Within These Walls

My girls and I moved into our home 4 years and 7 months ago, and tomorrow (or later today, I should say) we move out and on to a new life in a new home. I'm too tired to find the words for everything I want to say about what this home has meant to us, but it's too momentous an occasion to let it slip by without some acknowledgment.

When we moved in, I was a wreck.  My relationship of 16 years had ended and for the first time in my adult life, I was alone.  Or not quite.  Alone with my daughters - 2 and 5 years old - who depended on me to figure this new life out, which seemed a tall order when I had no idea who I even was anymore.

The first night I moved in was New Year's Eve and, with the girls at their father's as it was 'his' night (a bizarre concept then and even now), I felt truly alone.  At midnight, I took off my wedding ring and told myself in my bravest voice that I was going to be okay, not really believing it but knowing that those two little girls needed me to try.  I recently came across a piece I wrote a few years ago about that turning point in my life and moving into this home.  In it I wrote: "I found a new, ghost-less home, warm and bright with a playground nearby.  It would do.  The walls looked thick enough to withstand my heartbreak and its alt-folk soundtrack."

I wrote not too long ago about how much has changed for me since that time, so I won't repeat myself here.  I am leaving this home a different woman, and a very grateful one.  I'm grateful for so many blessings in my life, not the least of which has been this home that has been my sanctuary.

Tonight at midnight, I took a moment to say thank you.  I even left a note.  Several months, perhaps a year or so, after I moved in, I decided to paint my bedroom and in doing so came across a note that someone had written on the wall inside the closet, up above the closet door.  It is faint and difficult to decipher in the photo.  It reads: "My 2 beautiful babies have blessed this home, and have created so many wonderful memories for me within its walls.  Me. 10/21/03".  I painted around it, and later discovered that there were dates and names - presumably those of her (I'm assuming "her") children - written on the walls inside the closets of the other two bedrooms.  It continues to fill me with such warmth to know that they loved this home, too.

So tonight, before they went to bed, my girls scrawled their names and the date inside their closets, right beside "Sydni" and "Noah".  And at midnight, I climbed up on a chair and added my note to the wall in my closet, soon to belong to someone else.  I didn't have time to think ahead about what to write, to plan things out as I always like to.  I just went with what came from my heart in the moment:  "This has been our home for 4 1/2 years.  It is where I healed, and where my daughters and I have grown.  It has been full of love, and we are leaving with so many happy memories that we made here within these walls.  This is a special place, and it will always hold a special place in my heart.  Kirsi July 29/17".

As I sit here tonight, in this home for the last time, I am thinking about those happy memories.  My girls are now 7 and 9.  They've grown so much here.  And they can't wait for the new bunkbed in the new room they'll be sleeping in tomorrow night and the big back yard and mostly the cat that they think we are getting soon (that yes, we are probably getting soon).  But I know that they will remember this place as fondly as I will, and we will go on to make new memories in our new home.

The tenants moving in after us are a mother and child.  I hope some day they come across our notes and the ones from before us, and they add their own and speak of the love and joy they found here, too.  There's plenty of room for more love and joy and gratitude.

Look at the View

On Monday morning, I decided to resist the day for a few extra minutes, linger over my tea and crack open a library book.  I had just picked up A Short Guide to a Happy Life by Anna Quindlen - because, yes please, any help I can get - and I thought I'd just read a few pages before getting on with my day.  Well, I read the whole thing.  In about 15 minutes.  It really is a short guide.  Much of it espouses the message you might expect: "Life is short.  Enjoy it, and be grateful."   Fairly cliché, I suppose, although it's a cliché because it's true, and it's a reminder that I imagine most of us could use on a regular basis.  I was finding it to be a nice, little read - a little obvious, but nice - and then I reached the final anecdote, and something in me shifted.

Over the last two short pages (spoiler alert), Quindlen shares a story about meeting a homeless man on the boardwalk at Coney Island.  As they sit by the sea, legs dangling over the side of the boardwalk, he tells her about his life: panhandling on the boulevard, hiding from the police amid the carnival rides, sleeping in a church on cold nights.  But most of the time, he explains, he spends his days sitting on the boardwalk, even in the cold.  "Why?" Quindlen asks.  Staring out at the ocean, he replies: "Look at the view, young lady.  Look at the view."

I sat on my couch in silence, legs dangling over the side, and looked at the view.  A view I've seen a thousand times but on that morning, it looked different.  

The laundry that needs to be folded.  Light bulbs that need changed.  My silly-eyed banister.  How lucky I am to have laundry to fold and light bulbs to change.  How lucky I am to have little people to make giggle with silly eyes.

The beautiful little table that was in our dining room growing up.  The ballot box my eldest daughter set up so we can nominate others for their good deeds and kindnesses.  Photos of my girls when they were babies.  Beauty and love to greet all who arrive.

The green couch and chair my ex-husband and I bought 15 years ago, our first real adult purchase.  I was 23 and he was 24 and we were over the moon to have just bought a house, and that couch and chair were the only real grown-up furniture in it.  I've been longing to get rid of that old couch but that morning, I thought about that exciting time in our lives, and the hours I later spent sitting on that couch nursing my babies.  I thought of the moments when they learned how to climb up on to that couch.  I'm not so eager to get rid of it anymore.  

And the blanket over top of it, crocheted by my mom.  Hours of love knotted together. 

The paintings my daughters made the other week and more photos of their beautiful smiles. The antique wooden box with the hearts, the only thing I've ever purchased at an auction.  I outbid a fancy old lady and it was empowering.  The lantern from my grandparents' farmhouse, and the weird metal object with the balancing acrobats that was the only thing of my grandmother's that I wanted when she passed.  We used to play with it every time we went to her house as kids.  I think of her every time I see it.  Or do I?  I fear that on too many days I don't see the view and this love and beauty and these stories are just another part of the landscape, a backdrop to preoccupations. 

Over the last few days, this new mantra has stayed with me: "Look at the view."   

Navigating snowy streets:  Look at the view.  Look at the road, but also the view.  I have a reliable vehicle to take me home.  I can afford gas.  I move through this city alone and feel safe.  And to top it all off, I have a button in my car that operates technology the sole purpose of which is to keep my bum warm.

Waiting for a medical appointment:  Look at the view.  I'm fortunate to have medical care.  I'm fortunate that I'm not so sick that I need to be rushed in.  How grateful I should be for the good fortune to wait.

My snot-nosed daughter climbs into my bed at 3 a.m.:  Look at the view.  It's not pretty but it's beautiful.  My child reaching for me, wanting my comfort. That's better than any dream.  That is the dream.

It's sometimes hard to see the forest for the trees.  Life gets busy and a home is a place to be cleaned, the drive and the waiting room just irritating interludes between point A and point B.  And the snot-nosed kid is wiping her face on your pillow and disrupting a glorious night's sleep.  But take a moment today to look at the view.  Because my god, the forest is beautiful. 

From my spot on the saggy green couch, I see the coffee table that my sister and I would hide under and dance on top of as kids, a stage that now belongs to two other wee sisters.  The TV table that my father-in-law made, which has scratches on top, fossils from a plastic dinosaur party.  The cushions my girls leaned against the other week, reading stories to each other.  The stained carpet that ordinarily makes me cringe...but I have a home to live in, and money for food, and tiny grubby feet to trample it.  

And I see the sunshine.  I woke up to another day.  Another beautiful day.

Jump for Joy: Inspiration Wall

You'll notice in the mirror's reflection that the photos of my girls have simply been relocated. I couldn't bear to put them in the closet. So, make that total 75.

The girls and I moved into our place three years ago and ever since, I have been waking up to a wall.  That is, when I am not waking up to a small person jumping elbow-first on to my pancreas, I wake up and stare straight ahead at a blank wall.  For a long while, I had a large multi-photo frame on the wall with pictures of my girls.  While waking up to photos of my two favourite people is lovely, it's important that I note that there are in fact (I've just counted) 66 other photos up in my tiny house that feature one or both of my daughters.  That's a little crazy, particularly when you consider that they also live here.  So, recently, I decided that it would probably be okay if there was one surface in this house without their sweet, smiling faces on it.  (And truthfully, I was also thinking that it might be nice if my room were a little less "mom" and a little more "amazing woman who a man might want to spend time with in that room".  Ahem.)

I've been thinking a lot, then, about what I want to wake up to (other than the aforementioned man) and I decided that I want to start my day with a view that inspires me to get up and get going and have the best day possible.  For lack of a better name, let's call it an "inspiration wall".  At first I thought it might take the form of a sort of vision board, but I quickly realized that I don't really have a problem with vision:  I am a pro-star at setting goals and I have a very clear idea of what I want in my future.  What I have trouble with is staying in the present, and keeping my values and priorities front and center so I can live the life I want to live right now. 

About a year or so ago, I found a little mirror I love as well as a pretty framed cork board, both at Home Sense I believe.  I put them in my closet, alongside an old picture frame, not really knowing where I wanted to put them.  Then a few weeks ago, I found a shadow box at Value Village that features four squares just the perfect size for these 4 inch by 4 inch illustrations of motivational quotes that I cut out of two books I bought last spring (at Urban Outfitters, if memory serves).  Suddenly I had all the pieces I needed.  

The organized, perfectionist side of me is pretty happy with how it has come together and how lovely and clean it all looks.  The rebellious side thinks it's altogether too pretty and is dying to throw things askew and add a "Fuck Yeah Let's Do This!" alongside the more classy, grown-up quotes.    Mama might need a secret inspiration wall in the closet for her more subversive thoughts.

In the coming weeks, I'll be talking about some of the elements included here in more depth, the scrawlings and quotes and why I've chosen them, but I'll share a little about the details here too, below.  I'm sharing this not because I think I'm so great or because I think I've come up with a perfectly curated collection that you should copy immediately.  What is pretty and inspiring for me will not be what is pretty and inspiring for you.  I am hoping though that this project might spur you on to think about your own values, priorities and goals and how you might put them in full view, whether on a wall or a post-it note or a screensaver, should you be so moved.  If nothing else, let me tell you that this is a pretty excellent project for a cold and snowy Tuesday afternoon.  The driveway will shovel itself (or it should, it's 2016, for goodness' sake).

The details:

• Frame within the frame bought at Michael's, then painted.

• Five priorities for self-care: create, move, connect, rest, laugh.

• "❤️ & soul" is a reference to my daughters, as well as to what I feel are my two vocations (work in social service and my writing). "Action" is my word for 2016. "Sisu" is a Finnish word that is about perseverance in the face of adversity; my youngest wanted to help so she wrote it out for me. "You are awake. You are awesome. Live like it." is a quote from Kid President, who is awesome.

• Some pretty, inspirational words. I plan to switch these out every now and then. These are the ones that I feel I most need to hear right now.

• "There must be a Pony!" is a funny little story about optimism, told on a postcard I found in Vancouver. One of my favourite photos of my sister and I, taken outside our grandparents' farmhouse. Flowers from the girls. A Corky and the Juice Pigs pin that reminds me of my high school friends. For some random reason, a note that says "Little Suzy Girl" contributed by my five-year-old. And words to make me brave.

Jump for Joy is a series on JTTG about small, simple ways to boost the joy in your life. 

Home

Home sweet home

My dad built this dollhouse for my sister and I back in 1983.  It's a pretty impressive little place.  In addition to six fabulous rooms, the home features an elevator, a stained glass window, and a rooftop terrace, and it's lit by Christmas lights which also serve as the "fire" in the brick fireplace at the center of the living room.  We played with the house a ton growing up until some point when I guess we played with it for the last time and, after gathering some dust, it was quietly stored away.

My mom took it with her when my parents split, my sister and I already adults by that point but with no children of our own quite yet.  She carried it with her through several moves, tucking it in basements and sheds, until it finally made its way to my home.  I hid it away in the crawlspace under the stairs, draped in an old duvet cover, waiting for the time when I could give it some TLC.

A grand piano, even. Fancy.

I pulled it out of hiding this fall to survey the damage, on a day when my kids weren't around.  The carpet was mouldy.  Some of the wallpaper was peeling.  There were chips in the wood.  One of the support beams holding the elevator was long lost.  But the bones were good.  It was solid.  And so the renovations began.  On kid-free weekends, I lugged it out of the crawlspace, pulled out the carpet, washed it down.  My father-in-law fixed the elevator.  And in the final weeks before Christmas, I put on the final touches.  I sewed tiny pillows and blankets and searched high and low for mini-Christmas lights to replace the 30-year-old ones that were a guaranteed electrocution hazard (those mini-lights were everywhere in early December, I swear, but a few days before Christmas, they were SO hard to find.  Thanks for coming through, Napanee Walmart!).  

I gave it to my daughters on Christmas Eve, lights a-flashing, and their eyes lit up in turn.  Numerous domestic dramas have already taken place within its walls, and there has been a lot of tucking in of all of the dolls into all of the beds, usually after they've been sent sliding down the roof one by one to the sound of wild giggling.  I remember my sister and I doing the exact same thing.

Check out these sweet bunk beds

I love that the dollhouse is now a hodgepodge of old and new: The brick of the fireplace is the same brick from the fireplace in my childhood home, the flowery blue wallpaper in the bedroom the same as that in our old dining room.  The grey paint I used to touch up various walls is the same grey I painted the bedroom in my current home.  Some of the furniture is the same my sister and I played with 30 years ago; other pieces are brand new, lovingly crafted by my friend Dan (who needs a website promoting the new dollhouse-furniture-making venture I am insisting he embark upon).  The new "hard wood" laminate I put down in the living room is a remnant from my in-laws' place.  The elevator is made using picture frames, leftovers from my dad's framing business, I'm sure. 

When I set out on this renovation project, I didn't anticipate that the process would also lead me to reconcile some things from my past.  As I pulled up old carpet, I pulled up old feelings, some happy and others not as much.  I chose to welcome them all the same, and sit with them awhile.  And then I put them to bed. 

Chillin' on the terrace in the cutest chairs ever.

And as I worked to clean up and refresh each room, I also found myself thinking about how I could improve the rooms of my own home in this coming year, not so much my physical home as the relationships and values that are my home base. The living room reminded me to spend more quality time with my family.  The kitchen: To better nourish my body, and take time for more kitchen dance parties.  While wallpapering the bedroom with the contact paper that covers the surface of my dresser, I thought about how I wanted to make my own bedroom a sanctuary and get more rest, and perhaps do more of that other thing that happens in bedrooms (reading, Mom, I'm talking about reading).  Setting the tiny Adirondack chairs on the terrace made me daydream about sitting in the sun, and I resolved to spend more time outside.  I lifted the garage door so the tiny people could take a road trip, and thought about how I want to go on more adventures, and leave my comfort zone once in awhile.

This little home.  It's so much more than a play thing.  I look at it and I see both my past and my present.  I see my sister and remember the fierce sisterly love that echoed in those little rooms, that same love that I hear on the phone line these days as we discuss relationships and careers and laugh over our stupid inside jokes.  That same love I see between my own girls as they send one doll up the elevator, another down the roof, with peels of laughter.

And I wonder if one day one of my girls will fix up the dollhouse for her own children, make her own changes, remember that same grey in her mom's old bedroom, marvel at the blue fleece blankets she once wrapped around little wooden limbs.  I hope she will.  I'll store it away someday when they've left the dolls tucked in one last time, and I'll take it with me, and it will be waiting.

No Less than the Trees and the Stars

Working on it.

One afternoon a year or two ago, while wandering my local thrift store, I came across a large, 11x14 frame with white matting.  It was nothing terribly special but it was in great condition, and only a few bucks, and I thought it could be put to good use in my bedroom.  I knew just the wall.

I didn't, however, have anything to put in it.  And so, I proceeded to spend countless hours (yep, hours) scouring through photos and looking at art prints on Etsy, searching for just the right piece.  I wanted something inspiring to wake up to every morning. 

The frame sat in my closet, gathering dust, for several months.  I could have just thrown something in there, bought something suitably pretty, but nothing felt quite right and I wanted to hold out.  Picky?  Yes.  But sometimes it pays off. 

I was back in the same thrift store one day, casually perusing the aisles, when I spotted another frame, this one gold-hued and tacky.  This one had a poem inside, and as soon as I read it, I knew it was exactly what I had been looking for.  I bought the frame, brought it home, removed the poem and discovered, as I had hoped, that it fit perfectly in the empty black one.  (I donated the tacky one back to the thrift store...someone will love it!)

The poem is called Desiderata, Latin for "desired things", and was written by American writer Max Ehrmann in 1927.  (According to Wikipedia, it is often falsely believed to have been written in 1692, as it was included in a compilation of devotional materials at St. Paul's Church in Baltimore in 1956, and marked with the church's foundation date.  Indeed, at the bottom of my copy, it says "Found in Old St. Paul's Church, Baltimore. Dated 1692."  I have discreetly hidden that part under the matboard.)  While the poem was new to me, it seems that it has actually become quite well-known in recent years.  For good reason.  Here are Max Ehrmann's beautiful and inspiring words: 

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons.

Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even to the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons; they are vexatious to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter, for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment, it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.

Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here.

And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be.

And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life, keep peace in your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

Success!

What more needs to be said.   

This scavenged poem now holds a place of honour on my bedroom wall.  Admittedly, there are days when it is just part of the landscape, when "the noise and the haste" get in the way of me taking the time to enjoy it, just as it gets in the way of seeing other joy and beauty around me.  But I find that when I do stop to take the time to read it again, the effect is powerful, and different parts speak to me at different times.  This week, for example, the line "enjoy your achievements as well as your plans" is particularly meaningful; as my to-do list keeps getting longer and my eyes are drawn to the handful of unchecked boxes, I am trying to give myself credit for the tasks I do complete, both big and small. 

Whether new to you as well or an old favourite, I hope you too can take something from Desiderata this week.  In fact, if you feel like sharing in the comments below, I'd love to hear what line speaks most to you at this moment.  And I hope you will remember that "you are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars."  Lovely.

People vs. Things

A Milly for the new millennium.

One afternoon a few weeks ago, I spotted my five-year-old walking around the house with a pair of scissors in her hand.  If you live with small people, you will understand the fear this cast into my heart.  I asked her what she was up to and she mumbled something that sounded plausible and harmless.  I eyed her suspiciously, directing her to return the scissors to their home, pronto.

Cut to half an hour later.  I'm in her bedroom and spy, with my little eye, strands of brown yarn toppling out of the small garbage bin in the corner.  I make a move to investigate, the knowledge of what I'm seeing starting to sink in.  I've realized why that yarn looks so familiar, and begin to hunt around for its original owner.  I find her hidden under a pile of her stuffed friends.

My daughter had taken the liberty of giving one of her sister's dolls a hair cut.  Not just any doll, though.  The doll that had been mine as a child.  My beloved Milly.  One of the only souvenirs of my childhood.

I sat there in shock, a host of emotions coursing through me.  I felt tears well up.  I felt anger rise.  And then, I realized that this was a moment designed for me to practice what I preach.

I am not a fan of stuff.  Clutter makes me anxious and I don't really do well with receiving gifts, truth be told (there are lots of reasons for this, but I won't delve into my personal psychology today).  Lately, I've been on a mission to let go of things and live a simpler life focused on the people I love and our experiences together.  I am very inspired by the movement toward minimalism, and in the last few years I have donated and sold countless things, trading the physical and mental space they require for more serenity.  Along the way, I've been trying to espouse these values to my daughters.  We are by no means toy-less around here, but we talk a lot about how quality is better than quantity, how experiences and relationships are more important than things, and how, while it's lovely to have things we enjoy, at the end of the day, happiness isn't store-bought.

This lesson gets a thorough re-telling any time something breaks around here.  When a toy breaks, I express my sympathy for the disappointment my girls feel, but I emphasize that that is what toys do, they break, that things are things and what is most important is that we have not broken.  I think I even said something once about how when a balloon pops, it is fulfilling its destiny (note to self: children's book idea). 

That was all well and good.  Until it was my thing that broke.

So there I sat, with a shorn and forlorn Milly in my lap, and it was then I realized that the sadness my daughters feel when a toy breaks is not for the loss of the thing at all: what they are really mourning is the loss of the experience.  They were having so much fun, and now that fun is over, and even if the toy is still functional, they are grieving the loss of the experience 'just that way', with everything in place as it was when the fun began.  Change is hard.  Whoa Nelly, do I know about that.  For my part, I think the loss of Milly's hair, the loss of her being just the way she has been for 30+ years, called up the hurt I feel about the loss of my childhood, touched a place of long-dormant pain about the loss of the experience of being with my family at that time, during the happier times anyway.

I called my daughter to me.  She knew that the jig was up.  With a calm that I rather impressed myself with, I explained to her that what she had done was wrong, that Milly meant a lot to her sister and me, and that it hurt our feelings that she cut Milly's hair without permission.  While a thing is just a thing, it is still wrong and disrespectful to cause harm to someone else's property, and I wanted to be sure that she understood that and apologized.  I suspected that her curiosity about what it would be like to cut a doll's hair had gotten the better of her, which she confirmed, and so we discussed how she could explore that in appropriate ways.  And then apologies were uttered and we hugged it out, and moved on with our day. 

What I didn't admit to my daughter is that mixed up with the sadness and anger that bubbled up in me was a feeling of awe: Milly actually kind of rocks a mohawk.  Okay, I'll say it, she looks amazing.  I wish I could pull off that look.

I suppose change can be good.