The Ugly Duckling

Paddling on the water, I spotted this array of birds and asked myself: When is the last time you were willing to be mistaken for The Ugly Duckling?

What happened to the me who was comfortable planting herself in an environment full of seemingly different others? How did comfortable come to mean similar?

Why did I need these birds to remind me that it isn't a problem if I am mistaken for an ugly duckling, it is only a problem if I try to be so much like them that I forget I am a swan.

Ripples

I love water, the way it moves, looks, feels, and adapts to whatever contains it...

As many hours as I have spent watching water move, I have spent watching its calm surface reflect everything hovering above it.

I enjoy watching the birds skim its surface, looking for fish or cooling their wings. I like looking through its freshness, curious to discover the sand, rocks and life which lay beneath.

What I like best of all though is the movement formed when elements, such as these two send ripples out farther than my eye can know.

For me, the ripples are reflective of life and how the smallest, least significant-seeming decisions echo forth. Ripples are soft and gentle. They are noticeable yet they neither detain nor disturb us. They may even enhance our enjoyment of the water.

Other ripples, we call waves. Waves are big and loud. They can be seen coming a mile away. The can make us leap with joy or make us panic. They can rock, tip, deafen and sometimes engulf us. Waves change us. They leave us wet, staggering, they can turn us wrong side up, can obscure the light. In the midst of a wave, we lose sight of everyone and everything around us, making it appear as though we are alone. Waves change our perception, our orientation and most often, they carry us back to a place we had already journeyed past, causing us to travel through territory we thought we had already conquered. Some of us seek them, their energy and excitement...

Whether ripples or waves, no creature can move through water without creating a disturbance... not the smallest bug and not the best swimmer.

The same is true of life. No matter what you do or how hard you try, you will not make it to the other side of it unnoticed. You do not have to be a wave-maker. Ripplers will be seen, will be loved, will make a difference to someone just as these two made a difference to me.

A Walk in the Woods

Though the soles of my shoes are soft, my footsteps land heavy in the silence, telling them I am coming to invade their solitude in search of my own.

Overhead, birds call out. I imagine them warning trees that they will be coming to briefly perch.

As if to create the illusion of sisterhood, the few dry leaves from last season which cling to the branches quiver in the same breath of cool wind which causes me to draw my jacket tighter.

High above an airplane flies; a metal container of people who like me choose movement over sitting still. Even as the emotional equilibrium I seek proves elusive, I earnestly pray they reach their physical destination.

Cloaked in the shelter of these mostly naked trees whose fallen leaves still warm the awakening earth, I relish the thought of being invisible to any eyes which might be straining through the small windows in search of familiar landmarks.

Nearby tree branches are studded with buds which stand promisingly perched, tips hopefully exposed to the sun waiting more patiently to discover their potential than ever I have.

These tightly bound leaves I envy. Patient or not, eager or not, in short order, they will likely be supplied with everything they need.

For me, however, time comes daily supplying me with dreams which may never be fulfilled, hopes which sometimes die before they settle in my heart and an assortment of experiences from which I bloom, then die, then bloom again.

From these I must divine who I am and for what purpose I have come.

The wind picks up. I walk on until my cold hands can no longer clutch the jacket closely enough. As I step from the woods, a familiar face allows its mask of concern to give way to a smile.  I cross half the ground between us before I realize I am no longer cold.

EIGHT!

It's hard to believe that today this beautiful little girl of mine is eight. I look at her every day and know my life has a purpose. Know there is a God.  

I was in a marriage which in spite of its beautiful beginnings had started to suck at my soul. One night, as I lay in bed I prayed a prayer I remember still: "God, if there is any other soul meant to enter this universe through me please send it now. I can't hold on much longer."

Shortly after, I found out I was pregnant with this one. Though her birth added strain to an already strenuous situation, it also added joy, much love and laughter.

A few more years of struggle would pass before I left but when I did, I left with four little souls that the universe will use as it needs to. 

Athena is sensitive, kind, loving, creative.  She is joy personified. I love the twinkle in her brown eyes. I love that her body can barely contain the spirit within. She says the unsayable. She thinks the unthinkable. She questions the universe in ways that make me think hard. She feels a deep connection to the universe and to God.  Though her head is always in the clouds, she is rooted in love in a way that gives her the confidence to be who she is. 

She is a living reminder that prayers get answered. A reminder that I need to remain open to God's purpose. A reminder that even as love changes, it can create beautifully wonderful things. 

There is a reason that she was born Thanksgiving weekend. 

Happy Birthday Athena and Thank You!

The Living Dead

On a canoe ride in Cootes Paradise this week, we stopped to enjoy a picnic under this tree. I love trees. I am drawn to them. They inspire me to explore deep thoughts and emotions. As we sat I was not surprised my mind turned as it did.

More interesting to me than the limbs that thrive, are the dead ones. The ones that still cling to the trunk, some longer than others, evidence of the time and energy invested in their growth before their lives were terminated.

Even though they are dead, as the limbs age, rot, then are torn away from the trunk by a gust of wind or under the weight of winter ice, even then, the tree long thought to have dealt with the loss of life will find itself healing anew. Ten, twenty or fifty years from now the wound from the loss will never heal so fully that one who sits under it won't be able to see where the tree has been wounded.

Still, the tree grows majestically. It reaches it's thriving limbs out across the water. It drinks deeply. It provides oxygen, shade, food, shelter for wild life as well as for the pair of us looking for a place to catch our breath; feed our bodies; renew our spirits.

As my thoughts continue on to myself, I consider the number of ideas, dreams, and relationships that had to die in order for me to grow. Like the tree, the remnants of my abandoned things either cling to or have wounded me. I wonder how much easier life would be if my wounds and yours were worn externally or at least openly.

When we climb back into the canoe, I rest my hand on the tree, feel its strength. I glance back at the tangled bare limbs, thank them for their nakedness. In the moment we push off from shore I am deeply grateful for the beauty, for the truth. I look at all the places the tree tried to grow; tried and succeeded for some time before failing.

I see life. I see me. I see you too.

Wishing

I was standing here in Prince Edward Island looking at the water and wishing people were more like it.  Wishing I could look at them and see past any shit on the surface right down deep inside of them to all the life they wish they could hide. Wishing I could know if the waves on their surface are the only momentum they have or if they only exist to distract me from what's going on underneath. Wishing that a simple glance could tell me how shallow or deep they are.

I wish people could look at me and see who I am rather than get distracted by all the bullshit that's going on inside their own heads; wish it didn't make it impossible for them to see me clearly.

Some people look at water and they want it to be clear, revealing. Some people are disappointed when they look and don't see a reflection of themselves.

When water is dark, dirty or murky most of us turn away disinterested, disgusted by what we cannot know. We do not want to linger on the shore or lounge on the beach hoping the smell dissipates and the water clears. Not so with people. With people we assume mystery, we want to wade into their funk so we can work at finding out what's underneath.

Admittedly, sometimes a short vigil is warranted. A storm may have just passed. The water may simply need time to resettle.

Underneath all water seen and unseen, lays a bottom littered with debris and/or laden with treasure. Whether beautiful or parasitic, there is also some form of life.

What does water make you wish for?

Garbage

Literally and figuratively we all have garbage.

We quickly and routines take out the physical garbage in our lives, prompted by the cycle of our Municipal System which cues us each week to do so. When we forget, our other senses kick in to remind us with visual clues at the end of a neighbour's driveway or olfactory clues in the form of terrible smells.  

But what about our emotional garbage? Without external clues, how many of us routinely sift through our junk and remember to eradicate it from our lives?  How many of us bury it deep down hoping its stench and toxicity it will not show up in our lives?  How many of us throw it out back hoping that hiding it in plain site means that it's hidden?  If you checked you emotional backyard right now, would it be clear or would you find it littered with garbage from your last relationship? From your mother? From your father?

Do you invite other people into your yard and ask them to help you pretend they see a well-manicured lawn adorned with blooming flowers or do you allow them to point out the weeds and make suggestions for improvements?  Do you ever ask them to help you?

If you have ever seen a therapist then I would say yes, you have either taken out or at least tried to organize your garbage.  Not enough of us see therapists to clear our emotional garbage. We more often do it to stabilize ourselves during emotional crisis.

Sometimes, on garbage day, I'll spot a neighbour putting their garbage at someone else's curb. It's innocent enough, really.  They just want to take out their trash and the truck has already passed so they cross the street and plunk it down before the truck doubles back. Perhaps you do that. Perhaps you dump your garbage on someone else and walk away with the satisfaction of knowing your trash can is empty.

Unlike the literal garbage, however, I guarantee you that no matter how often or how well you think you dump your emotional trash on someone else, it won't take long before you discover the mound in your life has not just returned but increased.

Paddling out in the canoe, I see this garbage on the side of this hill and I wonder why anyone would leave it there. I wonder why they don't get a friend and clean it up. Then I remind myself...some garbage is better off out in the open.