I love the night, when the house is settled. It's not particularly quiet, with the sound of the dishwasher running in the kitchen, the heater coming on now that we're moving into Autumn. But all the other beings here are sleeping or near enough to....and it's just me with my thoughts.
Some nights that's not good. When thoughts take me down a restless path, ruminating on situations and circumstances that I can't reclaim and can't lay to rest.
Other nights, like tonight, it's just peace-making. Where I can enshroud myself in the comforting focus that is usually so hard to attain during the day, and where I can regain a little sense of myself.
At this time of year, I'm taken back to so many distinct memories, and all of them bear the weight of emotional discourse. They flow over me like water over well-worn stones, pulling me gently along to their conclusion.
It would be easy to say that I could stay there forever, but I know myself too well. But for now - for tonight - it's enough to visit.
Nights like tonight, I can believe anything of myself. My goals, my dreams, all there for the taking. I just need to reach out.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Friday, September 16, 2011
Breathe
A friend of mine recently reminded me to Breathe.
I know that this is rather unusual...after all the mechanics of human breathing are pretty much managed at the brain stem level (function without serious consideration) and since I've made it to the realm of the "over 40 crowd", it's apparent my brain stem has been working just fine for awhile.
The cool thing about breathing though, is that we humanoids can also actively manage to regulate our breathing for a variety of reasons. What initially comes to mind is breathing through pain or as part of an exercise regimen such as yoga or tai chi. The deliberate style of breathing that means you're conscious of how the air actually feels in your body and letting the action of breathing become the focus. For the rest of this post, I'll call this out with a capital "B", for Breathe.
I can recall twenty or so years ago (no, really, I can!), my Psychology 2-oh-something class had me recording and managing my stressors and subsequent reactions. As part of the study, I was introduced to a variety of techniques to manage my stress-response. This proved to be very handy, because one of the foremost ways to manage stress is to breathe through it, and you rarely need anything more than the equipment you already have with you to do it.
Having an anxiety disorder, I do have a tendency to 'ramp up' quickly and end up in a place where I simply cannot manage my level of investment into whatever the situation is. This can cause no end of volatility in an otherwise neutrally chaotic existence (LOL). The solution? Breathe.
And reminders to Breathe. I had a large note above my computer monitor in my last office, on a bright neon green 4"x6" post-it note. "Breathe" was one of the items listed (another was stretch) and it really did work to help me remember to stop and take a moment to ground myself.
I've had a variety of stressors battering at me over the last couple of weeks, and I haven't resurrected the sign in this new office. I think it might be time to find a place for it.
I know that this is rather unusual...after all the mechanics of human breathing are pretty much managed at the brain stem level (function without serious consideration) and since I've made it to the realm of the "over 40 crowd", it's apparent my brain stem has been working just fine for awhile.
The cool thing about breathing though, is that we humanoids can also actively manage to regulate our breathing for a variety of reasons. What initially comes to mind is breathing through pain or as part of an exercise regimen such as yoga or tai chi. The deliberate style of breathing that means you're conscious of how the air actually feels in your body and letting the action of breathing become the focus. For the rest of this post, I'll call this out with a capital "B", for Breathe.
I can recall twenty or so years ago (no, really, I can!), my Psychology 2-oh-something class had me recording and managing my stressors and subsequent reactions. As part of the study, I was introduced to a variety of techniques to manage my stress-response. This proved to be very handy, because one of the foremost ways to manage stress is to breathe through it, and you rarely need anything more than the equipment you already have with you to do it.
Having an anxiety disorder, I do have a tendency to 'ramp up' quickly and end up in a place where I simply cannot manage my level of investment into whatever the situation is. This can cause no end of volatility in an otherwise neutrally chaotic existence (LOL). The solution? Breathe.
And reminders to Breathe. I had a large note above my computer monitor in my last office, on a bright neon green 4"x6" post-it note. "Breathe" was one of the items listed (another was stretch) and it really did work to help me remember to stop and take a moment to ground myself.
I've had a variety of stressors battering at me over the last couple of weeks, and I haven't resurrected the sign in this new office. I think it might be time to find a place for it.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Putting the "Gee" in Gynecological Exams
As the title suggests, this topic will be about lady parts. If you are at all squeamish or sensitive to this subject STOP READING NOW.
*Plays a soothing violin concerto for those leaving, and sends you off to your happy places.**
Okay we're back. So I'm guessing that the rest of you have either seen it, want to see it, or are okay with talking about it. ;)
About a year ago my doctor's office declined to renew my prescription for the happy pills that keep me sane, mainly because I hadn't been in to see my doctor for over a year. Relatively understandable, but it would have been a little nicer to have some sort of heads up rather than the immediacy of "Hey, you're out of pills and we're holding your already tenuous sanity hostage until you come in and have a full physical." Especially since the clinic had specifically made a point of assigning Mr. Eggshells and I doctors so we'd have these kind of reminders. (Actually, to be precise, the clinic had a hissy fit and *made* us pick doctors. So that we'd have primary physicians who would be up to date on all our stuff. Then set it up so we'd have different doctors. I'm still not sure, years later, how this was of any benefit to us.)
Nevertheless, I agreed to come in if they agreed to give me an interim prescription to keep me going (because withdrawal is a bigger bitch than I could ever hope to be!). Turns out that my doctor had left the practice almost a year before (ah, now I see how it benefits me to have a single doctor...not) and that I would need to see someone new. It was also time for my annual exam, so it was decided that we'd do the meet 'n greet at the same time, a kind of "get to know you" from the uterus on up.
Now for those of you enlightened and fearless males in the audience who hung in there despite the subject matter, there are just a few things to know about the average gynecological exam. The exam itself generally includes an external visual exam, a bimanual exam (checking the uterus and ovaries), and a speculum exam (using a speculum tool to open the vaginal walls and finally, a Pap smear of cells from the cervix is taken with a swab to be tested for cervical cancer. There may also be a breast examination.
By the by, Mr. Eggshells says that the word speculum "makes guys go kinda squicky". I don't doubt it...that thing looks like a gigantic duck bill.
 |
| Squick-inducing |
Surprisingly, the annual isn't the highlight of most women's day either. While it's not particularly painful, it's awkward and uncomfortable. And unless a woman is used to hopping up on a table and getting into the stirrups to expose her nethers to all, it's also a little on the vulnerable-making. (Plus, unlike similar scenarios, there are no dollar bills being tucked into your panties while you're on display...)
But that's okay because these are doctors and nurses, medical professionals who have seen it all. They're there to perform a very necessary service in preventative health care. At least that's what we tell ourselves when convincing ourselves to keep that yearly appointment.
Now this was not my first exam by any means, but far back in my history lurks the spectre of that initial exam so many thousands of years ago. That doctor, who for all intents and purposes looked like a female, I'm fairly certain was really a hybrid shifter of Lovecraftian ilk. Details not required, but the upshot of the whole thing was that it did not go well. At all. For either of us.
Needless to say, between that experience, a subsequent one where a doctor actually told me to relax because it was just like sex (um, WHAT?!), and my generalized anxiety, that these exams are a bit of a minefield for me. Staying centered, breathing through the stress, and communicating with the medical staff are key things for me to do to make it a relatively tolerable experience for all of us.
Because two things will happen if it's not...my pelvic muscles will shut down and that is the end of the exam, and my kick reflex will work quickly. Not necessarily in that order. (Oddly enough, doctors are very interested in not getting kicked in the face during an exam...who would have thought?)
Back to last year...with my new doctor. Who is, coincidentally a NEW doctor. Fortunately he's a new doctor with a sense of humor. Unfortunately he's a new doctor with a sense of humor like my husband's. For those of you privileged to know Mr. Eggshells, you will know that one of the kinder ways to describe it is "odd". What's awesomely horrific in a husband is not necessarily so in a doctor. A doctor with a speculum.
The clinic building dates back to the 1940's or 1950's. I'm not sure who designed the interior offices, but I do know that they have not thought out the entire position of the examination table or the potential ramifications of certain types of examinations on said table. I can only surmise that at one point either tables were smaller, or people were all midgets. I cannot think of any other reason why they would set a room up so that the doctor basically has put his head in a sink to do an exam.
So here we all are, the sink, the badly-positioned bed, the new doctor, the nurse, and me in the stirrups. And I forgot the most crucial part of the process - letting my new doctor know that he needed to use the smaller speculum. (Yes, likely TMI, but there is a point to telling you this and not just cuz I can! :P)
After a couple of misses with the larger speculum, I remembered...funny how blunt force trauma and searing vaginal pain can bring you back to what's really important. We then commenced the gymnastics of the "speculum swap" to be able to actually finish the exam.
Now new doctor, while feeling completely HORRIBLE for the misses, has also flipped into what I can only assume is his safe place when stressed...humor. Which is also, fortunately, my safe place. He starts cracking one-liners at me. I tell him about the urban legend about the older woman at her annual exam. We're now completely busting a gut and the nurse...well the nurse was not impressed with either of us. Seems she left her sense of humor at the door.
Then it was time for the breast exam...so it was time for round two of awkward, since the exam table was a mere inches from the wall. To be able to examine my left side, he had to wedge himself into the few inches of space against the wall. Still cracking jokes, by the time he told me he'd just have to climb on top of me to do the breast exam, I was hysterical with laughter.
Exam finally over, they left me to get dressed and when the doctor returned, he introduced himself as if we'd never met and we started over.
Two weeks later I was at my follow up and Mr. Eggshells was with me for his initial. The doctor introduced himself, and with a completely straight face, Mr. Eggshells told him that for his examination he'd be needing the small speculum as well. ;)
He's our favorite doctor EVER!
But that's okay because these are doctors and nurses, medical professionals who have seen it all. They're there to perform a very necessary service in preventative health care. At least that's what we tell ourselves when convincing ourselves to keep that yearly appointment.
Now this was not my first exam by any means, but far back in my history lurks the spectre of that initial exam so many thousands of years ago. That doctor, who for all intents and purposes looked like a female, I'm fairly certain was really a hybrid shifter of Lovecraftian ilk. Details not required, but the upshot of the whole thing was that it did not go well. At all. For either of us.
Needless to say, between that experience, a subsequent one where a doctor actually told me to relax because it was just like sex (um, WHAT?!), and my generalized anxiety, that these exams are a bit of a minefield for me. Staying centered, breathing through the stress, and communicating with the medical staff are key things for me to do to make it a relatively tolerable experience for all of us.
Because two things will happen if it's not...my pelvic muscles will shut down and that is the end of the exam, and my kick reflex will work quickly. Not necessarily in that order. (Oddly enough, doctors are very interested in not getting kicked in the face during an exam...who would have thought?)
Back to last year...with my new doctor. Who is, coincidentally a NEW doctor. Fortunately he's a new doctor with a sense of humor. Unfortunately he's a new doctor with a sense of humor like my husband's. For those of you privileged to know Mr. Eggshells, you will know that one of the kinder ways to describe it is "odd". What's awesomely horrific in a husband is not necessarily so in a doctor. A doctor with a speculum.
The clinic building dates back to the 1940's or 1950's. I'm not sure who designed the interior offices, but I do know that they have not thought out the entire position of the examination table or the potential ramifications of certain types of examinations on said table. I can only surmise that at one point either tables were smaller, or people were all midgets. I cannot think of any other reason why they would set a room up so that the doctor basically has put his head in a sink to do an exam.
So here we all are, the sink, the badly-positioned bed, the new doctor, the nurse, and me in the stirrups. And I forgot the most crucial part of the process - letting my new doctor know that he needed to use the smaller speculum. (Yes, likely TMI, but there is a point to telling you this and not just cuz I can! :P)
After a couple of misses with the larger speculum, I remembered...funny how blunt force trauma and searing vaginal pain can bring you back to what's really important. We then commenced the gymnastics of the "speculum swap" to be able to actually finish the exam.
Now new doctor, while feeling completely HORRIBLE for the misses, has also flipped into what I can only assume is his safe place when stressed...humor. Which is also, fortunately, my safe place. He starts cracking one-liners at me. I tell him about the urban legend about the older woman at her annual exam. We're now completely busting a gut and the nurse...well the nurse was not impressed with either of us. Seems she left her sense of humor at the door.
Then it was time for the breast exam...so it was time for round two of awkward, since the exam table was a mere inches from the wall. To be able to examine my left side, he had to wedge himself into the few inches of space against the wall. Still cracking jokes, by the time he told me he'd just have to climb on top of me to do the breast exam, I was hysterical with laughter.
Exam finally over, they left me to get dressed and when the doctor returned, he introduced himself as if we'd never met and we started over.
Two weeks later I was at my follow up and Mr. Eggshells was with me for his initial. The doctor introduced himself, and with a completely straight face, Mr. Eggshells told him that for his examination he'd be needing the small speculum as well. ;)
He's our favorite doctor EVER!
 |
| Quack! |
Saturday, August 13, 2011
RSS Subscription and Follow via Email Added
I took a few minutes to figure out the RSS links and email sign up. So if any of you who may be out there want up-to-the-minute updates on my 3x a month posting...LOL Feel free!
Grief is Exhausting
I'm scanning photos today. It's taken me a full 10 years to manage to do this, not because of time or technology, but because I needed this long to be able to mentally and emotionally do it.
And you know what, it's still not soon enough.
But I'm getting it done. Because part of me needs to lay it to rest. Part of me needs to fulfill a promise. And part of me needs to get this house under control and the box of irreplaceable photos in my family room is not secure and also underfoot.
My parents were married on December 3, 1966. The photos I'm scanning are from the official photographer's selection book that my Mom had held onto after 20 years, divorce, remarriage and several moves. I don't know if she was saving them for my sister and I for "someday" or if they were just part of the things that never got cleaned out. It was after her funeral that my step-Dad opened up the boxes of memories and let us have our pick.
***brief interruption for a good cry and a hug from the Mr.***
I took the wedding photos and promised my sister I'd have copies made for her. My intentions were to do that while it was all fresh and new...and then Dad got sick and I was busy taking care of him until he died.
After that the next couple of years are really just a hazy blur. Which makes sense, because lucidly managing that much pain is just not comprehensible to me, even now. Logically I know that I have a lot more to process but processing takes energy, and often energy I don't have to spare.
Which is why when I take on projects like this, it feels just like the wound being re-opened. Sometimes when that happens, it's hard to know if it will ever heal, or just have periods of dormancy where I can ignore it.
After that the next couple of years are really just a hazy blur. Which makes sense, because lucidly managing that much pain is just not comprehensible to me, even now. Logically I know that I have a lot more to process but processing takes energy, and often energy I don't have to spare.
Which is why when I take on projects like this, it feels just like the wound being re-opened. Sometimes when that happens, it's hard to know if it will ever heal, or just have periods of dormancy where I can ignore it.
I still don't know if losing someone slowly to illness is better or worse than losing them quickly, like in an accident. I'm still confused as to how my sister can go through that same experience of loss of both parents in such a short time frame and still be okay with turning away from her only sister. (Although, to be fair, I'm sure she believes that I did the turning away.) I'm pretty sure that if she had been the one who had the photos I wouldn't get a copy. I'm just not built like that...even if she doesn't care to have them, even if she doesn't want them because they're from me, I can't in good conscience withhold them.
And so I've been scanning. Maybe because I want to be the better person. Or maybe I want to remind her that despite how she feels or acts now, she was part of the family that I was. And that no matter what choices we make now, that is a fact that can't be changed.
Mostly I think I'm scanning so I don't have to lose the pictures like I lost the people. At least I have my memories...which I may even manage to write down one day.
One day.
**Edited to add: But at least now I know why I've been sick for the last week. It's always like this pre-processing. I just hadn't had it happen for so long I didn't recognize.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Belief
I've been thinking about belief lately, particularly with respect to the definition "a state or habit of mind in which trust or confidence is placed in some person or thing." Other definitions discuss the trust placed after examination of evidence.
While trust relationships could be the subject of several posts, what I'm thinking about more is what happens when we actively show trust in people around us. Trusting others with our feelings, our possessions, our esteem, even our physical well-being can be a really scary thing...since the very act of trust makes us vulnerable. Even the word confidence implies a level of intimacy and care that should be implicit. Which makes sense, when you consider that usually trust grows the longer we know someone. Even when the trust is shaken or damaged, it's the previous experience that allows for even the possibility of rebuilding.
When I think back on my life experiences and how I got "here" from "there", I'm always amazed. How much of what I've been able to endure, and how much of what I've been able to accomplish has been because someone believed in me? From my family, to teachers, to friends, to my romantic relationships, to co-workers...the list goes on and on. From the simple words casually said "you can do it" - to the unspoken lessons that reinforced to me my value as a person in others' eyes, my core personality has been bolstered, padded and fabric'd with my worth to others'. (Yes, I'm a sofa! LOL)
Which is not to say that I haven't had relationships or experiences that weren't devaluating...there were some of those too. For the most part I've tried to remove those sorts of influences from my life, but that's not necessarily a choice that everyone can facilitate. And I have to say that the overwhelmingly positive experiences where in the majority when it came to framing my interactions with the world at large.
It's truly heartbreaking when I think of all those people out there who have never been told and never been shown they have value. How much individual potential is wasted because there is no belief or trust shown?
Based on recent work experience, it can be a lot. Obviously details are not appropriate, but as I'm attempting to work within a team where there is little to no trust given or received, it's damaging to the end result and makes the journey to it a whole heck of a lot of not fun.
So maybe it's the hippie in me, or maybe it's just my inclusive nature, but shouldn't we all be cheering each other on?
By the way, my friends, I believe in all of you, and truly value your presence in my life. :)
While trust relationships could be the subject of several posts, what I'm thinking about more is what happens when we actively show trust in people around us. Trusting others with our feelings, our possessions, our esteem, even our physical well-being can be a really scary thing...since the very act of trust makes us vulnerable. Even the word confidence implies a level of intimacy and care that should be implicit. Which makes sense, when you consider that usually trust grows the longer we know someone. Even when the trust is shaken or damaged, it's the previous experience that allows for even the possibility of rebuilding.
When I think back on my life experiences and how I got "here" from "there", I'm always amazed. How much of what I've been able to endure, and how much of what I've been able to accomplish has been because someone believed in me? From my family, to teachers, to friends, to my romantic relationships, to co-workers...the list goes on and on. From the simple words casually said "you can do it" - to the unspoken lessons that reinforced to me my value as a person in others' eyes, my core personality has been bolstered, padded and fabric'd with my worth to others'. (Yes, I'm a sofa! LOL)
Which is not to say that I haven't had relationships or experiences that weren't devaluating...there were some of those too. For the most part I've tried to remove those sorts of influences from my life, but that's not necessarily a choice that everyone can facilitate. And I have to say that the overwhelmingly positive experiences where in the majority when it came to framing my interactions with the world at large.
It's truly heartbreaking when I think of all those people out there who have never been told and never been shown they have value. How much individual potential is wasted because there is no belief or trust shown?
Based on recent work experience, it can be a lot. Obviously details are not appropriate, but as I'm attempting to work within a team where there is little to no trust given or received, it's damaging to the end result and makes the journey to it a whole heck of a lot of not fun.
So maybe it's the hippie in me, or maybe it's just my inclusive nature, but shouldn't we all be cheering each other on?
By the way, my friends, I believe in all of you, and truly value your presence in my life. :)
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
How am I supposed to be Zen when a mysterious poo is sitting in my garden of enlightenment?
I cannot take credit for the subject title, it's a line uttered by Eddie Izzard in his role as a psychology professor on the now-cancelled United States of Tara. (By the way, good one to catch...only lasted 3 seasons but it was amusing.)
In the show, Eddie the professor has a little zen garden on his desk, similar to the one pictured right.
He's not able to listen to or concentrate on Tara (played by the remarkable Toni Colette, with whom I've been enamored since her Muriel's Wedding days), as she's explaining why she needs an extension on her exam. All because of a poo nugget that has mysteriously appeared in his zen garden (aka garden of enlightenment).
So he storms around, trying to figure out how the culprit got away with the heinous crime. And he belligerently asks "How am I supposed to be Zen when a mysterious poo is sitting in my Garden of Enlightenment?"
Now, the scene is hilarious in and of itself, not the least due in part to the genius of Eddie Izzard and his classic timing. His natural British accent gives the essence of posh while the subject matter is definitely not. (Try it yourself...find a Brit or someone who can do the accent and have them say "poo". I don't usually respond to scat humor but it's pretty dang funny.)
The scene and the comedy aside, however, and the underlying (obvious?) message resonated quite strongly with me. How many times have I tried to get myself to a certain place mentally or physically and found that something not only stops me, but causes me to focus on that rather than the people and things around me that need attention. Or in a broader sense, how many times do we as "enlightened" creatures bog ourselves down in trivialities that really don't matter in the big scheme (garden) of things. And we use so much time and energy either managing around or raging against the object of our hostility that we burn out before we can achieve our goal. It's a source of constant amazement to me when people around me get so wrapped up in negative behaviours that thwart their own purpose.
But I don't linger too much on them, for the simple reason that I can find many more examples of negative responses in my own patterns that need my attention. I have many goals that I'd love to reach, tons of projects that I'd like to finish. And yet I too get overwhelmed by the little things - things that should just be ignored for the most part. And yet, I don't. Too much focus on "poo" rather than pouring my resources into my own personal enlightenment.
And that's not really acceptable. I like to think of myself as a person who is conscious of the potential in myself and not afraid to work through the tough stuff to achieve it. (Geez, I've dealt with plenty of crap [sic] in my time and I know my own strength.) So why is it so easy to get distracted from the goal line?
He's not able to listen to or concentrate on Tara (played by the remarkable Toni Colette, with whom I've been enamored since her Muriel's Wedding days), as she's explaining why she needs an extension on her exam. All because of a poo nugget that has mysteriously appeared in his zen garden (aka garden of enlightenment).
So he storms around, trying to figure out how the culprit got away with the heinous crime. And he belligerently asks "How am I supposed to be Zen when a mysterious poo is sitting in my Garden of Enlightenment?"
Now, the scene is hilarious in and of itself, not the least due in part to the genius of Eddie Izzard and his classic timing. His natural British accent gives the essence of posh while the subject matter is definitely not. (Try it yourself...find a Brit or someone who can do the accent and have them say "poo". I don't usually respond to scat humor but it's pretty dang funny.)
The scene and the comedy aside, however, and the underlying (obvious?) message resonated quite strongly with me. How many times have I tried to get myself to a certain place mentally or physically and found that something not only stops me, but causes me to focus on that rather than the people and things around me that need attention. Or in a broader sense, how many times do we as "enlightened" creatures bog ourselves down in trivialities that really don't matter in the big scheme (garden) of things. And we use so much time and energy either managing around or raging against the object of our hostility that we burn out before we can achieve our goal. It's a source of constant amazement to me when people around me get so wrapped up in negative behaviours that thwart their own purpose.
But I don't linger too much on them, for the simple reason that I can find many more examples of negative responses in my own patterns that need my attention. I have many goals that I'd love to reach, tons of projects that I'd like to finish. And yet I too get overwhelmed by the little things - things that should just be ignored for the most part. And yet, I don't. Too much focus on "poo" rather than pouring my resources into my own personal enlightenment.
And that's not really acceptable. I like to think of myself as a person who is conscious of the potential in myself and not afraid to work through the tough stuff to achieve it. (Geez, I've dealt with plenty of crap [sic] in my time and I know my own strength.) So why is it so easy to get distracted from the goal line?
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Old Friendships Are New Again
I've been pondering relationships in general and friendships in particular the last while.
I'm not sure if this is because over the last few months I've been reconnecting with people who were important to me during my wayward (!) youth, or if I'm approaching some sort of mid-life crisis. However, since I refuse to believe I'm anywhere close to mid-life (denial RULES), I'm going to go with the reconnecting.
Without delving into my history too much, many of the ties I had 20+ years ago have basically been severed. Parents deceased, sister estranged, other family a distance away after moving, school friends drifted. I know that's relatively normal (we all know how time flies and other such handy catch-phrases), and the friends I've made over the last few years have been amazing and wonderful (yes, I do mean YOU!). I've been adopted into my husband's family, and by several other families I've met as well. Since it boils down to choices I've made that created my current reality, I didn't particularly think I was missing anything...truly, I'm the happiest I've been in memory. Although to be fair, since I'm over 40, that really isn't saying much...most days memory consists of trying to make sure I'm wearing pants when I leave the house.
Until I reconnected. I didn't even realize there had been something missing until it was filled. Bonds that had been created when we were all at very impressionable ages, the ones that help shape how we relate to each other and the world around us. Those people are cemented with those experiences just as surely as I lived through them. People I was close to, who know *that* me - the me that is the basis for who I have become. The me that wasn't touched by the experiences of my 20's or my 30's.
Okay maybe I'm the only one with a split personality. ;)
But the point I'm making is that these people come in and out of my life and they bring me myself again. They remind me of who I started as, and still am really, deep down, when I forget. They remind me of the dreams, the plans, and the "what-ifs". They're the "comfortable pair of shoes" (sooo stolen) that slip on and the years melt away as if they were nothing. (Oh yes, given the chance, I'd so put my feet on you!!! BWAHAHA! But you love the Pammie germs, you know you do!)
And I feel the gap disappear. It's not that I don't like myself now. It's not that I'm unhappy. It's just that the small empty part of me gets filled. I hope that in return I complete some little part of them, or in some way make things a little brighter than they were. It's the least I can do for the blessing they continually give me.
Because I truly think it's important to know that you have meaning. That even after so many years, and so much distance, we're all still here. Ourselves.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Inspiration
I'd love to say that inspiration has struck, but it's more like it has crept in, nestled behind my ear and started whispering sweet nothings to me. Although that's a bit of a misnomer, since they're not sweet and certainly not nothing. Between us we've conjured a prologue scene of medieval torturous proportions. And that's all I'm saying about specifics for now.
Needless to say, with a whole three hours of sleep under my belt and a less-than-riveting workload today, it's a tad challenging not to just immerse myself in my own head and let it flow. Of course, that's also the beauty of composing in my head...no one has to know what the wheels are turning.
So inspiration this time started with a dinner date out with friends last week. Two sentences from someone whose opinion I trust and who has always been unfailingly supportive and I'm off and mentally running. (Thank you again, Lady! :) )
For the last few days, amidst catching up episodes of Battlestar Galactica (yup, I finally caved on that) and calming the felines from the noise of the fireworks, my brain has been churning the pieces. Threads from random thoughts have cast on and are beginning to weave.
I just hope that it will yield a complete project this time. Fingers crossed!
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Thursdays
Thursdays have always seemed kind of like the lame duck of the week. Not really the middle, not quite the weekend, they're really just there as a transition. Rather like holding your breath through a tunnel to make it go faster. (Unless you're my husband, who thinks it rather hilarious that he once tricked me into holding my breath and then slowed the car down to a crawl! There's a valid reason I call him nasty names, really.)
When I moved here and started working, my new U.S. co-workers dubbed Thursdays as "Crabby Canadian Thursdays". It stemmed from one memorable morning where I arrived un-caffeinated to the office and they mistook my complete inability to fathom the world around me as "crabby". Despite my assurances to the contrary, and even explaining that I was too tired to even have the energy to be crabby, the title stuck. So much so that upon gaining dual citizenship, I thus declared Thursdays to be "Crabby Can-Am Thursdays", throwing open the doors to include my millions of compatriots.
Thursdays are also the day that the man comes to the building complex where I work and exercises his Constitutionally mandated right to free speech. By putting up a dozen gigantic posters of aborted fetuses.
You see, I work in a complex with a Planned Parenthood office. And in this country there appears to be a relatively small but vociferous group of people who truly believe that Planned Parenthood is nothing but a place to get an abortion. This makes Planned Parenthood the devil incarnate, rather than a valid option for women's health care. (For my Canadian friends who may be reading this and not know, because of the way the medical system works here, Planned Parenthood is actually one of the foremost providers of women's health services because they are accessible to people without insurance. I actually went to them for examinations and meds prior to being on a medical plan.)
At some point I'll likely go on a diatribe about women's issues and the like, but for now I'm going to focus on the signage.
Years ago, when I worked in this same office, the Thursday morning free speech was a sandwich board and a man in a chair. He's an older man, who sits and reads, waves to the people driving in and out of the complex, and essentially is just there, making his views and his presence known.
Fast-forward 4 years. Thursday morning is now the same man in the chair, still reading and waving. Only now there are two vehicles parked all day with gigantic posters attached to their roof and sides, grotesque pictorials comparing healthy fetuses to aborted fetuses. The captioning on the pictures is inflammatory toward Planned Parenthood. There's still the sandwich board, but it's been joined by several more. Essentially one turns the corner on Thursday and is bombarded with graphic propaganda which is at best in poor taste and at worst, misleading.
And I'm not even going to Planned Parenthood (I just amused myself by abbreviating that to PP and decided that wouldn't work...but it's funny!). I can't even imagine how someone feels arriving for an appointment - procedure or not - and seeing that. In many cases, this is the only place a woman has to get health care. I applaud men and women for taking responsibility for their health and reproduction, and this little old man and his signs are seeming to be in direct opposition to that.
That's why I get angry. Regardless of anyone's personal stance on what a fetus is or isn't, or whether abortion of said fetus is ethical, this weekly display provides condemnation without education. It addresses the end result of a series of choices, without acknowledging the value that Planned Parenthood could play in that equation. I'm a firm advocate of sexual education and informed decision-making, and if this weekly propaganda display turns away even one person from gaining correct knowledge and health services, then in my opinion it's not worth it.
I guess in the overall scheme of things, Thursdays aren't really do mundane any longer. They're still Crabby though.
You see, I work in a complex with a Planned Parenthood office. And in this country there appears to be a relatively small but vociferous group of people who truly believe that Planned Parenthood is nothing but a place to get an abortion. This makes Planned Parenthood the devil incarnate, rather than a valid option for women's health care. (For my Canadian friends who may be reading this and not know, because of the way the medical system works here, Planned Parenthood is actually one of the foremost providers of women's health services because they are accessible to people without insurance. I actually went to them for examinations and meds prior to being on a medical plan.)
At some point I'll likely go on a diatribe about women's issues and the like, but for now I'm going to focus on the signage.
Years ago, when I worked in this same office, the Thursday morning free speech was a sandwich board and a man in a chair. He's an older man, who sits and reads, waves to the people driving in and out of the complex, and essentially is just there, making his views and his presence known.
Fast-forward 4 years. Thursday morning is now the same man in the chair, still reading and waving. Only now there are two vehicles parked all day with gigantic posters attached to their roof and sides, grotesque pictorials comparing healthy fetuses to aborted fetuses. The captioning on the pictures is inflammatory toward Planned Parenthood. There's still the sandwich board, but it's been joined by several more. Essentially one turns the corner on Thursday and is bombarded with graphic propaganda which is at best in poor taste and at worst, misleading.
And I'm not even going to Planned Parenthood (I just amused myself by abbreviating that to PP and decided that wouldn't work...but it's funny!). I can't even imagine how someone feels arriving for an appointment - procedure or not - and seeing that. In many cases, this is the only place a woman has to get health care. I applaud men and women for taking responsibility for their health and reproduction, and this little old man and his signs are seeming to be in direct opposition to that.
That's why I get angry. Regardless of anyone's personal stance on what a fetus is or isn't, or whether abortion of said fetus is ethical, this weekly display provides condemnation without education. It addresses the end result of a series of choices, without acknowledging the value that Planned Parenthood could play in that equation. I'm a firm advocate of sexual education and informed decision-making, and if this weekly propaganda display turns away even one person from gaining correct knowledge and health services, then in my opinion it's not worth it.
I guess in the overall scheme of things, Thursdays aren't really do mundane any longer. They're still Crabby though.
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