Tis my Birthday


Gutsy Old Me

Yes, I have danced on tables. This picture was taken in France on a white-clothed table in the new hotel restaurant, one summer day, during a writing workshop.

I am astonished at how brave I am. And I love that though I am no spring chicken, I am not above being crazy. I love that this is not above my dignity. (What dignity? some may ask.) Dancing on tables has always been a symbol to me - that though I feel a fool, I believe that every table I climb on brings me closer to a certain freedom - the freedom to do and not worry about what others think. This reminds me of a letter my friend Susan in France gave me a long time ago and which I keep by my desk. I shall quote her:

O YVONNE
LETS LIVE IN A FOOLS PARADISE
LETS PRAISE FOLLY
AND PRACTICE IT
AT LEAST YOU HAVE FORCED ME
TO THINK ABOUT - BY YOUR COMPLAINTS -
WHAT A BIG THING BEING A FOOL IS -
THE BIGGEST THING
IN THE WORLD,
THE BIGGEST WE CAN ACHIEVE.

I WISH I HAD THE COURAGE
TO BE A FOOL.
AT LEAST YOU HAVE
TAUGHT ME WITH ALL THIS
CLAMOUR TO SEE CLEARLY
THAT THIS IS WHAT I WANT.
IT'S ALSO WHAT I RESPECT IN
OTHER PEOPLE,
REALLY RESPECT.

BEING HAPPY AND HAVING
THE COURAGE TO BE FOOLS
IS VERY MUCH THE SAME THING.
LETS BE HAPPY.

Susan has given me a lot of courage over the years. Happiness is no easy thing. But how
I love it. I want more and more of it and if it means climbing on more damn tables, so be it.

I feel so loved today...

And since it's my birth day, I'm allowed to be self-indulgent (I do this every year) and say nice things about myself. And my daughter has also done it for me: Gillian's website

The other day, I had my hair cut and streaked. I like it. And in an hour or so, I am going out with my mother and Helen to have a manicure and pedicure. And later in the day, I am going out with my longest friend Penelope and her love and her parents. And, and... tomorrow my family are having a party for me. I love birthdays (even my 59th.)

A Breath of Fresh Air

I've come up for a breath of air. The two major projects I've been working on for months have been made public.

our house

and

Marlene Schiwy Website


And though I consister myself an excellent cleaning woman/house painter, I am less sure of my website abilities (though I did have help from both my sons) as Marlene's website is the first one, I have attempted.

And, in the end, although my writing has been put aside, I see that I loved the work. If anyone asks me how I feel about what I have accomplished, I will most likely say that I am pleased but both projects are far from perfect. (Oh, that old addiction to perfection is hard to lose.) But in my heart of hearts, I feel that I have outdone myself. Both shine with the care and attention I've paid to detail. (Of course, I am speaking of appearances, especially in regards to the website as it was Marlene who provided the content and images.)

The first public Open House of our home was on Sunday, Easter Sunday, and though the real estate agent said that it was well attended and that there were three couples who were interested, there were very few cars on the street and even the mall down the road - except for several stores - was closed so we will have two more Opens this weeks (meanly I will have to be especially clean and tidy) and hopefully get some offers. I know I expect miracles - a quick sell - but I do so want to get to France and get back to my writing...

On Saturday, I will turn 59 years - my last year in my fifties. I hope it is a good one. I really really hope this...

Happy St. Patrick's Day

I'm hoping and praying that this is the year that dreams come true.

Today a photographer will come into our home and take pictures of the house we have lived in for 25 years. Later in the day a sign will go up on our lawn. I'm hoping that the luck of the Irish will be with us and it'll be a quick sell. I'm hoping that a young couple, like we once were, enters and falls in love with it, as we once did, and wants to raise their family in it. (Before us, another couple lived in this cottage for 25 years and raised two children.) It is humble house without pretension and even though we have borrowed furniture and rugs to jazz it up, it is what it is. For three months, Rob and I have been working at clearing and cleaning and I like the result. There is no clutter, nothing or little superfluous in it, and I see that this is the way I want to live from now on.

And far away, across the ocean, our other home (oh, we are so lucky) is almost ready for us. Here's a picture of the roof terrace (without the beams removed.) As the town sits atop a hill and we have one of the highest houses in the village, we will look out over luscious vineyards and glorious sunflower fields. Rob dreams of barbecuing here. I dream of sipping wine and reading poetry under the stars.



Speaking of poetry, I thought of an especially lovely one - one I once quoted for another friend - when I was looking at Facebook and checked out some pictures of a sister - the sister who was locked out of her house by a man. On Friday, the court ordered that he let her in to get her "stuff" and half the stuff that they bought together. And though he gets the house (unfair), she is glad to be rid of him.

This sister has blossomed over the months, since she was locked out. She's become a sassy, sexy force... and I love her spirit.



Here's a part of the poem for her (by Olga Broumas, called "Rumpelstiltskin"):

Did anyone
ever encourage you, you ask
me, casual
in afternoon light. You blaze
fierce with protective anger as I shake
my head, puzzled, remembering, no
no. You blaze

a beauty you won't claim. To name
yourself beautiful makes you as vulnerable
as feeling
pleasure and claiming it
makes me. I call you lovely. Over

and over, cradling
your ugly memories as they burst
their banks, tears and tears, I call
you lovely. Your face
will come to trust that judgment, to bask
in its own clarity like sun.

Yeah, Maggie.

I must run and set the scene for the photographer. I imagine it will be an emotional week - one in which strangers will enter our space and examine all we have with critical eyes... but all we need is one who has the same aesthetic that we have...

I can't believe...

that two weeks have flown by since the first garden party. We did have a second "gardening" party to clean up the front yard and a number of good souls, who were free and able, returned. We had forgotten the little stone steps that lead up to the higher end of the garden and the cottage-y stone wall that runs along one side.... we had to pay for another load of debris to be hauled away.

We're piglets - no doubt about that but do I regret all the time that I spent doing other things - like writing? Not one little bit. But I do like everything spic and span. Reminds me of the poem "Woman Enough" by Erica Jong:

I wish there were not a choice;
I wish I could be two women.
I wish the days could be longer.
But they are short.
So I write while
the dust piles up.

And in these two weeks the interior of our house has come under scrutiny. I have painted the entrance hall, the stair banister that Java uses as a scratching post, the interior of my little house in the garden (now virginal white), and laid a floor in the downstairs washroom. I took off one afternoon to be with my father and woke at 5:30 the next morning to take him to the airport. (And whose bag was searched because he was carrying 100 silver half-dollars of mine to sell.)



I had a discussion with my accountant who wanted us to pay 40,000 (yes I have the zeros right) right away. And I was on the verge of tears and my stomach was doing somersaults when I spoke to my father and then a friend accountant, who told me a way to waylay that ghastly amount. (And I wonder why our new accountant didn't think of this way herself. And I am sick to almost death of accountants. I was not impressed when I received her first bill the next day for 2,900 with no explanation, just that grand figure. And I find myself fuming that this profession does not account for their billing. Why can they/he/she/whoever just ask for a sum without an explanation. Rob notes his hours. I have always noted my hours. Our builder notes his hours... )

And beyond, repairs and money, there have been a few precious moments. Rob came to me, wrapped his arms around me and said that he could not go through this without me. My eldest son rescued me one night and took me out for a fancy dinner. It felt so good sitting across from him, talking, eating a perfect filet, lyonnaise potatoes, and asparagus, drinking a superior red wine in a crystal goblet, in an elegant restaurant. Those few hours took me away from the drudgery of house work... but that's not really what's important - what is, is that this son wished to be with me, treat me, and tell me of his life. Of course, not all is perfect - whose life is? - but he is happy work-wise. He has found his self-respect in his job.

And my other son, the younger, will turn 26 tomorrow. (The elder turns 30 this year.) The birthday boy is the little one in my lap.



He was such a joyous, loving, mischievous, talkative little boy. He engaged everyone in conversation. This picture was taken in Mexico when Rob was working on Rambo, and everyone in the hotel would smile and greet Michael by name, even the guards with their rifles who stood outside the hotel's gates...

Yet underneath his joyful clatter was a serious scared little soul who was always questioning his place in the world. I have a poem that he wrote when he was nine or ten on my office wall:

I am special
I wonder about life
I hear music..
I pretend that life is normal
I feel alone
I touch the stars...
I hope that I am loved
I am special

And I wondered at the time, as I wonder now, how he could question being loved... for he is so lovable and kind and sensitive... and creative and intelligent and thoughtful. He really is. He has begun re-organizing his life lately, is taking more university courses, is working towards a new future... and he sounds happy.

And so this coming year, my son, I send you much love and gold dust (my friend, Kate knows how potent this can be) so you will be happier, even more successful than your wildest dreams.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MICHAEL

It's the Wee Wee Hours

of the morning and I cannot sleep so I unload the dishwasher, clean the candlesticks, insert new candles and place them on the table in ready for tomorrow's festivities. We're having a garden party where people will actually garden and since I've delayed it several weeks, I have no idea who will remember, who will show up though two people have called and said they'll be late. A good sign. And I know Marlene is preparing a curry feast with spices she brought from India. And my mother has baked Irish bread and is preparing a large salad with oranges and poppy seed dressing.

The days have disappeared and I am accomplishing a lot in way of clearing and cleaning the house (I have taken my mother to the dump twice) and we did have a garage sale last weekend. The stuff that didn't sell, I placed at the top of the driveway and hung a sign saying "absolutely free" and miraculously all was taken. I have been doing publicity and registration for a April 7th workshop and Marlene and I have been working on one for France this summer so I am feeling more than a house wife/ garbage disposer but I go around with lists in my head with tons more to accomplish before we put the house on the market - most likely three weeks down the road.

I am always in a state of disquiet. There's often butterflies bouncing around in my stomach and I rarely write - even emails - that leaves me even less at peace with myself. If you're a friend who I haven't responded to - please forgive me. I can't seem to alight and hold a conversation let alone sort through my growing unanswered correspondence.

I think in a week or two, when all the chores are finished, I'll be more my self. Better still, I'll be able to sleep. I shall go and try again.

Night. Night (though it's almost five in the morning.)

January Blues

I just read my daughter's blog. She's blue. I don't know how I feel at the moment. There is just too much going on... Rob and I keep sorting and clearing. At the moment, I am doing the company books - a job I hate because I only do it once a year. Bad. I swear each year that this year will be different but I'm not going to lie to myself this time, though given the lack of work in the film industry - what with the fickle American dollar and the writer's strike - there will be few figures to add up. Rob finished his last film at the end of September last year. I've made just over 400 dollars on design work. There ain't a lot of money in our coffer. In fact, there's none.

We've been trying to sell stuff but people don't want to buy in January. Probably because they spent too much during the holidays. I've been counting our pennies. Truly. Last week I went to the bank with a plastic bag full of rolled coins. I had 27 dollars worth though then I went out and bought 30 dollars worth of chicken. (We still have some in the freezer.) And Rob's been cooking up some good meals. Gill gave him a personalized cook book for Christmas - one she made with recipes from family and friends. Rob's loving it - has been trying all kinds of different recipes. We've been eating well. I can tell by my nicely rounded belly.

And so life goes on... It's rather humbling being without money. Rob laughed the other day when I suggested we splurge and go out for breakfast. "That's not really a big splurge, Yvonne."

I feel a little foolish saying we're poor because we live well. This week we've lived very well indeed. On Thursday evening, a good dear generous friend took Rob and I to Le Gavroche, an elegant French restaurant in the West End. We hadn't experienced fine dining for ages. I can't remember the last time, I dressed up and feasted in a white-clothed, candle-lit restaurant. To celebrate the occasion, I did something that I haven't done in a long time. I curled my hair...



and felt kind of silly... and when Rob took a picture of me and showed it to me, all I thought was "do I ever look old." Sigh. I try not to worry about looking older but sometimes it sneaks up on me - especially when I look at photographs... but enough of this nonsense. The dinner was a delight, an indulgence - organic greens with hazelnuts, goat cheese, and baby beets, followed by braised lamb shank with garlic mashed potatoes, and completed with an ice wine creme caramel. And with each course, we were given a small goblet of BC wine to peak our taste buds.

My thought was that I could live on the memory of that glorious meal for a long time but, lo and behold, we were invited out a second time this week by my sister's in-laws (one who just arrived in town with her spouse for a few days.) So while the baby of my nuclear family skied at Whistler, Rob and I enjoyed her extended family.



We walked down the hill to the Beach House on Dundarave pier as Lee and Tim wanted to taste some North Shore cuisine. Again the tables were decked in white with candles. Again, the food was excellent though not as fancy as the French one. And again we were treated. I doubt anyone would know that we are counting pennies.

Because we are about to put the house on the market and it must shine inside and out, I've been worrying about our garden... it's a pig sty and what with all the work I'm doing - counting and clearing, organizing and designing, I don't have the time or the cash for a major gardening project. So on the advice from a friend, I've organized a garden party for next weekend. I'm pleased that those invited have enthusiastically responded.



And so it goes in my little world. I'm worried about a hundred things and my attention is here, there, everywhere but I will survive. And I will write...

It's About Time

the Young women wrote a blog. Sometimes life is just too crazy, too full of emotion and action to alight for a minute and pick up a pen. I don't know where Gill's head is at the moment but mine is full of angst. I don't know what the future holds or what I want it to hold. "There's not a peaceful bone in your body," my mother used to say. She's right. I hop from one job to another.

The house feels as if it's in chaos although, in reality, it is becoming clearer and sparser. A week ago, a couple came and took the old filing cabinet from the basement. Several days ago, a book store owner went through out books and took a dozen or so boxes away. (We still have a room full.) Yesterday, a man picked up a dresser. Today a young woman is coming to pick up another dresser and book shelf. Another is coming to look at our son's filing cabinet. But we still have too much "stuff."

When we put the house up for sale in the next month or so, I want it to be free of clutter - even the closets. For my peace of mind, I want it to appear a calm oasis. I want to be able to find something without searching high and low. And once I accomplish this, I want to continue to live with just the essential. It feels good though getting there can be gut retching.

A few nights ago, I had around a hour discussion with my middle son. I was going through boxes of his stuff, asking "do you want this? that? No. Nothing from your school years? No." After our conversation, I started wading through his school years from kindergarten up through high school. I had already been through it once and so only the cream was left - his art work (cartoons mostly) and dozens of sketch books.) All were so rich, so full of imagination, so technically good - even in his early years - that I caught the development of a very talented artist, one with a unique vision. And I thought of Hillman's book that I've put aside for the moment, that speaks of each individual's gift, talent, that which he or she should be pursuing, that can often be seen most clearly in childhood, before other stuff gets in the way.

This son was different from my other two children - a little wilder, less settled, more frustrated with himself. He often complained that he couldn't do what his older brother did - with his hands, his body. I told him that his brother was four years older... and so he grew.

When Gill was home, she went through her stuff and threw all of it away. She didn't even want her first baby doll. My eldest son, the most ascetic of my children, doesn't want anything either.

I have kept a little - not much - though I worry that in later years, all my children will regret having little from their childhood. I worry also that they won't, as I am doing, be able to go through their stuff, and see their own essence. Is this necessary? I don't know. For myself, I would like to be able to do this now - if only for an affirmation of self.

Still this letting go is exciting and, in a sense, liberating. I can create a new life without the old baggage - or so I hope. But I think getting rid of the physical evidence is a good first step. Could my children be right?

Farewell 2007

Merry Christmas

Christmas Eve

Over the past few days, beyond enjoying my daughter's company and doing odds and ends for Christmas, I have not forgotten to drop off food in a food bank and money in Salvation Army clear bowls to the tune of ringing bells every day. Today I will go to Save-On Foods and buy some diapers and formula for Basics-for-Babies.

I would not have been so charitable if it weren't for my friend Kate. Please read
Kate's website in which she challenged a large number of friends to write about their favourite charities. After reading their blogs, Kate herself contributed to many of the charities (and Kate is far from wealthy.) Personally I feel humbled by the writing and generosity of my friend and her other friends - a number of whom I know are younger than me. On another level, I feel happy, pleased, even excited that the generations below mine are more aware and caring and giving to those less fortunate all around the world. What happened to my generation? We speak of the world's atrocities but we do little to help. I'm sorry. I should speak personally. I have no idea what friends my age do and do not do. Again, please read Kate's website


My Aunt Alice and cousins in South Africa


Last January, my Aunt Alice, my father's eldest sister turned 93. She died yesterday morning. I am sorry that I didn't go to South Africa to meet this feisty woman who I know had, at least, three husbands and who moved to South Africa from Northern Ireland when she was a young woman. She was the last female in my father's nuclear family and I so wanted to speak to her about her mother, my grandmother who died soon after my birth and who, I am told, I look very much like.

Dancing with my Dad



Today is my father's 85th birthday. Happy Birthday dear Dad. I love you.

Gill Arrives Tomorrow

I haven't been thinking a lot about Christmas though our house is in a flurry. Rob and I have done the first weed down - sorting and tossing with trips to the Salvation Army and the paper recycling depot. It'll probably take three or four or more sorting- throughs before we're ready to leave this old house. (This could take months, even years depending on the housing market.)

I did meet up with my plum group on Sunday through one was missing (sadly.) It would have been good to have been all together. Both W and S looked wonderful. And we ate and laughed and read...

I haven't felt a lot like writing lately. Too much is going on and I've pushed myself to complete a lot of work so that when Gill arrives, we can have some fun together.

The Next Day

I stopped writing at this point because Helen dropped in with a bottle of sparkling red wine. It tasted like Welch's grape juice. Delicious. Too easy to drink and so my writing got left once more. I notice that other bloggers aren't writing much these days - perhaps it is the season to sit and laugh and drink with good friends.

Gill arrives in hours and I have a lot to do before we head for the airport.

One things that I've been thinking about is Christmas giving. Kate sent me and others an email about this subject. In it, she said:

On your own blog, write a new post about your favorite charity, social cause or helpful organization. While I may have a bias toward causes that address maternal health and children’s well-being, I do believe that all people on this planet have the right to freedom, food, shelter, safety and health care. Domestic, international, global and local interests are equally important. Tell me, and our readers, why you believe your special organizations are helping to make the world a better place. Tell us why you support them and why we should too.

This message has been haunting me. Kate has the biggest heart of anyone I know. Unlike me, she thinks on a grand scale. She worries about the world - writes about it and pushes others to do something too. I feel an embarrassment as a friend. I heard a show once that said that everyone - no matter their income - should allocate a percentage of their money to charity. I thought "yes" that is what I should do. But I have not gone about it in an organized way. I give when anyone knocks at my door though I don't like these door-to-door invasions. I give a lot of good stuff to Salvation Army because I believe that they make the world a better place. I give to Gospel Mission every Christmas because I believe that all should have a good meal on Christmas day (though as I write this, I think should they not have good food every day?)

Because of Kate, I will try to be more generous. Every day till Christmas, I will do something for strangers - I will give to the food bank and the basics-for-babies drive - and I will look around for other worthy places. If you read this, would you do something too? I will record what I do so I do it.

I'll be back here before Christmas. I promise.

IT FEELS AS IF IT'S BEEN A LONG TIME

since I wrote a thoughtful blog entry. So much has been happening in the past few weeks - since Rob's return - that my mind swims. Rob came home with video cuts of the renovation happening in our French home. We both think it will be the most beautiful house in the village, especially when the roof is opened up and we can sit on top of the world and sip wine, break bread, and devour cheese under the stars. Oh la la.

While he was living in the village, he kept thinking about living there full time. "Can I do this," he wondered as he wandered the streets, drove to Toulouse, studied French with a native speaker. Towards the end of his stay, he realized that he could and wanted to be there all the time as soon as is humanly possible. He is tired of the long hours in the film business. He is tired of the money it costs to live in Vancouver. He spoke to some neighbours who retired there three years ago. The most extraordinary thing has happened to them. The man and woman have grown younger, more easy going, happier in their adopted country. Rob wants to feel this way too. He doesn't want to wait until he is too old, less spry, unmotivated.

How do I feel about this? I am always happier in France. When I go there - especially when I am driving through the countryside, admiring fields of sunflowers and grape vines - I sigh with relief. I breathe easier. I love the open markets, the small wineries, the friendliness of the people. I love the friends that I have made, the long evenings with them moaning and groaning with pleasure over the taste of the produce, the cheese, the meat while listening to one friend or another play his cello
and her violin. I love lying in bed and listening to voices speaking French on the street. I yearn to learn the language well. I love the challenge of being there, forcing myself to be more aggressive to get what I want.

On Monday of this week, Rob and I went to see a financial planner. She thought it amusing albeit wonderful that we want to retire at our ages and skip the country. She thought it especially wonderful and rare that we, as a couple, share the same dream. We left all our money papers in her hands and will return next week for her verdict. We are back-paddling a little. There is no work most likely for Rob until May and he is the one who makes the big bucks. I shall try to find work here and there. I just received a cheque for $300 for some design work I did. I am proud of this. But it won't go far. I have to become more aggressive in the making money field.

Rob and I have been looking around us and thinking about what we want to take and what we can live without when we leave the country. More importantly, we have been assessing what we have of value that we can let go of that will provide funds for the next few months - especially since we will borrowing around 70 grand to pay for our renovations in France. Our most valuable art is native prints by Bill Reid and Robert Davidson - two of the best Haida artists on the West Coast. We have put these prints up for sale on Craigs list as a beginning, as a trial. There have been a few requests for information but no buyers yet (though it has only been two days.)

We have also started a major rampage through the house, throwing away stuff that has gathered over the last 24 years since we moved in with two small children. Add another child and a lot of art work and our house is full. I discovered that I have kept every birthday card all three ever received, every baby tooth, every report and progress report, every award, every activity achieved - like swimming classes, guides and cubs, and on and on... I have asked my children to think hard on what they would like. We can no longer be custodians of their memories. (And yet I will keep a little, a tiny bit of memorabilia because it is difficult to part with... )

I have begun to realize that I/we must become creative about selling our stuff if we want a fair price. (A gallery owner offered me half price or a 60/40 split if he sold one of our Reids in his gallery on consignment. First of all, we will try to find a way to sell ourselves.)

I know a lot has to do with getting the word out. And though I don't consider my blog site, a commercial venue, I am going to create a section at the bottom of my blog, naming names and items that we want to sell in hopes that Google will pick up names such as BILL REID and ROBERT DAVIDSON and lead someone who would like their art to me. So if you don't think such an idea creative and call it something crass and unsavoury, please stop reading at the end of this paragraph. What shall I call it? Letting go of valuables? Looking for a buyer? Stuff for sale? Soft sell? I think I'll use the last unless you, my friends, can think of a better name. And if anyone has a better idea of how we can sell this stuff, please let me know.

Only one final happening. We have spoken to real estate agents and we will probably put our house up for sale in the spring. It's our only pension plan and we must catch the market when it's hot.

SOFT SELL - all on Craigs List

1. Three custom-made pine shelves - especially created to hold DVDs and VHSs
2. A number of antique microphones
3. A crew jacket and video from the movie "The Fly".
4. A selection of Native Indian art (see pictures below.)

It's Snowing in Vancouver

According to Rob, this is going to be a cold cold winter. Yesterday, it snowed and I love the look. It's beginning to feel a lot like Christmas.



I have so much to tell that I'm tongue-tied. Think I'll leave for it another day but I would like to wish my niece Ayah Young a happy birthday. She's an extraordinarily talented young woman. See for yourself at: Ayah's blog.

LIFE LESSONS

I see that it is a month to Christmas and though I don't believe in rushing around and spending time and money on stuff that my family and friends may or may not appreciate, I am dreaming of ways to express my love. I did write a story once on gift-giving that I may publish later this week.

On Thursday evening, Rob returned from France. As he came through the customs doors, I nearly didn't recognize him. His hair was longer and darker than I remember. He looked younger, happier, more spry. These separations (he's been gone for nearly two months) work well for us. I miss him certainly but I have time to think of him as other (in D. H. Lawrence terms) and I like this other. I have time to think about me, not in relation to other.

Rob loves living in France as much as I do. He is excited about the renovation and has brought short videos back, showing walls removed, chimneys gone, cheap fixtures no longer standing uglifying our beautiful 13th century home. Though he is frustrated with his French, he can see retiring (as soon as possible) to this lush land.

On Friday, I went with my sister - the one whose husband locked her out - to see her divorce lawyer. She warned me that the lawyer is a force to be reckoned with - and wished she didn't have to. (Again I cannot speak openly about what transpired in a public forum but I did learn a lot about divorce.)

It makes me angry. You have two people who once upon a time - and in my sister's case, not so long ago, swore to love each other forever. They find that they cannot do this and so agree to part. I think it should be easy. The wife says "I brought this into relationship so I shall take it away." The husband says the same. There is a pile of stuff that they bought together. The stuff that one doesn't care about is easy to divide. The stuff that they both want? Well perhaps they should flip a coin. Or take turns... When they finally part, the ideal would be that they remain friends. Or at least send Christmas cards.

When one hires a lawyer, the other is forced to hire a lawyer. And what follows is all about money. The personal, the mementoes - even if they are from one's former life - will have to be fought for and the battle will cost. If you move out or are locked out, and you want your stuff - even your favourite toothbrush - you have to have to ask your lawyer to contact his lawyer and the paperwork costs money... and on and on it goes.

My sister's lawyer is tough. She doesn't care about the personal - or doesn't seem to. She said "you married him and you have to pay the price." She has sat through hundreds, maybe thousands of courtroom dramas and knows that the best woman doesn't always win. How much do you have? What are the joint assets worth? The legal battle could eat up anything you stand to win. Do you want to give up something you want to minimize the time spent agonizing and save some money? All this creates pain and suffering and anger - lots of anger.

My sister is angry. She feels a fool. She should have known better than to marry the guy. I try to reassure her. A lot of smart women do stupid things for love and lust. I mention Pam Houston's book "Cowboys are my Weakness." At a speaking event after the book was released, one angry feminist spoke up and asked why she had strong women succumb to the charms of weak men."Do you think this happens often?" she asked (or something to that effect.) Houston said the question didn't deserve a reply.

Everyone of us has made ourselves vulnerable at one time or another. Why are we so hard on ourselves? We are all human. (I tend to say the obvious at times... and it's easy to speak up and see clearly when one isn't the one who has been wounded.)

Most of the time, I stay at home. I'm in design mode... and getting used to having my guy around. And have lots of secret projects, including my novel, to keep me busy over the next month. And my daughter will return on the 20th of December and I'm smiling already... so there is much that is good and happy happening - even for my sister who was locked out of her house - but that's another story. I continue to learn what is possible in this wild and crazy world.

ALL YOU NEED IS LOVE

It's my sister's birthday today and I love her. She's had a rough time lately and needs to know she is loved. She wants to hear the words. She wants an ear that listens to her. She wants company for the fun times. She wants company for the sad times. And she wants a birthday party. So I'm giving one. I've made manicotti (even the pasta.) I have baked and decorated a cake (insert.) I'm making Italian meatballs. I've made a birthday card. And I'm going a little crazy because I want all perfect. I still have to vacuum, clean bathrooms, iron a tablecloth before the guests arrive at three. And yes, I mustn't forget to shower and dress. And blow up balloons. I wish Rob were here but he's home this Thursday.

MAGGIE'S BIRTHDAY



Flowers from my Baby



Gilly sent me a beautiful poinsetta with a loving card this week - a thank you from her because I checked a couple of essays for her and made suggestions. And this woman of mine knows that editing takes time. It's good to be appreciated. And wonderful, to be loved as she loves me.


I find it difficult to use the word "love" on this blog. I prefer to show not tell (and perhaps I've done that too) but for some strange reason I'm consumed with love these days. I'll speak more on this when I have time.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO A WILD IRISH ROSE

CAN'T GET NO SATISFACTION

I try and I try and I try... I descended into November with a mysterious pain in my foot that sent me to my doctor who sent me to a specialist. Both are mystified. There is no bruising, no swelling. Now my leg hurts. I went for x-rays this morning. I stopped in and saw my doctor. Perhaps the sore foot put pressure on the leg muscles, she guesses. "We'll know more once we see the x-ray results." This could take another three or four days.

Because my leg aches when I walk, I'm not walking much. On the happy end of the spectrum, this means I've been laying low, writing and teaching myself web design.

Living alone in a house that's just under 2000 sq ft that worked well for raising three children that is luxurious when two of us are present, now feels superfluous. And another mystery - though I can work wherever I want without interruption, I still prefer my little house in the garden (though I have not been hobbling down there.)I feel safe there, freer - the internal censors don't visit as often.

Meanwhile over the ocean, Rob has been attempting to live in our 800 year old house without central heating. He said one day the ground level was 1 degree so he sits by the wood burning stove and plugs in an electric heater on the first floor and writes his novel and prepares for the grand renovation that has been delayed one week. Yesterday a friend who left for Zurich lent him her oil-heated house. At last he is comfortable.

WHAT'S IN A NAME?

I went out to dinner last night with two sisters and one sister's sister-in-law who feels like a fifth sister - in a small, very small Italian restaurant - sparsely decorated, few pictures, stark lighting, food verging on excellent but not quite, expensive by my standards. We sat talking about dancing as we had just finished our 6 week Salsa instruction and had had so much fun, we though we might as well broaden our horizons further and learn another style. We decided giggling (oh yes, such a silly word to use for grown women but that's what we were doing) that we would attempt pole dancing next.

And then we spoke of names. Disaster. One sister has changed her name from Donna to Maggie. We sometimes call her Madonna but all of us are forever slipping and calling her by her old name. The thing is that we all thought - though she has denied it a hundred times - that it was the man who locked her out of her home who was responsible for "Maggie". I should note that her middle name is Margaret. She was named after our maternal grandmother. I am called by my middle name. Why not her? Maggie explained yet another time that she loves her grandmother's name. She hates her original name. It is too plain, too ordinary. (I disagree. I like the name Donna but I don't own it.) It is her desire to be called "Maggie." How many times does she have to tell us? She'll accept Donna but she doesn't like it. My other blood sister explained why she assumed it was the man who changed her name. Maggie, in a rage of frustration, stood and said "Why can't you call me by the name I want to be called? I'm leaving."

My heart went out to her. I stood and wrapped my arms around her. "You've got through to us," I told her. "Finally, I understand. Let's step outside for a minute."

We talked outside. Maggie is really really upset. She doesn't understand why it is so difficult for those she loves to listen to her. I said that it is always the hardest with family. I have known her from birth. I see her as my baby sister, an annoying teenager and all the women she has grown into since her beginning. When someone says "Donna" I think of her. But I see here that it doesn't matter what I think. "That which we call a rose/ By any other name would smell as sweet."

The waiter came out and told us that our dinner were on the table. We went inside and ate. But the emotion had taken all of Maggie's energy. And her baby sister, sitting beside her, was also in tears as she knew she had upset Maggie.

I have hope. I think that last night was a turning point. I know that I will try harder to call her Maggie. I think our baby sister will try harder too.

As I tell this story, I keep thinking of Saint Teresa who when she was among a close circle of friends would say "disillusion me with truth." Why am I thinking this? We all hold our own vision or idea of who we are in our head and hearts. Sometimes that image is disturbed. We have to be prepared to reassemble. I think for all my family, the way the new name was introduced made us obstinate. We have been unkind. And we are especially unkind right now as Maggie is vulnerable. No, we would not intentionally hurt her but we have.

***

I must add a footnote to this story. Maggie just called and said that one gift that the man who locked her out of house gave her - and he did give her some fine gifts - was the courage to change her name.

I'M DOIN' ALRIGHT
DOING ALL RIGHT

I am singing the blues. Last week I was down in the dumps and this week isn't much better. I am grumpy. I'm not the best company. And my easy smile is not appearing often.

And last week, when I least felt like talking, I had a Dialogue meeting. At my house. I thought myself "the bitch from hell." Nah, that's too strong. I saw myself as contrary. I didn't know what was a reaction to what was being said or what was coming from my own despondency.

I feel quite alone and so yesterday I hit a psychology book. Not literally. (I'm always curious when I'm not in control of my emotions.) At present, I am reading James Hillman's "The Soul's Code: In Search of Character and Calling." I am drawn to what he says about loneliness. He says it comes without bidding whether one is literally alone or not. He suggests that there is an archetypal sense of loneliness that is with us from our beginning. And it isn't necessarily negative.

"When we look - or, rather, feel - closely into the sense of loneliness we find it is composed of several elements: nostalgia, sadness, silence, and a yearning imagination for "something else" not here, not now. For these elements and images to show, we first have to focus on them rather than on remedies for being literary alone. Desperation grows worse when we seek ways out of despair."

I like the "yearning imagination" part. I like the idea of focusing because when I concentrate, I become curious and curiosity brings forth energy - the energy to direct one's thoughts into examining the elements of loneliness or whatever.

Am I making any sense?

No matter. I'm doing all right.

JUST WHEN I THINK I HAVE FOUND MY WAY


I crash and once again feel like a child - lost about how to approach others and the world. And the child in me wants to scream with rage. I have worked so hard to grow up. I don't want to feel helpless. Why can't I be dignified and full of grace? I hate the part of me that runs and hides because she feels small and inferior. She embarrasses me.

In my mind's eye, I see this big finger pointing at me saying you have so many riches. You have never had anything truly horrible happen to you. How dare you feel helpless and hopeless?

I need a poem. (Winterson wrote in an interview that poetry is like coffee to her.)

When I write that I feel low, I don't want scorn or sympathy or advice. I don't want anything. I just want to tell the truth about my life. And it pisses me off, this need to speak, to expose myself. Why can't I be like others? Full of grace and dignity. I don't know. There is something in me that feels compelled to tell. And though I hate her, I comply. This is who I am.

It's rainy here. It feels as if it's been raining for days. Although I know that the rain is responsible for the green beauty of this place, still it depresses me, makes me feel sluggish, lifeless.

This week passed quickly. On Wednesday Gill celebrated her 21st birthday and I spent a lot of time and love trying to make it special for her. (She had a wonderful day. Loved her birthday blog.)

On Friday, I went to see Hollis speak about "What makes good people do bad things." I like Hollis. He's a good speaker and though he uses big words and a lot of Jungian terminology, he gives easy accessible examples to make his point about shadow - that which makes good people do bad things or that which takes a person out of their comfort zone and can unravel them and push them to extremes (though he said that he had two men who declared that they had no shadow.) Everyone has a shadow.

Shadow is the part of us that makes our ego uncomfortable, the part of us that we don't like. It's the part that has never adapted to the culture of nice. There are personal shadows and collective shadows. (He gave as an example of the collective -
"Wherever they burn books they will also, in the end, burn human beings.")

I wrote down a number of his ideas that appealed to me. "Who says what is good? The collective usually." "When we violate the self. There is real suffering." "When you come to a place when everything you can do is wrong, then you're usually at another step in the individuation process." "The presence of conflict is the proof of the rightness of your journey." "Accept the fact that you're acceptable and that you're unacceptable." When depressed, you can ask "where's the unlived life? what am I trying to push down?" "Depression is a learned helplessness." "Addiction is a system to stop us from feeling what we're feeling."

Hollis explained that shadow is good or rather rich and we should pay attention when caught by shadow. It shows us what we want to distance ourselves from or "overthrow" our adaptive personality (in contrast to our reactive personality.) By ignoring shadow, we are perpetuating a false self. "Sometimes we murder our selves."

Heady stuff.

On Saturday and Sunday, I attended a autobiography workshop at Marlene's. She has a gift for teaching and listening. She also has a knack for gathering groups of women (most often they are women) who are intelligent, thoughtful, caring, and who want to write either professionally or for themselves and/or their families. The two days passed quickly - full of poetry, quotes, discussions, writing and reading (and I should not forget eating - such tasty morsels of Terra breads, Seigel bagels, salmon and egg salads, raw vegies, French cheeses, fruit, and apple and chocolate cake.) There were light moments and heavy moments. Some of the writing stunned me. I am always always shocked at what some women have gone through and lived to tell the tale. With dignity and grace.

As I sit here trying to describe something that is too sensitive for words, too private to speak about openly - for it is unacceptable to tell others' stories when told in such an environment - I am reminded of a passage in Nancy Mair's book "Voice Lessons". She was attending a workshop at Skimmilk Farm where all was permissible. "At the Farm, the women simply listened to my essays very hard and laughed in all the right places... And really, what more can we - as writers, as artists, as human beings - do for one another?"

A little further down, Mairs says: "I want to give her the courage to say the next hard thing, without fear of ridicule or expulsion if she strays across the borders of good taste, good sense, or good judgment demarcated by a tradition she has had no part in forming. I want her to do the same for me."

I left the weekend feeling heavy hearted. I can admire everyone but myself. And I don't really understand this. I never feel as if I give enough. And this makes me feel miserly and miserable. And then I blurt out at the end that I feel a failure. And then I verbally lambast myself for feeling self pity. I hate feeling self pity. And so the vicious cycle begins. Something strikes a chord here. I return to my Hollis notes. I read "forgiveness of self. compassion for self. therapy attends to the disillusionment of stage that you're at. a developmental stage. what wants to come into being wants the death of ego."

I want the death of ego. I want to write.