nothing. 

My walls are down. 


What fell down,
will be lifted up.
stronger, the second time,
I know the blueprint better now,
The shapes and shadows,
the lines that need to be shaded darker,
the corners that shouldn’t curve,
What was broken,
will be fixed

With a single word,
hammers are in motion,
and the first supports of my foundation put in place

A quarter of a century

In a matter of days I will be a quarter of a century old.  Where does time go?   It seems like yesterday, I was small enough to crawl into my dad's lap. I would feel his strong arms around me as he'd read to me stories of princesses and fairy-tales that were tailor made. I miss those moments as a kid, when I would teleport from being asleep on Grandma's couch, to magically waking up in a warm car, seatbelt fastened. Those moments I wish could be bottle up, so I could hold them in my hand.  But they slip through our fingers without knowing their current or compounding value.  Often we don't see the worth in one day, and in fact wish time away. We seem to collect time like pennies in a jar.   Each day a new memory, and another copper coin is collected in the container of time.    Those memories sit there until they pile on top of each other and make the older ones harder and harder to see.  The thing with these memories is that they can be fleeting at times.   When you need them the most, it seems they vacate.   At least mine do.  Momentary fog fills my memory bank and I can't seem to recall what it was I swore I wouldn't forget.   Be it lessons learned through hindsight, or watershed moments, those pennies put in the jar that outline who we are, and how we got here.